Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Freddie had hoped that by the next time that he and Miss Mifford met, that she would regard him as the hero of the hour--the man who had single-handedly cleared her name. Alas, thanks to the alibi that Mr Bunting had afforded Mr Fitzgibbons, the man that Freddie had thought most likely to have killed Lady Hardthistle had been exonerated of any guilt.

In the eyes of the Runners, at least.

Freddie still harboured suspicions about Mr Fitzgibbons. The Runners might not think to question the word of two gentlemen, but Freddie was not as blinded by title and privilege as they. A gentleman"s word was not all that, especially when the gentleman had earlier professed a wish to kill the victim--and, when the man offering the alibi was his closest chum. In the absence of any proof, however, there was little that Freddie could do except bide his time and try to figure out a way to prove that Mr Fitzgibbons had killed Lady Hardthistle.

And while he was doing that, the Duke of Northcott had afforded him a different way into Miss Mifford"s affections--as her protector.

Northcott had approached him in White"s that afternoon and had explained that Freddie"s public support of his sister-in-law would be greatly beneficial in protecting Miss Mifford from society"s censure. Freddie had listened politely as the duke had plead his case, though inside he had been desperately fighting against the delighted smile which had tugged valiantly at the corners of his mouth.

"I should be glad to lend Miss Mifford my support," Freddie had replied when Northcott had finished saying his piece, his voice laced with appropriate level of gravitas for his statement.

Both gentlemen agreed that Freddie would begin his quest that evening, at Lady Stanton"s ball, and Freddie now stood in front of the mirror in his dressing-chamber, surveying his chosen outfit for the evening. His valet, Farley, hovered anxiously beside him, as Freddie inspected every element of his appearance--from the top of his golden head, right down to his slippered toes.

"Are you certain a white cravat is appropriate?" Freddie questioned once again, to which the valet nodded his head furiously.

"I consulted The Mirror of Graces and several other works on manners and etiquette, my lord," Farley said, as he stepped forward to brush an imaginary speck of lint from Freddie"s shoulder, "As well as confirming that I was right with two valets--both from the most esteemed households--whom I met in Weston"s when I was collecting your waistcoat. Full mourning is not necessary, as Lady Hardthistle was not a blood relative; you are, however, expected to dress somewhat sombrely."

"Then this is perfect," Freddie commented, as he glanced at his reflection in the mirror. He wore a black tailcoat of fine merino-wool, over his newly acquired charcoal-grey waistcoat and dark trousers. Usually, he employed far more flair and colour when he dressed, but he was not too put-out by the austerity of his outfit--in fact, he believed he looked more dashing than usual.

"Do you know, Farley?" Freddie mused, as he adjusted his coat one last time, "I do believe black is my colour."

"It is, my lord," Farley beamed, "Though we could say that about almost any colour."

"Now that"s not true," Freddie replied, modestly, Miss Mifford"s assertion that he was big-headed forefront in his mind, "You know that beige does not become me."

With one last glance in the mirror to make certain that everything was in order, Freddie took his leave, instructing Farley to have his room ready for his return at midnight. He would not stay long at Lady Stanton"s, for he was due to travel early the next morning to Faversham, for Lady Hardthistle"s funeral.

The journey to Grosvenor Square was uneventful but slow, and Freddie tapped his foot impatiently against the carriage floor as it trundled slowly through the evening traffic. Finally, after a half-hour--twice the time it would have taken him to walk--he arrived at Stanton House.

"Lord Chambers, what a surprise!"

The wide eyes and slight flare of nostrils that accompanied Lady Stanton"s greeting confirmed that his presence was, indeed, a surprise. The countess gave a quick, nervous glance over her shoulder to the ballroom, where Freddie presumed Miss Mifford already was. Evidently, she was worried he would be insulted by the young lady"s presence.

"I was not going to attend, given the sad events of yesterday evening," Freddie answered, smoothly, "But it has come to my attention that some members of the ton are labouring under the assumption that poor Miss Mifford had some part to play in Lady Hardthistle"s death, and I want everyone to know that I stand behind her."

"You do?" Lady Stanton"s mouth was a perfect "o" of surprise.

"I do," Freddie confirmed, and the countess visibly shivered with delight at being given express permission to share such a juicy morsel of gossip.

"Do enjoy yourself, Lord Chambers," Lady Stanton answered, with a distracted air. Her eyes were already glancing over Freddie"s shoulder to the next arriving guest, with whom no doubt she wanted to share her news.

Freddie gave a short bow and made his way from the entrance hall to the ballroom beyond. Dozens of heads turned to peer at him, as he strode into the room, and he spotted several ladies whispering to each other, before pointedly glancing to the opposite side of the room.

Freddie followed the direction of their gaze and his eyes fell upon Miss Mifford, who looked resplendent in a gown of frothy white. She stood beside her sister and the duke, as well as Lord Crabb and his wife. Freddie smirked, glad for once for the gossiping tabbies, who had helped him find Miss Mifford with ease.

Squaring his shoulders, Freddie crossed the crowded ballroom in long, confident strides, until he arrived before the group. The crowd had fallen silent, perhaps expecting some sort of confrontation, and there were a few audible sighs of disappointment as Freddie dropped into a low bow before Miss Mifford.

"How charmed I am to see you again, Miss Mifford," Freddie drawled, before offering his greetings to the others. They all made polite conversation for a short while, about the orchestra, the refreshments, and the balminess of the evening, before enough time had passed to allow Freddie politely steal Miss Mifford away.

"Would you care for a dance, Miss Mifford?" Freddie queried.

The duchess did not have to prod her sister to reply this time, for Freddie had barely finished speaking before Miss Mifford blurted a quick "yes" in response.

His ego somewhat pleased by her eagerness, Freddie offered the petite miss his arm, before escorting her towards the dancefloor.

"I would like to thank you for offering me your support," she began, but Freddie cut her off with a wave of his gloved hand.

"I do not require your thanks," he answered, with a shrug, "I know that you are not guilty of murdering Lady Hardthistle. The only thing I know you to be guilty of, Miss Mifford, is failing to fall in love with me--and that is not a crime, merely a sign of questionable taste."

Beside him, Miss Mifford visibly bristled, and Freddie found himself delighted by the flush of irritation which stained her cheeks. She muttered something under her breath, which Freddie did not quite catch, before taking a deep breath and turning her blue eyes his way.

"My lord," she began, her voice a hurried rush, "I have reason to believe that I know who might have killed the baroness--Sir Cadogan. I heard him arguing with Lady Hardthistle on the night of Lady Collins" musicale; he believed that she had deliberately sold him a barren mare. He was most agitated, and he threatened to wring her neck. It is possible, is it not, that Sir Cadogan is the culprit? He was also present at the ball, and I do not recall having seen him in the gardens for the firework display."

Freddie stilled; he had been so fixated on believing Mr Fitzgibbons to be guilty, that he had not considered that someone else might have had reason to kill Lady Hardthistle. A foolish assumption, for she had been a truly terrible woman when she lived.

"My sisters have some experience with solving mysterious murders," Miss Mifford continued, oblivious to Freddie"s surprise, "And they always say that there are only ever two reasons for murder; money or lust."

"We can safely rule out the latter," Freddie snorted, forgetting for a moment that he was in the presence of a lady.

"If that is the case," Miss Mifford flushed again, delighting Freddie once more, "Then we can say that Sir Cadogan is our prime suspect. He had the motive; we just need to discover if he had the means. I will try to subtly question the other guests who attended Lady Albermay"s ball, to see if they can recall seeing him around the time she was murdered."

"And I shall question the man himself," Freddie added, "Once I return from Faversham; Lady Hardthistle is to be buried tomorrow and her will read, and my presence is required for both."

"Then we shall exchange notes upon your return," Miss Mifford decided, and Freddie found himself faintly thrilled that he and Miss Mifford now had a shared interest. Granted, it was usually customary for courting couples to find commonality in their enjoyment of literature or the arts, but Freddie would take whatever olive-branch Miss Mifford offered.

For he was courting her, he realised with a slight start. His interest in helping her had not sprung from a well of altruistic intentions, but rather self-interest. Freddie found Miss Mifford charmingly beautiful, irritatingly immune to his charms, and utterly beguiling. As the only other person to have ever beguiled him so completely was himself, Freddie knew that he was on to a winner--or a wife.

He just needed to convince Miss Mifford to view him in a similarly flattering light.

The music came to an end, and the usual scramble to trade places with those on the dancefloor ensued. Freddie took Miss Mifford"s hand and led her to the centre of the floor--where they could best be viewed and admired--and they were then joined by three other couples for a French cotillion. The dance was a lively one, with much skipping, hopping, and changing of partners, and Freddie could not help but resent each gentleman he was forced to hand Miss Mifford off to.

Freddie"s attention was so taken by Miss Mifford, that he did not realise their dancing had attracted so much notice until the music came to an end.

"Look how many people are staring," Miss Mifford whispered, a little breathlessly, as she took Freddie"s proffered arm, "Thank you, my lord; no one can doubt your support now."

"Er, ye," Freddie replied stupidly, still a little dazed by her.

The whole room was indeed staring at them, and as Freddie led Miss Mifford back to her clan, he felt dozens of pairs of eyes follow them. He puffed out his chest, for both the audience and Miss Mifford"s benefit, and handed her back to her family with a flourishing bow.

"Your servant, Miss Mifford," Freddie said, and as he rose to a stand and impulsive impishness came over him, and he took her hand and kissed the back of it.

It was Miss Mifford"s turn to look a bit dazed, and her blue eyes met Freddie"s in a flash of confusion and--what Freddie hoped to be--desire.

"Until we meet again," Freddie said, and with a nod to the duke, duchess, and Lord and Lady Crabb, he took his leave.

He could still feel the eyes of the crowd upon him as he crossed the room, and several fellows tried to catch his attention, but Freddie paid them no heed. He could not remain in the room without being near Miss Mifford, and as his presence--in his state of almost-mourning--was already somewhat questionable, he did not wish to bring further censure on her by behaving in a scandalous manner.

There would be other balls, though, he consoled himself. Other balls in which Freddie might dance attendance on Miss Mifford, claim her hand for the waltz, and peacock about her so that every young-blood within a three-mile radius might know to keep away lest they wished to earn his ire.

But, first, he had a murder to solve.

Following the death of her husband, Lady Hardthistle had taken up residence on a small estate in Faversham, called Nettlebank. The house itself was not much to look at--an old, rambling cottage from the Tudor period--but the grounds surrounding it housed the finest of stables, which, in turn, housed some of England"s most pedigree bloodstock.

The worth of Lady Hardthistle"s stable was difficult for even Freddie--a keen horseman--to quantify, though one might be able to judge its value by the number of distant relatives who had slithered out of the woodwork for the funeral.

"Really going to miss the old girl," Mr Lorcan Bubarry commented, as the group of men who had attended the burial made their way from the small village church back to Nettlebank.

"Were you close?" Freddie raised a brow, as he struggled to hide his surprise.

"Not physically," Bubarry cleared his throat, "Or even emotionally, but spiritually we shared a love of the flat that I am certain her ladyship appreciated, in her own way."

Mr Bubarry was obviously hoping that Lady Hardthistle"s appreciation of their shared love of the flat, might be reflected in her will.

"Not to speak ill of the dead," Lord Hardthistle, the nephew who had inherited the title when the former baron had passed and Freddie"s maternal cousin, interrupted, "But I for one won"t miss the old bag. She funnelled most of the estate"s funds into creating these stables, so when it came time for me to inherit, I received little more than the title and Hardthistle House."

"Outrageous," Mr Bubarry breathed, though Freddie himself could not see the outrage in a woman securing her financial future by making certain the stables she had built were not entailed for another"s benefit.

A few souls populated the drawing room of Nettlebank Cottage when they returned, including a woman with such similar bearing to Lady Hardthistle, that Freddie did a double take.

"Lord Chambers," the stout, sour-faced woman called him over, when she spotted him glancing her way, and Freddie was forced to join her.

"Mrs Canards," the woman offered both her name and hand to Freddie.

"I am a cousin of the late Lady Hardthistle," she continued, mercifully aware enough to realise that Freddie had no clue who she was, "She was a true lady; proud, principled, and truculent until the end. I owed it to the strength of her character to come all the way from Plumpton to pay my final respects."

Freddie, who had been momentarily distracted by the use of the word truculent as a compliment, blinked in surprise as Mrs Canards mentioned the small, Cotswolds village from which Miss Mifford hailed.

"Plumpton?" he repeated, and his companion scowled in reply.

"I"m afraid the reputation of the village has been sullied somewhat by one of our inhabitants," Mrs Canards sniffed, as a black clad Ethel, and a wispy woman with a pinched face approached, "Miss Willard has informed us that one of the Mifford girls is suspected of carrying out the barbaric act. I cannot say that I am surprised, given that the eldest girl also found herself mixed up in a murder, and the second as well. Those girls have a predilection for scandal, my lord. Ah, Mrs Wickling, there you are--no, I did not ask for brandy, I specified tea. What will the marquess think of me, imbibing alcohol at such an early hour?"

Freddie hid a frown; it was not Mrs Canards" consumption of alcohol before noon which he was inclined to judge, rather her slandering of the Mifford clan.

"Miss Mifford played no hand in Lady Hardthistle"s murder," Freddie answered, as calmly as he could, "There is another suspect, whom I am confident will soon be brought to justice."

Ethel gasped as Freddie revealed this and brought a lace-gloved hand to her chest. She was dressed in full mourning, in a heavy, expensive looking, black-bombazine gown and matching mob-cap drawn low over her brows.

"I can"t think of anyone else who might wish to kill Lady Hardthistle," she cried, dabbing at her cheek--which was noticeably dry--with a handkerchief, "She was too gentle to have had any enemies. No, I cannot believe it."

"Believe it you must," Freddie countered, refusing to bow to histrionics, "Miss Mifford is innocent--and I shall prove it."

He then bowed his head to the lady"s maid, and Mrs Canards and her companion, before turning on the heel of his Hessian and making for the far side of the room, where a parlour-maid and footman stood, offering refreshments.

"A brandy, please," Freddie bid the footman, who duly disappeared to fetch him one.

As Freddie waited for the lad to return, he surveyed the room"s inhabitants. Most, he assumed, were Lady Hardthistle"s neighbours; country folk dressed in their Sunday-best, uncomfortable and itching to leave. He spotted a few distant cousins on his mama"s side, garbed in far finer clothing than the villagers, but wearing a similar look of impatience on their faces, as well as the vicar--who was guzzling his second glass of brandy--standing alongside a country-squire type.

The footman returned with his brandy, and Freddie sipped on it gratefully for a few minutes, until the gathered masses decided it was time to leave. Lord Hardthistle became the object of attention, as the guests streamed toward him--the most official of the baroness" distant relatives--to offer their condolences and goodbyes. At last, there was only Freddie, Lord Hardthistle, Mr Bubarry, and a Mr Hillcrest--another distant cousin--left standing, and the gentleman that Freddie had presumed to be a country-squire cleared his throat.

"Gentlemen," he said, with a deep Kentish twang, "If there are no objections, I think now is as good a time as any to read her ladyship"s last will and testament--don"t you agree?"

"Most definitely," Mr Bubarry answered, with haste.

"As you wish," Lord Hardthistle--to whom the comment had really been directed--added, with far more restraint.

Thus, the men made their way to the library, where Mr Osbourne began the laborious task of reading the will. The young footman kept the gentleman topped up with brandy, as the solicitor read through the usual lengthy and detailed stipulations about servants" pensions, taxes, and tithes to the church, before finally getting to the meat of the matter.

"To my treasured nephew, Matthew Bubarry," Mr Osbourne intoned, causing the aforementioned to bolt upright from his snooze, "Who so shared my love of the flat, I bequeath my first edition copy of Morrell"s A Compendium of Flat Racing in The British Isles."

"Is that it?" Mr Bubarry spluttered, glancing around the room in disgust. Mr Osbourne, who presumably had great experience with such ill-mannered outbursts, ignored him and continued.

"To my nephew, Lord Hardthistle, I bequeath the paintings and portraits of Nettlebank, which were collected by his uncle and hold some monetary and much sentimental value," Mr Osbourne droned on.

"It"s better than nothing," Freddie heard the baron mutter under his breath.

"And finally," the solicitor drew a large breath, "My remaining monies, jewels, properties, and property--including bloodstock--shall be left to..."

Freddie wasn"t entirely certain, but he was nearly sure that Mr Osbourne"s pause was for dramatic effect--possibly the only bit of theatrical fun to be found in the law profession.

"...Miss Ethel Willard, my fast and firm companion in my last decades of widowhood."

The gentlemen of the room gasped in surprise and displeasure, and much muttering ensued. But while the others were thinking themselves hard-done-by, Freddie was thinking of something that Miss Mifford had said.

That the two motivations for murder were usually lust or money.

Which meant that out of everyone, Ethel was the person who had gained the most from her mistress" death. Was it possible that the lady"s maid had played a hand in Lady Hardthistle"s violent death?

Freddie racked his brains and recalled that on the very night of the murder, the baroness had ventured into the gardens in search of Ethel..and, it was Ethel who had found the corpse!

Motive and means, Freddie thought to himself, as his feet itched to get back to London so he could share his news with Miss Mifford.