Page 8 of A Murder, a Marquess, and Miss Mifford
When Freddie turned his attention back to Delaney, he found his friend's brown eyes were alight with amusement.
"I take it that's her?" the baron said, as he ruffled a hand through his dark curls.
"Who?" Freddie's answer was peevish.
"Miss Mifford. You might recall that you spent the entirety of our ride in Green Park this morning grousing about her."
"I did not," Freddie began, but at Delaney's knowing glare, reluctantly corrected himself, "I did not spend theentiretime grousing about her. If you recall, we spoke at length about the waistcoat I purchased from Weston's."
"Ah, yes," Delaney gave a sigh, "What a riveting morningthatwas. Now, dear boy, you'll have to excuse me, for I have sighted your beloved aunt headed your way, and though I am fond of you, I'm notthatfond."
Delaney offered him a bracing slap on the shoulder, before departing at great speed. A few moments later, Freddie was joined by Lady Hardthistle, dressed in her customary black and trailed by her insipid maid, Ethel.
"Highfield," Lady Hardthistle boomed in greeting.
"My lady," Freddie offered her a short bow, "A pleasure to see you, as always."
"If it's always such a pleasure to see me, then why do you never call on me?"
There was a pause, as Freddie grappled for an answer that wasn't the truth--that he would rather poke out his own eye than spend time with the baroness. Lady Hardthistle appeared to sense his discomfort and her thin lips drew into a contented smile. There was nothing the old nag liked more, than making people uncomfortable.
"Seeing as your mother has insisted upon locking herself away in the countryside for the season, I feel I must take on the yoke of responsibility for the line and help you find a wife."
"There's really no need," Freddie replied smoothly, whilst wondering why on earth he had censured Fitzgibbons' murderous rage--the woman was a menace to society.
"With a mother as selfish as yours, I feel I must," Lady Hardthistle brayed, as Ethel nodded in agreement beside her.
"Mama is attending to my sister, who has just given birth," Freddie reminded her, through gritted teeth, "Baby James is the first grandchild in the family, it's natural for her want to be with him."
"Baby James is the heir to nothing, your mother's interest in him is excessive for the station he was born into," the baroness interjected, her thin eyebrows dropping to a scowl, "Now, stay quiet a moment, and I shall tell you just which ladies meet the standards expected in a marchioness, and which most definitely donot."
Before Freddie could object, Lady Hardthistle barrelled on, loudly listing off the ladies present, and pointing them out for good measure.
"That's Lady Francesca," she finished, with a nod to a pretty young woman standing across the room, conversing with Mr Bunting. "She's the youngest daughter of the Viscount of Bridgefoot and pretty as a picture--but the father is near destitute and I have it on good authority that she's soon to become engaged to Mr Bunting."
"Whose authority?" Freddie questioned, for he had just heard told that Mr Bunting, like his friend Fitzgibbons, required a chit with a dowry.
"Mine," Lady Hardthistle answered smugly, though her smile faltered as she caught sight of yet another one of the guests.
"Who is that?" Freddie could not resist prompting, even though he already knew the answer.
"Miss Mifford," Lady Hardthistle made a face which looked like she had just sucked a lemon, "Awful girl. Awful family. Pushy and grabby--and that's just the mother. The eldest two snared husbands through the most deceitful means--I would stay away from Miss Mifford, if I were you, unless you wish to find your hand forced."
"Don't hold back, my lady, do tell me how you really feel," Freddie answered, unable to keep the amusement from his tone. Lady Hardthistle's painting of Miss Mifford's character did not marry well with Freddie's memory of her from their encounter the previous evening.
Obviously, she was a few pence short of a shilling to not have realised she was attracted to him, but shehadconceded he was handsome, which meant she wasn't all mad.
As for her subtle accusation that he was conceited? Even Freddie had to admit that she hadn't been too far off the mark; he could admit that when he entered any room, he usually considered himself the best looking--and best dressed--gentleman there. If that was what Miss Mifford considered to be conceit, then Freddie was guilty as hell.
"I'm warning you, Chambers," Lady Hardthistle cautioned, as she noted that Freddie's gaze was still trained on Miss Mifford, "Steer well clear of the Miffords. Now, I must leave you; I have to see a man about a horse. Come, Ethel."
In a flurry of feather plumes and noxious perfume fumes, Lady Hardthistle took off, bouldering her way across the room with great determination. Several people squawked with consternation, as she thwacked them with her cane in order to get them to move aside, but none raised further argument--the whole of thetonknew better than to call Lady Hardthistle out publicly.
Freddie, who had been wondering how he might excuse himself from her company, heaved a sigh of relief that she had done the hard work for him. He remained in the same spot for a moment, watching her progress, and only moved when he was certain her attention was elsewhere.
The baroness' warning to avoid Miss Mifford as though she was a plague carrying animal, had the opposite effect for which she might have hoped. Freddie, who had been content to observe Miss Mifford from afar, now felt an overwhelming urge to go speak with her. Just like when he was a child, and his governess had told him to stay away from the fire, Freddie's obstinate nature told him to ignore such cautious advice--he wanted to poke at the flames.
Not that he would actually poke Miss Mifford, of course, for he was no longer five and he did think the young lady might raise an objection to be prodded, even by a handsome marquess.
