Page 23 of A Murder, a Marquess, and Miss Mifford
Given the early hour, the club was not too busy. The married male members had no doubt been corralled by their wives to attend this ball or that, leaving the dining room half-empty.
As Freddie made his way through the door, a bunch of young-bloods seated at the famed bow-window glanced up nervously. They occupied the seat usually reserved for the most esteemed club members, and Freddie's arrival meant that this no longer included them.
Freddie had no wish to quibble over titles, nor command the attention of the room, so he merely ignored them and made for a cosy Queen Anne by the fireplace.
"A brandy," Freddie bid the footman, who materialised at his side the moment his bottom hit the cushion of his chair.
"Actually--make that a decanter," he called, as the footman scurried away.
He was feeling contemplative and one glass of brandy would not do.
The servant returned in the blink of an eye, bearing a tray with a crystal tumbler and a large decanter of the finest brandy a man could wish for. Freddie poured himself a large measure, took a deep sip, and settled back into his chair to mull over his encounter with Miss Mifford.
He hadn't intended to try kiss her--the urge had overcome him suddenly, as he had held her hand in his. If Lady Wilcox hadn't interrupted them, perhaps he would now be reliving the taste of her soft lips and the warm feel of her body pressed against his.
Alas, they had been interrupted, and now all Freddie was left with was a sense of longing and mild insecurity--a completely foreign experience for a man of his confidence.
Miss Mifford had dashed off faster than a hot-blood at Ascot; had it been nerves, or had she snapped out of her daze and realised that she found Freddie repulsive?
Freddie took another deep sip of his brandy and tried to talk himself down of the cliff of despair upon which he stood.
Miss Mifford could not possibly find him repulsive; The Belle Monde, that arbiter of fashion and beauty, had only last month described him as London's most handsome bachelor. The gossip columns in several news-sheets had already declared him the best dressed man of the season. And, just that very evening, as Farley had assisted him into his coat, the valet had professed that he believed Freddie to be the living embodiment of Adonis himself.
No, Freddie assured himself, she could not possibly be repulsed by his looks.
Was it his personality?
Freddie snorted a little at this idea, and dismissed it--there was nothing more charming to women than a self-confident man. He was being utterly ridiculous; Miss Mifford's flight had nothing to do with him, and more to do with her own nerves, that was all.
"Have you finally given into insanity, Chambers?" a voice called out from behind him, "I did not expect to find you here, giggling to yourself in the corner."
Freddie turned his head and found Delaney, dressed in dark evening attire, standing behind him, his face a picture of amusement.
"Is it a crime to find oneself amusing?" Freddie replied, with a wave of his hand, "If so, lock me up and throw away the key."
"If it was a crime to laugh at one's own jokes, half the members of this club would be in Newgate," Delaney replied, as he slipped into the chair opposite him, "Now, where's the footman got to? When I have a bit of brandy in me, I usually find you as amusing as you find yourself..."
The footman appeared, without having to be asked, with another glass for Delaney. The baron helped himself to a large measure of brandy, and settled himself into his chair, before launching into a long, detailed account of his night at the theatre.
"Of course, if Mother had told me that she had invited Miss Hunt, I never would have agreed to join her," Delaney finished, with a grumble, "There's nothing worse for starting marriage rumours than spending the evening on display in a box with an unmarried chit."
"Surely, at this stage in your life, the tabbies of thetonknow that it's not you who is marriage minded, but rather your mother?" Freddie answered, with a snort of laughter.
Lady Delaney had been trying to marry her son off for at least a decade, but to no avail. The baron was a hopeless bachelor, who was happy to have his title pass on to one of his younger brothers.
"They probably do," Delaney agreed, "Though, it would be helpful if they could inform my mama. Tell me, how went your evening? Not very well, I'd hazard to guess, if you've found yourself here at such an early hour."
Freddie hesitated before answering, as that strange feeling of insecurity crept over him again. What if he shared his feelings about Miss Mifford with Delaney, and then she rejected him outright? Would his friend forever tease him about his unrequited love?
Unfortunately for Freddie, Delaney--as his oldest friend--knew him better than most, and instantly guessed that something was amiss.
"Lud," he cleared his throat, and set his glass down upon the table, "You were chasing after that Mifford chit, weren't you?"
"I don't know what you mean," Freddie spluttered in response, unable to meet his friend's eye.
"Don't fob me off, Chambers," Delaney replied, cheerfully, "You got yourself all dressed up for some party, in the hopes of chasing Miss Mifford, and when you failed to catch her, you retreated to here to lick your wounds."
"You make it sound as though she doesn't even know who I am," Freddie answered, feeling highly offended, "If you must know, Miss Mifford and I have joined forces, in an effort to try solve Lady Hardthistle's murder--"
