Page 4 of A Murder, a Marquess, and Miss Mifford
As Emily began to munch on her food, she heard the sound of two people approaching the far side of the fig tree, their voices low but clearly upset. Curious, she cast a glance through the gaps in the foliage and spotted an older woman--with a very ample bosom--in the company of a white-haired gentleman.
"Dash it, Lady Hardthistle," the gentleman sputtered, "The mare is barren. It's been two seasons and she is yet to foal. When I purchased her, you assured me that she was a brood mare--you assured me that she would produce more winners."
"Well, Sir Cadogan," Lady Hardthistle sniffed, "When I sold her, Astrid Star,wasa brood mare. Whilst in the care of my stables, she produced several winners--including Anderida, who if you recall, won at Ascot in '09. I fear, my dear man, that the problem isn't with my mare, it's with the quality of the ejaculate you are trying to impregnate her with."
"I beg your pardon," Sir Cadogan stuttered, as Emily blushed a little at the terms, "There is nothing the matter with the quality of my ejaculate."
"I beg to differ," Lady Hardthistle replied, her tone one of amusement, "You men are always so keen to blame the female when these things go awry. I suggest you take a look at the sires you're using; you might want to attempt it with a different one. I'd be happy to fix you up with some of my own champion stallions, for a price."
Her offer was followed by silence, and as Emily peered through the leaves of the fig-tree, she saw Sir Cadogan's face turn an alarming shade of puce.
"If we were not in public, my lady," he eventually replied, his voice strangled and high, "I would wrap my hands around your neck and squeeze until there was not one drop of air left in your lungs."
"Even if we were alone, I would not be frightened by such an empty threat," Lady Hardthistle laughed, much to Emily's surprise, for Sir Cadogan had sounded most serious in his intent. "I have it on good authority that it's not only your stallions who are impotent, sir. Your threats hold no water with me."
Sir Cadogan made a noise, which reminded Emily of her cat, Socrates, when someone accidentally trod on his tail, before turning on the heel of slipper and storming away.
"Silly old fool," Lady Hardthistle muttered to herself, as she glanced around to see if anyone had heard their exchange. Her eyes alighted on Emily, still peering through the leaves of the tree, and she gave an unhappy growl of annoyance.
"You, there," she said, beckoning for Emily to join her, "Show yourself. If you will insist on eavesdropping, I will insist on knowing who you are."
"I wasn't eavesdropping," Emily protested, as she scurried from her spot on the far side of the tree to join her. "I just couldn't help but overhear..."
"As excuses go," Lady Hardthistle retorted, so indignant that the feathers of her turban quivered in time with her three chins, "That was miserable. What's your name, girl?"
"Miss Mifford," Emily replied, feeling suddenly nervous--would Lady Hardthistle now slander her the length and breadth of the country? "Miss Emily Mifford."
The baroness did not reply for a moment, as she assessed Emily with beady eyes. She was quite terrifying up close; tall, with a regal bearing, an aristocratic nose, and thin lips--which were currently pressed together so firmly that they were almost invisible.
"One of the chits from the Cotswolds, out to snare another member of theton," she replied, her lips quirking into a sneer, "I should have guessed it would be one of you. I have a distant cousin in Plumpton, Mrs Canards, and she wrote to inform me about you lot."
"That's hardly fair, my lady," Emily protested, feeling aggrieved on behalf of her sisters more than herself--and doubly irritated that the awful Mrs Canards was capable of spreading her vitriol so far and wide.
"Hardly fair?" the lady replied, in mock horror, "To observe that a girl of dubious background has dubious manners? Eavesdropping is frowned upon by most people, Miss Mifford, you would do well to remember that. You're lucky your sisters married so well, or you'd be facing the cut. Off with you; I have had enough miserable conversation for one evening."
If Lady Hardthistle had spoken to Mary or Jane like that--even before they had married--she could have expected a spirited reply. But Emily possessed little of her sisters' bravery and, as usually happened when she became involved in direct confrontation, she felt tears begin to well in her eyes.
Unwilling to allow Lady Hardthistle think she had upset her--for Emily's tears were not of upset, but rather anger--she stalked away, determined to find a quiet place that she might calm herself. Once outside the drawing room, she rushed down the hallway, hoping to find the ladies' relieving room, where she would certainly be afforded a modicum of privacy.
Unfortunately for Emily, when she opened the first door she came across, it revealed a couple in a passionate embrace, rather than a chamber-maid waiting to assist her.
"What the--?"
A young man turned at the sound of Emily's shocked gasp, revealing his partner in passion to be Lady Francesca of the upturned nose.
"I saw nothing," Emily blurted, hastily slamming the door shut upon the offending scene.
She instantly took back all the mean thoughts that she'd had about Mary and Northcott; three-minute-egg gazes were far more tolerable than witnessingthatexpression of love.
Feeling a little queasy, Emily continued her hunt for a quiet room, at last finding one at the end of the corridor. She slipped into what she presumed to be Lord Collins' library and threw herself down onto one of the leather Chesterfields with a sigh of relief.
What a horrid place London was, she thought mournfully, as she stared into the fire. Mrs Canards, Plumpton's resident gossip and cousin to Lady Hardthistle, had always disparaged the city as a place of anger and vice. Though Emily rarely, if ever, felt inclined to agree with Mrs Canards, tonight she decided the old busybody had hit the nail firmly on the head.
Oh, for the season to end, so that she might return to the peace and quiet of Plumpton, she thought, as she plucked at the material of her skirts with anxious fingers. She was not cut out for London life; she was a country mouse, not a city one.
Emily allowed herself a few moments to mourn her current circumstances, but after a few minutes of wallowing, she gave herself a wobble. She was dressed in a fine gown, in one of the grandest homes in England--others had suffered far worse fates.
With a renewed determination to find some fun in the evening, Emily stood up from her seat, intent on returning to the drawing room.
