Page 13 of A Murder, a Marquess, and Miss Mifford
Inside the dressing room which adjoined the bedchamber, Emily disrobed and unpinned her hair. She washed her face in the bowl of water upon thearmoire, then threw on her nightrail--a soft, wool one she had brought with her from Plumpton--and crawled into bed.
Despite her belief that sleep would be hard to come by, the instant that Emily rested her head on the goose-feather pillow she began to feel drowsy. A chamber maid had left a warming pan at the bottom of the bed, and a low fire burned in the grate, and Emily could not help but be lulled to sleep by such comforts.
I'll tell Northcott tomorrow about Sir Cadogan, she decided, as her heavy eyelids drooped to a close. The old squire had to be the person who killed Lady Hardthistle; who else would want the baroness dead?
The next morning, Emily awoke far later than usual, and after washing and dressing, she hurried downstairs to the dining room.
There, she found Northcott and Mary already seated at the table, both sipping tea and reading through the morning's papers.
"Is there anything about Lady Hardthistle?" Emily asked, as she slipped into a vacant chair.
A footman immediately stepped forward and filled her cup with steaming hot-chocolate, before discreetly withdrawing again. The servants in Northcott House were far more attentive than Nora, the maid of all work in Primrose Cottage, who could be counted upon to maliciously burn the sausages if she felt that she had been at all slighted. As Mrs Mifford had the unfortunate habit of slighting anyone who crossed her path, Emily and the rest of the family had become accustomed to gnawing on charred pieces of meat and weak tea most mornings, under the dark cloud of Nora's ire.
"No," Northcott called to her, from over the top of the paper, "They would have been gone to press by the time it happened. I expect that there shall be some mention of it tomorrow."
"Will my name also be mentioned?" Emily ventured, nervously nibbling on her lip, "Or do you think that Lord Chambers has already apprehended the villain? Did he send word at all?"
"No, you will not be mentioned," Northcott lowered the paper and answered her first question with an emphatic shake of his head, "And as for Lord Chambers, he has not yet sent word. I expect that when he has some news, he will update us."
"Good," Emily tried to sound cheerful, for she did not want to let her sister and Northcott know just how worried she was. What if there was no way of proving that Sir Cadogan was guilty? Would she forever be viewed with suspicion by the rest of the ton?
Emily took a bite of her toast, but it tasted like sawdust in her mouth. She placed it back on the plate, and took another sip of hot-chocolate, savouring the warm comfort it offered.
She remained silent for the rest of breakfast, as Mary and the duke shared tit-bits from the papers they read. Emily was glad of their gentle comments on the latest news scandal--an escaped lynx from The Royal Menagerie, last spotted in Hyde Park--andtongossip.
"Lord Charmer cut a dashing figure in the Green Park, yesterday morning," Mary read aloud, "Where no doubt he has taken up riding to avoid the longing stares of the ladies on the Row, who wish to capture his heart. Will the ever elusive--and ever stylish--marquess finally take a bride this season? This author has it on good authority that Lord C. has several ladies in mind to take as a bride."
Emily bristled a little, as she realised that the thinly disguised lord to whom the author was referring was Lord Chambers. No wonder he had such an inflated sense of his own self-importance, when the papers wrote guff like this about him, she thought irritably.
"I did not take Lord Chambers for a polygamist," Emily commented, picking up her toast to take a sharp bite from its corner.
"They do make it sound like he is about to set up a harem," Northcott chortled, though he quickly rearranged his amused expression into something more sombre at Mary's warning glare.
"I suppose it does not matter who Lord Chambers chooses to marry, Emily," the duchess commented, withfaux-innocence, "As you have previously declared a potted plant to be a more suitable candidate for a husband than he."
Emily swallowed the piece of toast she was munching, surprised that it did not stick in her craw and choke her. There was no one more infuriating in the world than a sister who thought herself right when she was, in fact, very wrong.
"I do not care who Lord Chambers decides to marry," Emily answered, with slightly more passion than someone who had just professed not to care might possess. "I simply commented that the author made it sound as though he was about to marry all seven ladies on his purported list of brides."
"Of course," Mary demurred, but her tone was less than convincing.
Emily was about to open her mouth and point out that she had suffered enough already, without having to endure her sister's condescension, when Northcott--now an expert in judging sisterly-relations--interrupted.
"The price of wheat is set to increase again," he observed, shaking his paper with more vigour than necessary, "I expect we shall discuss that in The House later, along with Sidcott's proposal to examine the fiduciary duties of the Crown purse."
As Northcott had, perhaps, guessed, both Emily and Mary's eyes glazed over at the mention of the dull activities of The House of Lords. Mary stifled a yawn, before taking a large sip of coffee, while Emily glanced at the half-finished toast on her plate and wondered how she might escape.
"Well, I'd best get ready for my callers," Mary said, with a bright smile to her husband, "Come, Emily. I expect Sylvie wishes to poke and prod at us before she allows us be viewed by anyone."
Emily duly followed her sister upstairs to Mary's large dressing room, where the French maid dressed their hair and added a dash oféléganceto their appearance.
"Ah, your Grace," Sylvie sighed happily, when she was finished, "You are a vision of perfection."
Mary preened with pleasure, and the lady's maid turned her eye to Emily, who awaited similar comment.
"Miss Mifford," Sylvie's pretty mouth twisted into a pout, "You are..."
Emily waited a moment for the maid to add an adjective, but when it became apparent that none was forthcoming, she decided she would have to settle for merely having her existence confirmed.
