Page 43 of A Murder, a Marquess, and Miss Mifford
"Miss Gardner's father's pockets are deep enough to fund the lad," came the snorted reply, "Don't worry about that."
Their voices dropped to low murmurs, as they began to discuss the length and fit of the gown. Emily's own seamstress, who though quiet was extremely industrious, was nearly finished her work.
"All done, miss," the woman said, after a few more minutes of pinning, "It will look wonderful when it's finished. Now, why don't we get you dressed."
Emily removed the mock-dress, and the seamstress assisted her back into her day dress. Once she was presentable, she made her way from the dressing room to the front of the shop, where Mary sat on a satin coveredduchesse briséesipping jasmine tea and eating from a plate of brightly covered macaroons.
"Finally," Mary exclaimed, holding her hand out so that Emily could help her from her seat, "I'm exhausted after that."
Mary's bump was growing bigger every day, and everything made her tired. Emily was beginning to doubt that she would last the season, such was the change in her over the past few weeks, but she kept her counsel. Mary was nervous enough about the ball, without having the added worry that she might go into labour whilst the canapés were being served.
"How was the fitting?" Mary asked, as she waved for the footman--who was holding several paper-wrapped parcels--to lead the way outside. Exhausted Mary might be, but she was never too tired for shopping.
"It went well," Emily answered, with a shrug, "We shall see when the dress is done. Did you know that Miss Gardner and Mr Fitzgibbons are engaged?"
"Yes, I think I read something about it in the papers," Mary answered, as she clambered into the carriage with help from another footman.
Once she was settled, Emily took the footman's hand, and stepped in with ease.
"I miss that," Mary commented, sadly, "Being able to walk instead of waddle."
"Ducks waddle, duchesses..." Emily trailed off as she tried to think of a word to describe the way Mary now moved, but came up short for waddle was quite apt.
"Apparently he has a reputation as a reckless gambler," Emily continued abruptly, deciding it was safest to continue their previous topic, "It does make one wonder..."
"Wonder what?"
"If, perhaps, he did kill Lady Hardthistle?" Emily shrugged, unsure as to why she was now doubting Sir Cadogan's guilt.
The squire had means and motive, and was the most likely of all the suspects to have murdered the baroness. Perhaps it was just nerves on her part, about the plan to confront him, which had Emily doubting herself.
"Are you still investigating the murder?" Mary asked, with a frown in her direction.
"I am not," Emily lied, having forgotten that Mary was not up-to-date--nor would she approve--of Emily's adventures.
"Lord Chambers is investigating matters and he is keeping me informed of how things are progressing," Emily finished, which earned her an approving smile from Mary.
"I hear wedding bells," her sister sighed, her blue eyes dreamy.
"If you're experiencing auditory hallucinations, I can have Northcott send for a doctor when we return."
The sisters spent the rest of the journey bickering between themselves, but despite this, Emily's mind kept drifting.
Not to Sir Cadogan, or even Mr Fitzgibbons, but to Lord Chambers.
Despite all her worries and reservations, Emily could not help but feel that Mary was correct, and that the bells of St George's would soon be ringing out in celebration for her marriage--if she could work up the courage to leave her family behind.
Chapter Twelve
Freddie was kept busy in the days which followed the kiss, but just because Emily was absent from his sight, did not mean she was absent from his thoughts.
She was in them constantly; in fact, part of the reason for Freddie's unusually packed schedule, was his search for a house in the Cotswolds.
Charles Chesterton had proved a font of information regarding which of the aristocrats between Evesham Vale and Severn Valley, were in the market to sell their estates. Given the market, as well as the popularity of the gaming-hells in the likes of Pickering Place, there were quite a few titled gentlemen in need of funds.
In between sessions of Parliament, Freddie read over descriptions of manor houses in Tetbury, Tudor piles in Chipping Norton, and even a castle in Winchcombe, but none sounded right--nor were they close enough to Plumpton for Freddie's liking.
He had nearly given up hope, when, just a few days before the ball that was to be held at Northcott House, a servant arrived from Chesterton's with a missive from his master.
