Page 31 of A Murder, a Marquess, and Miss Mifford
"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 theton, 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.
