Page 45 of A Murder, a Marquess, and Miss Mifford
"Er, yes, that is Mrs Lacey," Mr Waters confirmed, his ears pink.
It was not usual for one to display one's own portrait so ostentatiously, but Freddie rather admired Mrs Lacey's confidence that her likeness demanded adoration.
"The stables have eight bays," Mr Waters continued, "With room for three vehicles. They are fully staffed at present; in fact, Mrs Lacey can offer you a full retinue of servants--barring her lady's maid--if you so wish."
"Excellent," Freddie nodded, "My wife shall probably like her own."
"I did not know you were married, my lord," Mr Waters smiled, as though he was glad to learn that he was.
"I'm not, but I intend to be," Freddie's admission slightly disarmed the poor agent, but he recovered quickly.
"It would be a foolish lady, indeed, to say no to you, my lord," Mr Waters said, with such conviction that Freddie half-thought he was offering himself for the position.
"Have any necessary papers sent to my solicitors, Nelson and Son, on Sloane Square," Freddie finished, offering his hand to Mr Waters so they might shake and make it a gentleman's agreement.
"Of course, my lord," Mr Waters' eyes lit up, no doubt imagining his share of the commission for such an easy sale, "I must say, this was an absolute pleasure."
With the formalities over and done with, Freddie made for the entrance hall, to request a footman ready his chaise.
He rocked backwards and forwards on the heels of his boots, as he waited for his vehicle to be brought round. As he hummed a jovial tune, he heard a set of footsteps upon the stairs, and turned to find Mrs Lacey--easily recognisable from her portrait--smiling down at him.
"Congratulations, my lord," she said, flashing him a pearly white smile, "Mr Waters has just informed me of your intention to purchase the house."
"A fine home it is too," Freddie bowed his head, "I'm certain you'll miss it."
"My late husband and I shared many happy memories here," Mrs Lacey agreed, her voice rather devoid of emotion, "However, I should not wish to enter into my new marriage encumbered by another man's estate."
Freddie hid a smile; money was far easier to hide than property, and he would hazard a guess that Mrs Lacey had no intention of telling her new husband that she had profited from the sale of Wynding House.
"Mr Shufflebotham, my husband to be, owns a grand estate in Norfolk," Mrs Lacey continued, "His mind will rest easier knowing that he is leaving it to a woman with no other obligations."
"Indeed it will," Freddie answered, politely. Mrs Lacey spoke of her husband-to-be as though he already had one foot in the grave--which, he probably did.
They were interrupted by the footman, who returned to inform Freddie that his chaise was waiting.
"My thanks, Mrs Lacey," Freddie said, hiding his relief that he could now leave.
"I will be in London next season," the dashing widow replied, eying him speculatively, "Perhaps our paths will cross then."
Freddie, who did not wish to be added to Mrs Lacey's list of prospective next husbands, gave a noncommittal reply, before dashing through the door to safety.
Outside, the sun was setting, casting the bucolic countryside in a warm glow. Freddie hummed to himself as he guided the chaise along the winding country lanes towards Plumpton. Birds chattered in the hedgerows, in a distant field a cow was lowing, and the occasional hare scampered across his path.
It was idyllic, but there was one thing which would make it even more perfect--Miss Mifford seated at his side.
As Freddie rounded the corner, into Lower Plumpton, he felt a strong urge to celebrate his good fortune in life. He guided the chaise up through the main street and brought it to a halt outside The Ring'O'Bells.
"I've sixpence for you, lad," he called to a young boy loitering nearby, "If you guide my carriage back to the stables at The King's Head."
The lad hopped to attention and pocketed the coin, with a cry of thanks, before taking the reins to walk the horses and chaise to the coaching inn.
Freddie, so thirsty he could almost taste ale on his lips, quickly ducked inside the warmth of the pub. When his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he found a scene similar to most country pubs; a low ceiling, criss-crossed by wooden beams, a flagstone floor in need of a good wash, and a suspicious gentleman behind the bar.
"Aye," the man acknowledged Freddie's existence with a nod, still eying him with suspicion.
"Pint of your finest," Freddie replied, taking a seat on one of the stools by the bar.
"Ain't none of them fine, but they do the job," a small, squat man, seated at the other end of the bar called, earning himself a few guffaws of laughter from the other customers.
