Page 37 of A Murder, a Marquess, and Miss Mifford
Freddie had awoken, if not revitalised, then certainly energised following his night at the theatre with Miss Mifford.
She had allowed him to hold her hand, she had not balked when he had kissed it, and she had offered to receive him for a morning call. It was all very promising.
Farley, still as matrimonial minded as any mama, attended to his morning ablutions with slightly more zeal than was usual. This same enthusiasm was applied to choosing out his clothes for the morning, polishing his boots, and trying his cravat in a jaunty knot--so much so, that it was almost noon by the time Freddie reached the breakfast table.
He took only a coffee and a slice of brioche bread, before ordering a footman to have his horse readied. A moment later, having glanced out the window and spotting a threatening grey sky, Freddie re-summoned the footman and asked for his carriage instead.
It would not do to turn up on the front step of Northcott House rain-sodden and dripping. If that made Freddie vain, then so be it.
His care to his appearance, however, was somewhat wasted, for when he arrived at Northcott House, and sent the footman to the door with his calling card, the lad returned moments later with an apology that Miss Mifford was indisposed.
"Indisposed?" Freddie growled, "In what way?"
"I did not ask, my lord," the footman stuttered--the correct response, for it was not a servant's place to ask such things.
"The earache?" Freddie mused, worried now, "Influenza? A bout of whooping cough, perhaps?"
"I do not know, my lord," the footman repeated, shifting with discomfort at having to discuss a lady's health with his master.
"I will offer the assistance of my apothecary on Jermyn Street," Freddie decided, already halfway out of the cab, "He's the best there is."
With little thought to the rules and diktats of polite society, Freddie hurried up the steps to the austere, black front door--very ducal, his own was green--and rapped the brass knocker, in the shape of a lion's head, loudly until it was opened.
"I am Lord Chambers," Freddie said, to the butler who peered out at him, "My footman tells me that Miss Mifford is indisposed; I wish to offer the services of my druggist to speed her recovery."
The butler, typically stoic as befitted a gentleman of such a position, remained blank-faced as he tried to think of a reply to Freddie's offer. He was spared having to supply an answer, by the arrival of the youngest of the Mifford girls, Eudora.
"Who's that, Bentley" she called, as she sauntered into the entrance hall from an adjoining room.
"A caller for Miss Mifford," Bentley informed her, in a deep rumble, "Lord Chambers, Marquess of Highfield."
"Oh," Miss Eudora's face dropped, and she cast Freddie a nervous glance, before turning back to Bentley, "Thank you, Bentley. I shall speak with Lord Chambers for a moment."
Bentley’s bushy eyebrows drew together in surprise for one brief moment--for it was not the done thing to receive a marquess on the front doorstep--but he kept his counsel and slipped away.
"Emily is not here," Eudora whispered, her brown eyes large and excited behind her spectacles, "If the others return, I am supposed to say she is indisposed with a migraine, but she is really gone to Berkley Square to spy on Lady Hardthistle's maid."
"Did she tell you to tell me this?" Freddie wondered, for he had expressly forbidden Emily to go spying.
"No," Eudora was certain, "She told me not to tell Mary, Jane, or Mama, but she did not mention that I should not tellyou."
There was a moment of silence, as Eudora puzzled over this, and her expression turned suddenly worried.
"Gemini, do you think I shouldn't have told you?" she asked of Freddie, "I always do the wrong thing..."
"You were perfectly correct to inform me," Freddie assured her, omitting that it was only he who would think her confession correct, "I shall go to fetch her at once. I hope she had the sense to take a maid with her."
Eudora's pained silence was all the answer Freddie needed. He bit back a sigh, for it was not Eudora's fault, and shehadbeen most helpful, before touching the brim of his hat and bidding her goodbye.
"Maybe don't tell her I sent you," Eudora's nervous call followed Freddie back to his carriage.
"I won't," he called back, before instructing his driver to take him to Berkley Square.
"Circle the square, until I tell you to stop," he instructed, brusquely.
As the carriage trundled from St James' Square, towards their destination, Freddie mulled over which punishment would be most fitting for Miss Mifford's reckless disregard for her safety. His thoughts then turned to worry, as he imagined what terrible fortunes might have befallen her, then back to anger.
This cycle of emotion repeated itself numerous times, as the carriage made its way up Piccadilly, so by the time they reached Berkley Square, Freddie was fit to burst.
