Page 35 of A Body, A Baron, and Miss Mifford
On slightly wobbly feet, he made his way toward his bedchamber, frowning in annoyance as he took several wrong turns.
He was inwardly contrasting the benefits of Palladian Revival homes, like his own, to the warren-like Tudor structure that was Plumpton Hall when the sound of raised voices caught his attention.
The arguing was coming from behind a door further down the corridor; a man and a woman, Rob was certain.
He hesitated momentarily, afraid that he might be caught eavesdropping on a fellow guest, when he suddenly realised that the man’s voice belonged to Lord Albermay -but who on earth was he fighting with?
Rob was not well acquainted with Lady Albermay, but even he could tell that the feminine voice arguing back did not have an American accent.
He crept forward with bated breath, cupping his ear to better hear the argument.
“If you expect me to confess to that, it’s more than a bag of coins you’ll owe me.”
Rob inhaled sharply—was there finally something which might point suspicion away from the widowed Lady Albermay?
He pressed his ear against the door, eager to hear Lord Albermay’s reply, but the viscount’s voice had dropped to no more than a murmur. Rob recognised a wheedling, pleading tone but could not make out any exact words.
He stifled an epithet, wishing he could open the door, even just a crack, before pressing his ear harder against the wooden door frame.
The voices in the room beyond had stopped, and to Rob’s ear, he could discern…footsteps! Stomping furiously toward the closed door, if he wasn’t mistaken.
In a panic, Rob leapt backwards and threw himself down the hallway, not wishing to be caught spying. After a moment, however, he realised the error of his ways—he would never identify the mysterious female voice if he was running from it. Annoyed now, he slowed his pace, pivoted on his heel and walked back toward Lord Albermay’s room at a leisurely stroll.
He adopted what he hoped was an air of nonchalance, even adding a merry whistle as he strode down the corridor.
The door to Lord Albermay’s room was ajar, and Rob peered inside, hoping to glimpse the arguing pair.
He heaved a sigh of disappointment as he discovered the bedchamber completely deserted.
“Looking for something, Delaney?”
From the far end of the hallway, Lord Albermay appeared. The colour on his normally ruddy face was higher than usual—he had obviously given chase to his female companion.
The brandy from lunch gave Rob confidence that might otherwise have eluded him, especially since he had been caught so fragrantly snooping.
“A dram of brandy,” he replied, all affable Etonian guff, “Crabb cut me off, and there’s a dashed long wait till dinner.”
“Our esteemed host is becoming less and less generous with his cellar as the days roll on,” the viscount agreed rather darkly, “I’m afraid I’ve nothing stashed away, Delaney—and unlike some, I’m far too busy to spend my afternoon inebriated.”
Lord Albermay gave Rob a stiff nod before striding past him into his bedchamber. The door shut behind the viscount with a very haughty click, leading Rob to conclude that Lord Albermay was as surly sober as he was drunk.
Still, Rob wasn’t overly offended by the viscount’s curt dismissal; after all, Rob hadn’t actually wanted to share a drink with the curmudgeon. He slipped down the hallway, his step decidedly light. For now, he finally had some good news to share with Eudora—if she permitted him the favour of another meeting.
Dinner was interminable. It consisted of four courses: a broth, two meats, and a sweet treat, all accompanied by strained conversation.
Eudora was either incredibly distracted or was refusing to catch Rob’s eye. Lady Albermay listlessly poked a fork at each plate but attempted not one bite. She was watched over by Captain Ledger, who, though clearly worried, did not allow this to interfere with his appetite and finished each plate with gusto. They, in turn, were being observed by the beady eyes of Mrs Canards and Mrs Wickling—leaving Rob to wonder if the nosy pair already knew who the murderer was.
Mrs Mifford’s misguided attempts at breaking the silence which hung over every course ranged from innocuous remarks about the snow—a definite thaw—to gilded tales of her accomplishments—a master of several languages, no, the dowager duchess wouldn’t be familiar with any of them—to finally a glum acceptance that tempers were becoming a bit frayed.
“It’s only natural,” she twittered as the servants removed the last of the porcelain from the table, “Cooped up altogether inside, why, it’s a miracle none of us have resorted to murder! Ohh..”
On that flat note, the guests retreated from the table. Once again, the men trudged away to Lord Crabb’s library for cheroots and brandy while the ladies trooped with sagging shoulders to the parlour room for tea. The novelty of being snowed in had most definitely worn off for the guests.
“I can’t distinguish one evening from the other, at this stage,” Highfield sighed, as he took a seat beside Rob in the library, “Apart from the first, of course.”
“A murder is something of a marker for the calender,” Rob agreed with a half-smile.
“Another evening of listening to Lord Percival bleat on about The Seven Year’s War,” Highfield grumbled as he silently accepted a glass of brandy from a footman, “I mean, everyone does love to defeat the French—especially at war—but gloating about it every evening seems rather unseemly. Especially when they make the finest cognac.”
