Page 7 of A Murder, a Marquess, and Miss Mifford
"Highfield!"
Freddie turned his head at the salutation, and spotted his good friend, Lord Robert Delaney, Baron Bloomsbury, standing with two other young gentlemen with whom Freddie was not acquainted.
He joined them, glad for the distraction they offered, and Rob introduced his two companions as Mr James Fitzgibbons, third son of the Earl of Rundell, and his handsome friend, Mr Victor Bunting, fourth son of Baron Mannix.
"What do you think?" Rob asked, nudging Freddie with his elbow as he gazed around the room, "Lady Albermay must have spent a pretty penny bringing the place up to scratch."
"It's uncouth to discuss money in company, Delaney," Freddie reminded him, though his comment was more for the benefit of Mr Fitzgibbons and Mr Bunting, who were green as any miss just out of the schoolroom and might inadvertently pick up the baron's bad habits.
"Especially in front of fellows who don't have any," Mr Fitzgibbons added, with a wry smile, "We both took an ill-judged punt on a horse at Kiplingcotes; he was hotly tipped but he came in second. My quarterly allowance only lasted a sennight and Bunting did not fare any better."
"Which horse was it?" Freddie queried. He was a keen horseman and might be able to offer the lad some words of wisdom when it came to betting--the first being, don't bet what you can't afford to lose.
"Lightning," Mr Fitzgibbons replied, rolling his eyes at the now inappropriate name, "He had won everything all year--from Hamilton to Fontwell--then he lost to a young stallion that hadn't placed since last year..."
"Red Rum," Freddie supplied the name of the winner himself, for he had read it in the papers.
"That's the one," Mr Fitzgibbon agreed, his brow drawn into a frown.
"I'm afraid," Freddie sighed heavily, as he surveyed the two young men, "That you have both fallen for one of the oldest tricks in the book. Lightning and Red Rum both hail from Lady Hardthistle's stables."
The two young men nodded, though their faces showed no sign of comprehension.
"Lady Hardthistle--and she has done this many times, as any seasoned punter will tell you--would have raced Lightning all year as though he was her favoured champion. He would have been jockeyed by the lightest and most able of riders, while Red Rum was probably saddled with some lump of a groomsman. Each time Red Rum placed bottom, the odds of him winning the next race decreased. Lady Hardthistle must have decided, by the time Kiplingcotes arrived, that the odds were now in her favour--helped by the addition of Lightning to the racing card, another mark against Red Rum--and ordered him be ridden to win. I wager she had a friend place a hefty bet on Red Rum and walked away, not only with the prize money from the race, but a large winning's pot too."
There was a silence, as Mr Fitzgibbons and Mr Bunting exchanged looks of outrage.
"That's not fair," Mr Fitzgibbons spluttered, his colour high, "She can't do that."
"She can, and she did," Freddie drawled, amused by his outrage. Horse racing was as crooked and corrupt as any other industry, it was good for them to learn it young.
"Why, if I ever see that old nag again, I'll wrap my hands around her neck and wring it until she breathes her last," Mr Fitzgibbons growled, so vexed that he clear forgot he was amongst company.
"Talk of murder is just as uncouth as that of money," Delaney interjected lightly, quick to cut the lad off before he disgraced himself any further.
"And talk of murdering a man's aunt--albeit through marriage on the maternal side--is also frowned upon," Freddie added, his tone heavy with warning.
He felt about as warmly towards Lady Hardthistle as Mr Fitzgibbons did, but honour dictated he make some sort of threatening remark, even if he did think the woman deplorable.
"Yes, that's enough, Gibbs," Mr Bunting, added, nudging his friend so sharply that he stumbled a little, "Apologise to Lord Chambers."
Mr Fitzgibbons muttered a grudging apology, which Freddie accepted easily. Fitzgibbons was not the first man to have insulted Lady Hardthistle in his presence, and he doubted he would be the last.
With the mood now changed somewhat from its earlier joviality, the two young-bloods excused themselves to go sniff around the white dressed débutantes.
"As the spare heirs, we are beholden to marry well," Mr Fitzgibbons commented mournfully before they left, "Though Mr Bunting will probably do better than me, for he is the better looking."
"Your pedigree far exceeds mine," Mr Bunting assured his friend, with a smile that even Freddie could acknowledge was devastatingly charming.
"I wish you good hunting," Delaney said, more to get rid of them than an actual care for how their mission might proceed.
Once the pair were out of earshot, Delaney turned to Freddie and offered him an apologetic smile.
"Forgive me," he said, "I am vaguely acquainted with Fitzgibbons through his older brother, I did not think they were so fresh to town."
"Pray do not apologise for the calf's outburst," Freddie brushed away the apology with a gloved hand, "It's hardly your fault--"
Freddie broke off as a flash of auburn hair on the dance-floor caught his eye. It was Miss Mifford, in the arms of Lord Huxley. He felt a jolt of something in his stomach, which he might have sworn was jealousy, but quickly quashed it down.
