Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

Farley took more care than usual, the next evening, as he assisted Freddie with dressing for the theatre. The valet was all a dither as he attempted to tie the starched, white cravat at Freddie"s neck, into an extravagant knot...for the seventh time.

"This won"t do, it just won"t do," Farley murmured to himself, as beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, "The trone d"Amour is supposed to look austere, not floppy. It is a mess--I am a mess. I am afraid, my lord, that I must tender my resignation at once; I am not fit to even polish your boots, let alone tie your cravat."

As Freddie was accustomed to the occasional emotional outburst from Farley—who, though highly-strung, was terribly good at his job--he simply raised an eyebrow and waited for the valet to calm down.

"Fetch a fresh cravat," Freddie instructed, once the other man"s breathing had resumed a normal pace, "And attempt a ballroom knot; far simpler, but no less elegant."

"Yes," Farley nodded, his eyes brightening, "A purist"s choice; very good, my lord. I should never have attempted anything so fussy and showy. You are not a dandy, but a Corinthian. A man of your stature and good looks does not need to add any garish embellishments to draw the eye--you draw it naturally."

The valet rushed over to the dressing table, to find a fresh cravat, and Freddie mused that perhaps he didn"t employ Farley merely for his valet skills, but for his good taste too.

Farley returned, and in a few minutes had tied the cravat into an elegant Ballroom knot.

"Very good," Freddie said, as he took a step back to appreciate his refection in the mirror.

His clothes were dark, as befitted the evening. He wore an exquisitely tailored plain, black coat, over black, snugly fitting pantaloons, complimented by a brocade waistcoat of ruby red. He looked, Freddie thought with satisfaction, every inch the Corinthian that Farley had earlier professed him to be.

"Your guest will be most impressed," Farley stated shyly, as he brushed a stray speck of dust from Freddie"s shoulders.

Ah! Freddie hid a smile, no wonder poor Farley had been in such a state; he had wished Freddie to look immaculate for his lady friend. That was perhaps also why his housekeeper, Mrs Hiddlestone, had earlier decided to clean out the room which had once been Freddie"s nursery...

One could have no secrets, when one had servants.

"I think they shall," Freddie agreed, as he gave his reflection one last glance.

Miss Mifford, while immune to some of his charms, was not blind. Even she could not fail to agree that Freddie cut a dashing figure, and was as handsome an escort as any lady might hope for.

With a whistle on his lips, Freddie tripped down the stairs--taking the runners two at a time--to the entrance hall, where a footman was waiting with his cane and top-hat.

"The carriage?"

"Awaiting you outside."

"Excellent."

Freddie"s jubilant spirits continued for the duration of the journey from Pall Mall to Drury Lane. Anticipation had his nerves thrumming and humming so pleasantly that he barely minded the heavy traffic, or the spring rain which lashed down upon the roof.

The carriage eventually drew up outside the Theatre Royal, where Freddie disembarked into a sea of glittering socialites. He made for the lobby, found himself a spot where he could best see the door, and waited.

After what seemed like an interminable length of time--but according to his fob-watch was only five minutes--Freddie finally spotted the duke and duchess, with Miss Mifford trailing behind them.

"Northcott," Freddie hailed the duke, striding across the lobby to shake his hand. He then bowed to the duchess, and offered his arm to Miss Mifford.

"You look ravishing," Freddie whispered to her, for she did.

Miss Mifford"s auburn hair was pulled into a soft up-style, with several tendrils framing her face and a scattering of a few flowers placed here and there to decorate. Her evening dress was of the Empire style; a soft pink satin at the bodice, which gave way to flowing silk skirts.

"You look like a May Queen," Freddie added, as he imagined her dancing with a ribbon around a maypole.

"Thank you," Miss Mifford offered him a shy smile, "Mary did tell me try look as un-murderess-like as possible for the evening."

"I"ve never seen anyone look less murderous than you," Freddie replied, gallantly, though afterwards he wondered if it was perhaps the most bizarre compliment that he had ever offered anyone.

The quartet climbed the stairs to the first floor and followed the corridor to the private box that Freddie rented annually. He was not a great connoisseur of the theatre, but when his mother and sister were in town, he obliged them by attending whatever play they wished to see.

"Northcott and I shall sit here," the duchess decided, her tone rather bossy, "And you sit there, Emily. Lord Chambers can take the seat beside you."

"Very good," Freddie answered, before Miss Mifford--who looked as though she might object--could reply.

The duchess had very obviously arranged things so that Freddie and Miss Mifford--or Emily, as he now liked to think of her--might sit side by side. As Freddie had hoped for this outcome, he was rather pleased with the set up.

"Forgive my sister," Emily whispered as she sat down, "She forgets that she is not everyone"s elder sibling."

"I do not mind," Freddie gave an easy shrug, "I wished to sit beside you anyway."

A blush bloomed on Miss Mifford"s cheeks, and to save her embarrassment, Freddie made a great fuss of taking off his hat and storing it safely away.

"I have something to share with you about Ethel," Emily continued, once he had settled himself down into the chair.

"Oh?"

"On the night of the murder, she was sighted in the garden sharing a passionate embrace with an unidentified male."

"Ethel?" Freddie could not help but incredulously exclaim. He could not imagine the ghost-like, pious maid engaging in any scandalous act, but then again, a few weeks ago he could not have imagined he would be investigating a murder. Anything was possible in life, he conceded.

"If we can try to find out who her beau is," Emily continued, stumbling a little on the word beau, "Then we will be better able to judge if Ethel should remain on our list of suspects. It"s possible that whoever this gentleman is, might have killed Lady Hardthistle so that Ethel might inherit her fortune. Have you any news of Sir Cadogan, my lord?"

Freddie blinked in surprise at her brusque manner; he was labouring under the assumption that Miss Mifford would view their jaunt to the theatre as a romantic one, but she was business as usual.

"I confronted him in White"s about his whereabouts on the night," Freddie answered, "But he said that he would not justify such questions with an answer."

"Highly suspicious."

"Yes," Freddie agreed, but he did not wish to discuss murder anymore, but rather bring her attention back to the present.

"Oh, look," Freddie said, leaning out of his chair to peer out at the theatre, "There"s Mr Brummell, stylish as ever."

Emily followed his gaze to the box on the far wall, which contained the stylish Beau Brummell. The whole theatre was packed to the gills with great and glittering members of the ton, while below, in the stalls, the general public thronged together. It was quite the sight, and Freddie was glad to see Emily"s eyes alight with excitement and interest.

"I have only ever been to the theatre in Cirencester," she said, referring to the largest market town in the Cotswolds, "And it was not nearly as grand as this. Oh, look! Lady Caroline Lamb; Jane adores her work."

Freddie glanced down to the box which Emily was gazing at and sighted the infamous Lady Lamb seated beside her long-suffering husband. Mercifully, there was no sign of Lord Byron, with whom Lady Lamb had conducted a much-publicised affair, which meant that the only theatrics they could expect tonight would be played out on the stage.

"Is that..?" Emily frowned and peered down at another box, which contained none other than Mr Fitzgibbons. He was seated beside Miss Gardner, the heiress he had been wooing--or attempting to woo--since the beginning of the season.

Freddie felt a stab of dislike, as he watched Mr Fitzgibbons smile smugly around the theatre. There was something very unlikeable about the young man, who appeared more concerned with being seen than attending to the lady he was seated beside.

"And there is Mr Bunting behind him," Emily whispered, sounding dismayed, "With a young lady who is not Lady Francesca."

"I thought they were to be engaged," Freddie, who had no idea how he knew this morsel of gossip answered, "Though young men can be fickle."

"Poor Lady Francesca," Emily sighed, much to Freddie"s surprise. He did not think he would be as capable of sympathy were he in Miss Mifford"s shoes--the girl had, after all, accused Emily of murder.

There was no time to press her on the matter however, for the gas-lights on the walls began to flicker, announcing the beginning of the play.

"Hush now," the duchess called over, as they settled back into their chairs.

"Is she always this bossy?" Freddie asked, leaning over to whisper into Emily"s ear.

"She"s usually worse--you might not believe it, but this is her attempting to impress you, my lord."

As she leaned over to whisper her reply, Emily"s scent filled Freddie"s nose, rendering him near intoxicated. It was not cloying, nor heavy, but simple and light--like the spring air after a soft rain.

"Please," he replied, his voice thicker than he had intended, for his brain was addled by her, "Call me Freddie."

The half-strangled mewl which Emily offered in reply, gave Freddie hope that she too was as overcome by their closeness as he. Alas, the heady atmosphere was broken somewhat by the duchess, who hushed them sternly again.

Freddie forced his attention toward the stage, where the opening act was taking place. The play was a comedy, a new work featuring the much-esteemed Mrs Dorothy Jordan, and though it sounded amusing--judging by the roars of laughter from the audience--Freddie could not concentrate on it.

His attention was riveted by the woman beside him, who radiated heat and energy. Their elbows, as they rested on their seats, could not help but touch, and Freddie found himself embarrassingly aroused by something so tame.

He was a gentleman of experience, yet the innocent Miss Mifford was driving him to distraction.

Freddie spent most of the first half of the play debating as to whether he should take Emily"s hand in his. Was it too forward? Would she be upset? Or would she simply bat his hand away and hush him with the same ferocity as her sister?

He was still debating the unknowns, when the gas-lights flickered and the curtain fell on the stage for the intermission.

"La! What a riot that was," the duchess called to them both, "The mix-up between the plumassier and the poulterer--oh, I"ve never laughed so much as when I heard the clucking coming from Mrs Jordan"s bonnet. Don"t you agree?"

Freddie, who had no idea of what the duchess was speaking, mumbled incoherently in agreement. As did Miss Mifford, whose expression was as dazed as Freddie assumed his own to be.

"You were both riveted to silence," Northcott noted, with a knowing smile Freddie"s way. The duke then turned to his wife, who was glancing between them both with confusion, and placed his hand on the small of her back.

"Come, my dear," the duke instructed, "Why don"t we fetch the refreshments; I"m certain you need to stretch your legs after that."

"I don"t actually," she replied, but her husband did not listen and frog marched her out the door.

"Did you enjoy the first half?" Freddie ventured, once they were alone.

Emily turned her eyes to him, and for the first time since they had met, she looked almost shy.

"In truth, I found that I could not pay proper attention to the goings-on on stage," she confessed, and Freddie"s heart filled with hope.

Could it be that she felt the same way as he?

Perhaps noticing his hopeful expression, Emily flushed, as though she regretted having shared her state of distraction with him.

"I mean," she cleared her throat awkwardly, "Who could pay attention to a play, when we have a real-life murder mystery on our hands?"

A silence fell between them, during which Freddie experienced a cascade of differing emotions. Despair moved to sadness, then to insecurity--a feeling Freddie had no time for--until he finally settled on indignation.

"Codswallop," Freddie challenged, raising an eyebrow in disbelief.

"I--I beg your pardon, my lord?"

"Freddie," he corrected her, before continuing, fuelled by indignation, "I am not about to sit here and listen to you tell me that your state of distraction was caused by our investigation."

"Oh, and what do you think it was caused by?" Emily retorted, folding her arms stubbornly across her chest. She was not a woman who liked someone telling her how she felt, but, nevertheless, Freddie was about to do just that.

"By me," Freddie waved an arm casually over his athletic form, "By our closeness, by the romance of an evening at the theatre with a handsome marquess. I refuse to believe that the only thing that moves you, Emily, is murder--"

"Perhaps it was your big-head, my lord, which prevented me from enjoying the show," she answered, her irritated tone a perfect match for his own, "It is so enormous, that it obstructs the view."

"I am not big-headed," Freddie answered, struggling to keep his tone even, "I am a realist. It is not untrue to say that I am one of the more handsome men present, nor is it untrue to note that you are the most beautiful woman in the room."

Emily opened her mouth to interrupt him, but as Freddie was on something of a roll, he continued.

"Thus, it is not big-headed of me to assume that you have been as driven to distraction by me, as I by you. Though, perhaps, given that you are more beautiful, I might have been slightly more affected."

Emily opened her mouth to reply, but snapped it shut again, unsure of how to respond to such a passionate outburst.

"I should like to kiss you," Freddie finished, "Not now, not here, but soon."

"My lord, I--"

Whatever Emily"s reply was to be, it was lost as the duke and duchess returned, the latter in a state of high excitement.

"Emily," she exclaimed, as she plonked herself down in her seat, "You"ll never guess who is here--Mrs Canards!"

The name sounded slightly familiar to Freddie"s ear, though he could not place it.

"What on earth is she doing in London?" Emily answered, glancing at her sister, then out over the audience in the hopes of spotting the woman.

"She"s here with Ethel," the duchess answered, in a rushed whisper, "They met at Lady Hardthistle"s funeral--did you know Mrs Canards was her distant cousin?--and by the sound of things, Mrs Canards invited herself up to London to help her new friend adjust. Poor Ethel, even if she did murder the baroness, having Mrs Canards as a house-guest is the cruellest of punishments."

Freddie suddenly recalled the stout, curmudgeonly woman from Lady Hardthistle"s funeral, and found himself in agreement with the duchess. A spell in Newgate would be far easier to endure than having to eat three meals a day sitting opposite such a sour-puss.

"I wonder where they"re sitting," Emily squeaked, leaning her arms on the balustrades of the balcony, as she searched for a glimpse of Ethel and her guest.

"The Upper Circle, I should think," the duchess replied, peering up at the large balcony which catered to those in society who could not afford the extravagance of a box, but did not wish to mix with the rabble in the stalls.

"Yes," the duchess handed her quizzing glasses to Emily, who held them up to her eyes and peered up, "There they are, on the left. And they have the awful Mrs Wickling with them too."

Freddie watched as Emily let out a sigh of disappointment--she had obviously been hoping that Ethel"s mysterious gentleman might also be present.

The gas-lights on the wall began to flicker, signalling the beginning of the second half, and the four occupants of the box slipped back into their respective seats.

"I wonder where it is that Ethel is staying?" Emily whispered in Freddie"s ear, as the actors took to the stage.

"Most likely in Lady Hardthistle"s house, just off Berkley Square," Freddie answered, absently, once more overcome by her closeness.

"Don"t think to go spying on her," he cautioned, as he noted her thoughtful silence.

"I am but a country mouse, my lord," she answered, all innocence, "I would not know how to even get to Berkley Square."

Freddie harrumphed in reply, for he did not truly believe her. There was little he could do at that moment, however, to dissuade her, so he did the next best thing. He reached out, took Emily"s gloved hand, and held it tightly through the remainder of the play.

Her hand felt at home in his, fingers laced, palms touching, and when the curtain came down for the final call and the lights illuminated the hall, Freddie was reluctant to let go of her.

"That was wonderful," the duchess called, as the occupants of the box stirred back to life.

Emily"s hand slipped from Freddie"s, as she turned to face her sister, and he somehow managed to hold back a mewl of disappointment.

"Such a lark," Emily agreed, before turning back to offer Freddie a shy smile, "My thanks, my lord, for inviting us."

"The pleasure was all mine," he answered, but could not resist offering her a discreet wink, which sent her blushing and confirmed that the pleasure of the evening had not solely been felt just by him.

Northcott led the way from the box, his wife on his arm, followed by Freddie and Emily. There was no opportunity to exchange flirtatious chatter or interesting on-dits, given the flow of people streaming towards the door, but Freddie relished the feel of Miss Mifford"s hand upon his arm.

At the front door, Freddie waited for his guests" carriage to arrive, and once the duke had assisted his wife in, he held out a hand to help Emily up.

"I will call on you in the morning," he promised, then--before she could object--he brought her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it.

"Goodnight, my lord," she whispered in response, her cheeks aflame.

"Freddie," he reminded her sternly, before taking a step back so the footman could close the door.

Miss Mifford would have to learn to become comfortable with using his given name, Freddie thought, as he waited for his own carriage to arrive. After all, she could not continue to call him "my lord" after they were married--which would happen soon, if Freddie had anything to do with it.