Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Frederick Andrew Xavier Chambers, Sixth Marquess of Highfield, frowned as he glanced around the ballroom of number sixty-three Grosvenor Square.

He was not entirely certain why he was there.

Of course, Lord and Lady Albermay had sent him an invitation, which he had accepted, which was why he was there, but what Freddie could not understand was why he was standing in the ballroom with a sense of anticipation fizzling in his stomach.

He had an awful feeling that it had something to do with the lovely Miss Mifford, who had poured a charming sort of scorn atop his efforts at flirtation in Lord Collins' library. But Freddie did not wish to admit that to himself, for to do so would be to admit to a streak of self-flagellation which Freddie did not think he possessed.

His ego was too robustly healthy--as Miss Mifford had so rightly observed--to allow him to engage in mooning over a lady who had demonstrated a complete lack of interest in--or appreciation of--him.

The great and good of the ton had descended on Grosvenor Square to witness the new Lady Albermay"s first attempt at hosting since she had married into the title. As the new viscountess was an American heiress, Freddie heard a few sharp whispers of complaint as he moved around the room.

"She"s gilded everything, I see. So ostentatious, but what did we expect?" he heard one lady whisper, "I wager if I venture into the water-closet, I"ll find the seat is gold too."

"If only she"d been able to paint the viscount in gold leaf," came the arch reply, "It might make him slightly more tolerable to look at."

Freddie hid a smile, for the observation was very true. Lord Albermay, Viscount Hillsop, was a gentleman as old as time; white hair spouted from his ears and nose, his jowls fell past his cravat, and his teeth had abandoned him several decades before. His sudden marriage to the vivacious Lady Albermay, was a typical joining of money and title.

"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.

When Freddie turned his attention back to Delaney, he found his friend"s brown eyes were alight with amusement.

"I take it that"s her?" the baron said, as he ruffled a hand through his dark curls.

"Who?" Freddie"s answer was peevish.

"Miss Mifford. You might recall that you spent the entirety of our ride in Green Park this morning grousing about her."

"I did not," Freddie began, but at Delaney"s knowing glare, reluctantly corrected himself, "I did not spend the entire time grousing about her. If you recall, we spoke at length about the waistcoat I purchased from Weston"s."

"Ah, yes," Delaney gave a sigh, "What a riveting morning that was. Now, dear boy, you"ll have to excuse me, for I have sighted your beloved aunt headed your way, and though I am fond of you, I"m not that fond."

Delaney offered him a bracing slap on the shoulder, before departing at great speed. A few moments later, Freddie was joined by Lady Hardthistle, dressed in her customary black and trailed by her insipid maid, Ethel.

"Highfield," Lady Hardthistle boomed in greeting.

"My lady," Freddie offered her a short bow, "A pleasure to see you, as always."

"If it"s always such a pleasure to see me, then why do you never call on me?"

There was a pause, as Freddie grappled for an answer that wasn"t the truth--that he would rather poke out his own eye than spend time with the baroness. Lady Hardthistle appeared to sense his discomfort and her thin lips drew into a contented smile. There was nothing the old nag liked more, than making people uncomfortable.

"Seeing as your mother has insisted upon locking herself away in the countryside for the season, I feel I must take on the yoke of responsibility for the line and help you find a wife."

"There"s really no need," Freddie replied smoothly, whilst wondering why on earth he had censured Fitzgibbons" murderous rage--the woman was a menace to society.

"With a mother as selfish as yours, I feel I must," Lady Hardthistle brayed, as Ethel nodded in agreement beside her.

"Mama is attending to my sister, who has just given birth," Freddie reminded her, through gritted teeth, "Baby James is the first grandchild in the family, it"s natural for her want to be with him."

"Baby James is the heir to nothing, your mother"s interest in him is excessive for the station he was born into," the baroness interjected, her thin eyebrows dropping to a scowl, "Now, stay quiet a moment, and I shall tell you just which ladies meet the standards expected in a marchioness, and which most definitely do not."

Before Freddie could object, Lady Hardthistle barrelled on, loudly listing off the ladies present, and pointing them out for good measure.

"That"s Lady Francesca," she finished, with a nod to a pretty young woman standing across the room, conversing with Mr Bunting. "She"s the youngest daughter of the Viscount of Bridgefoot and pretty as a picture--but the father is near destitute and I have it on good authority that she"s soon to become engaged to Mr Bunting."

"Whose authority?" Freddie questioned, for he had just heard told that Mr Bunting, like his friend Fitzgibbons, required a chit with a dowry.

"Mine," Lady Hardthistle answered smugly, though her smile faltered as she caught sight of yet another one of the guests.

"Who is that?" Freddie could not resist prompting, even though he already knew the answer.

"Miss Mifford," Lady Hardthistle made a face which looked like she had just sucked a lemon, "Awful girl. Awful family. Pushy and grabby--and that"s just the mother. The eldest two snared husbands through the most deceitful means--I would stay away from Miss Mifford, if I were you, unless you wish to find your hand forced."

"Don"t hold back, my lady, do tell me how you really feel," Freddie answered, unable to keep the amusement from his tone. Lady Hardthistle"s painting of Miss Mifford"s character did not marry well with Freddie"s memory of her from their encounter the previous evening.

Obviously, she was a few pence short of a shilling to not have realised she was attracted to him, but she had conceded he was handsome, which meant she wasn"t all mad.

As for her subtle accusation that he was conceited? Even Freddie had to admit that she hadn"t been too far off the mark; he could admit that when he entered any room, he usually considered himself the best looking--and best dressed--gentleman there. If that was what Miss Mifford considered to be conceit, then Freddie was guilty as hell.

"I"m warning you, Chambers," Lady Hardthistle cautioned, as she noted that Freddie"s gaze was still trained on Miss Mifford, "Steer well clear of the Miffords. Now, I must leave you; I have to see a man about a horse. Come, Ethel."

In a flurry of feather plumes and noxious perfume fumes, Lady Hardthistle took off, bouldering her way across the room with great determination. Several people squawked with consternation, as she thwacked them with her cane in order to get them to move aside, but none raised further argument--the whole of the ton knew better than to call Lady Hardthistle out publicly.

Freddie, who had been wondering how he might excuse himself from her company, heaved a sigh of relief that she had done the hard work for him. He remained in the same spot for a moment, watching her progress, and only moved when he was certain her attention was elsewhere.

The baroness" warning to avoid Miss Mifford as though she was a plague carrying animal, had the opposite effect for which she might have hoped. Freddie, who had been content to observe Miss Mifford from afar, now felt an overwhelming urge to go speak with her. Just like when he was a child, and his governess had told him to stay away from the fire, Freddie"s obstinate nature told him to ignore such cautious advice--he wanted to poke at the flames.

Not that he would actually poke Miss Mifford, of course, for he was no longer five and he did think the young lady might raise an objection to be prodded, even by a handsome marquess.

Squaring his shoulders, which sported a dark dinner jacket of fine merino-wool, Freddie made his way toward the gathered Mifford clan. Miss Mifford stood in the company of an older woman with fading blonde hair, wearing a rather gaudy dress, and a diminutive elderly lady in a mob-cap and spectacles. Freddie was wondering how he might insert himself into their circle--for though he had conversed with Miss Mifford, they had not officially been introduced--when the Duke of Northcott and his new wife materialised at their side.

That would do, Freddie thought cheerfully; he was acquainted with Northcott from both Eton and their shared club, White"s.

Just as Freddie was pondering how he might insouciantly draw the duke"s attention, his wife elbowed him in the ribs and nodded her head, quite obviously, in Freddie"s direction. Northcott first winced, for the duchess had put enormous effort into elbowing him, then turned and caught Freddie"s eye.

"Lord Chambers," Northcott drawled, as Freddie neared, "Nice to see you amongst polite society for a change."

"One has to venture outside White"s every now and then," Freddie agreed, "Lest one forgets what is and isn"t acceptable behaviour in front of the ladies."

Both men guffawed a little, amused by their true masculine nature, until the duchess cleared her throat impatiently.

"Ah, yes," Northcott--to Freddie"s surprise--looked chastised; the duchess must crack a hard whip, he surmised, "Allow me to introduce my wife, Lord Chambers. I don"t think you"ve met?"

The duke introduced his new duchess, followed by her mother--who fluttered her eyelashes and smiled manically at him--then the duchess" two sisters, Miss Mifford and Miss Eudora Mifford.

Freddie did a double-take at the final name offered to him, for from a distance he had assumed the youngest Mifford girl--who wore a mob-cap over her hair, was bundled up in several heavy shawls, and was carrying a cane--to be an elderly lady.

"My sisters are experiencing their first season in town," the duchess said, once the lengthy introductions had been made. She smiled, slightly less manically than her mother, at Freddie and waited for him to respond.

"Is that so?" Freddie glanced at Miss Mifford, who looked rather mutinous at having to engage in polite conversation with him, "Then it behoves me to ask them both for a dance."

"Oh," the duchess rushed, "You don"t need to ask them both, Emily will do."

The duchess gave her sister an indiscreet shove, and Emily stumbled forward. Northcott, Freddie noted, was trying to hide an amused smile behind his gloved hand, but was failing miserably. His wife"s matchmaking machinations were about as subtle as a knock to the head from Gentleman Jackson, but there was an honest earnestness to the duchess that Freddie found endearing--as though she simply wished everyone to be as happy as she so obviously was.

"Miss Mifford," Freddie bowed elegantly, "Shall I lead the way?"

"Please," Miss Mifford replied in the affirmative, though her tone told a different story.

Freddie gallantly promised the group that he would return the young lady in one piece after the dance--causing Mrs Mifford to swoon at his gallantry--and led the young lady away to the dance-floor.

"You do not seem best pleased, Miss Mifford," Freddie observed, as they waited by the side of the floor for the current set to come to an end.

"Of course I"m not," she answered, with surprising honesty, "If you had an elder sister and she pushed--literally pushed!--you in front of a gentleman whose head was already swollen enough, without having ladies thrown at him, would you be best pleased?"

"My head is not swollen," Freddie replied, though he did allow himself a rueful smile, "Well, it"s not that swollen. It was clear as day that you did not wish to dance with me, so do not worry that I think you in love with me--you made it very clear last night that you are not."

"Emphatically not," Miss Mifford confirmed, before frowning a little as a thought struck her, "If you knew that I did not want to dance with you, then why did you ask me?"

"Because I wished to dance with you," Freddie smiled, for it was the truth, "And it delights me a little to torture you. I don"t know what that says about my character, but I suppose that is of little concern when you already hold me in low regard."

Miss Mifford opened her mouth, as though to chastise him, but the set they were watching had come to an end, and there was a kerfuffle as the next set of dancers sought to replace them. Glad that the commotion meant he would not have to listen to another lecture on his own hubris, Freddie took Miss Mifford"s hand and led her to a trio of couples whom they would join for a Quadrille.

The dance was a quick one, with much interchanging of partners, which further saved Freddie from any of Miss Mifford"s ire. Her annoyance with him vanished the moment they began to dance; Miss Mifford gave the impression of someone who was having tremendous fun, and she smiled generously and laughed often as she was whirled from partner to partner.

She was, Freddie guessed, when not in his company, a very cheerful and pleasant soul.

Her enjoyment was charming, for the fashionable set usually made a great show of finding everything--even dancing--tired and dull. Amongst some members of the ton, expressing ennui was a competitive sport.

When the music ended, Freddie felt a pang of regret, but he held out his arm for Miss Mifford to take and returned her to her family as promised.

"Until we meet again, Miss Mifford," Freddie said, holding those blue eyes a fraction longer than was entirely proper.

Not that the duchess or Mrs Mifford minded his mild impropriety, both women were all pink blushes as they bid Freddie goodbye, only Miss Eudora scowled at him owlishly from behind her spectacles.

Freddie took his leave and returned to aimlessly circling the ballroom, stopping occasionally to speak with acquaintances. He kept one eye on Lady Hardthistle at all times, but she was mercifully occupied, speaking with the other grand doyennes of society, or occasionally harassing the young folk, like poor Mr Fitzgibbons and his friend Mr Bunting.

As the night wore on, Freddie became increasingly restless. His dance with Miss Mifford was to be, he feared, the highlight of his evening. Even the thought of escaping for a sneaky tumbler of brandy and a cheroot at his club could not pull him from the vague feeling of emptiness which had settled upon his soul.

Luckily, just as Freddie had decided that bed was the only solution for his suffering, the music came to an abrupt stop and the butler--looking faintly mortified--bid the guests join Lord and Lady Albermay in the gardens to enjoy a firework display.

"I thought we were at a ball, not Vauxhall Gardens."

"I"d expect no less from an American; garish decor, garish entertainment. We"re lucky she hasn"t arranged for us all to trek down to the docks and throw some chests of tea in the Thames."

As Freddie followed the flow of the crowd out to the gardens, he heard many similar grumblings from the guests. Poor Lady Albermay had not guessed that on her debut as a hostess to London"s stuffy society, she had been expected to conform to social norms, not upset them.

For his part, Freddie found the whole thing entirely diverting. Outside in the fresh, spring air, his mind felt clearer and he bagged himself a nice spot by a magnolia tree--close to Miss Mifford, who had become separated from her clan.

Unfortunately, the cosy spot that they had both chosen, was invaded by a very unwelcome interloper--Lady Hardthistle.

"Silly Americans and their perverse ideas of fun," Lady Hardthistle grumbled loudly to herself, as she trekked across the soggy spring lawn, "And that silly maid, where has she got to? Ahoy--who"s this?"

In the semi darkness, Lady Hardthistle"s eyes had spotted Miss Mifford, for she near glowed in the darkness, dressed as she was in debutante-white.

"Miss Mifford, I should have expected no less from you," the baroness bellowed, causing several people standing close by to turn and gawp, "Out skulking in the darkness, trying to entice some poor chap into your net, eh?"

Freddie at once stirred to defend Miss Mifford, then wondered if by defending her his presence--also alone, also in darkness--might implicate her further in the baroness" eyes. As he dithered, Miss Mifford rose to the occasion and defended herself--rather loudly, rather forcefully, and rather stupidly.

"Don"t you dare speak to me that way," she cried in response, "You are an odious woman, and one day soon, you will suffer the consequences of your unkindness."

Miss Mifford was either very brave, Freddie thought, or--more likely--completely unaware that Lady Hardthistle had the social force--and viper"s tongue--to ruin her season completely.

Several heads had turned their attention away from the firework display, which was just beginning, to stare at the bickering duo. Included amongst them, Lady Francesca, who, to Freddie"s mind, looked far too pleased with the unfolding drama.

"Don"t threaten me, girl," Lady Hardthistle growled, her eyes shifting to the crowd as she became aware that she was now involved in a scene.

"You threatened me first," Miss Mifford retorted, displaying a rudimentary-but perfectly acceptable--defence, "If I have sunk low, it"s only because you set the bar. Oh, I hate London."

This last remark was delivered in a voice with a faint quiver, and Miss Mifford turned on the heel of her slipper and ran from the scene, into the darkness of the vast garden.

"Awful girl," Lady Hardthistle huffed, for the benefit of the watching crowd, "Now, where has my maid got to? I shall need to return home to rest after suffering such an obnoxious assault. Ethel! Ethel!"

Lady Hardthistle too disappeared into the darkness of the garden, and Freddie wondered if he should follow her. He did believe that she was off to find the missing Ethel, but he was also worried that, when found, the maid would be used as a second in a duel, should Lady Hardthistle bump into Miss Mifford again.

As the London skyline was set ablaze with exploding colour, Freddie fretted and fretted over Miss Mifford. After about ten minutes of anxious internal debate, he had just decided that he would seek her out--appearances be damned--when a terrified wail filled the night.

"Murder, murder!" a voice cried, so loud that it could be heard over the explosions of fireworks.

Freddie, who was nearest to the spot where the cry came from, raced into the darkness of the garden. He ran across the lawn and down a set of steps, which led to a sunken garden. Here, he followed the box-hedge lined path to a trickling fountain, and found Ethel standing over a dark mass upon the ground.

As a particularly large Catherine-wheel exploded, lighting up the night sky, it illuminated the mass on the ground, revealing it to be Lady Hardthistle, and by the looks of things she was dead.

Very, very dead.

Even in death, the expression on her face was one of anger and annoyance--though Freddie did not blame her for that, for who would not feel annoyed upon being murdered--and her skin was a violent shade of purple.

Freddie took a step back in horror, then a step forward, for he realised he should do something, but his sudden movement caused Ethel to wail even louder.

"Murder!" she cried again, her last plaintive wail finishing just as the crowd arrived.

People swarmed about, pushing Freddie forward so that he now stood right beside Lady Hardthistle"s cadaver. He hastily whipped off his coat to cover the deceased, as more and more people arrived to the scene. The crowd"s whispers built to a crescendo, accompanied by several screams as some in the fray realised just what it was that Freddie was standing guard over.

"A little calm, please," Freddie called, surprised that his voice sounded strong and assured. He had never marshalled a crowd clamouring to see a dead body before, but he was apparently quite gifted at it, for the herd of people fell silent.

"I must ask you all to return inside," Freddie continued, confident now in his own authority--and a little annoyed with himself for having ever doubted it, "I"m afraid there has been a bit of an accident--"

"Not an accident," Ethel interrupted, her thin voice carrying, "It"s murder. Can"t you see my lady was choked to death? Oh, who would want to murder such a gentle soul?"

The crowd at once fell into frenzied whispers, and Freddie briefly closed his eyes, for he realised that his control had been lost. They flew open again when a female voice spoke up.

"I know who killed Lady Hardthistle," Lady Francesca called, wrinkling her upturned nose in disgust, "It was her!"

Along with everyone else, Freddie glanced in the direction that the young woman was pointing in, and he bit back a groan as he saw just who it was that Lady Francesca was accusing.

Her finger of blame was pointed at none other than Miss Mifford.