Page 21 of A Body, A Baron, and Miss Mifford
“I wish you an enjoyable feast, my lord,” Higgins said as Rob left the room.
Rob gave a nod in reply, though he secretly suspected that, given the circumstances, the only enjoyable part of dinner would be the food - and Eudora.
Despite the four feet of snow which trapped them inside, the staff at Plumpton Hall still managed to prepare a fine feast for their guests.
Dinner consisted of several courses; stuffed pheasant, roasted fowl, duck à l’orange, and lamb chops, all finished off with a variety of soufflés, tarts, and custards. Lord and Lady Crabb had also seen fit to accompany each course with lashings of wine, so the strained atmosphere which permeated the first course had all but evaporated by the last.
Eudora, to Rob’s dismay, had been seated miles away from him at the other end of the table, next to Lady Albermay. The viscountess’ colour was still rather pale, but she appeared much steadier than she had at breakfast.
Lord Albermay sat at the other end of the table, wearing a black armband to signify that he was in mourning - a good job, for his behaviour gave no indication that he mourned his father. He had tucked into his food with gusto, liberally partaken of the wine, flirted outrageously with a well-endowed maid, and when it was clear that the dinner was ended, was the first to suggest that the gentlemen retire for a cheroot.
The ladies retired to the drawing room for tea, and Robert followed the men as they streamed toward the library. Lord Crabb poured them all a healthy measure of brandy from a crystal decanter and passed around a box of cigars from Fribourg and Treyer in Haymarket.
The host provided his guests with a taper and they each lit their cigar, barring Lord Percival who sat upon a leather Chesterfield sniffing snuff and the duke, who was anxiously watching the door.
“Are you certain you don’t want one, Northcott?” Lord Crabb queried as he made to tuck the cigar box away.
“I’m afraid the smell upsets the baby,” the duke answered, earning himself a guffaw of amusement from Lord Percival.
“How soft new fathers are these days,” he cackled as he wiped at his nose with a stained hankie, “In my day, one checked on the child once to make certain they resembled you, thenhanded them over to the nurse-maid until they were old enough to make conversation.”
“My father shared a similar view to you, my lord,” Lord Albermay replied, raising his glass in a mock toast, “How glad I am that your generation’s grip on power is slipping.”
Lord Percival, who had just sniffed a large pinch, spluttered and coughed in outrage. Mercifully, Captain Ledger was quick to step in to smooth things over.
“Each generation believes their way of doing things was the best, while the next believes they can improve upon perfection,” he said, as he raised his glass in another toast, “I believe in the end it’s called progress.”
“To progress,” Lord Albermay called in hearty agreement with the captain, “My father was old-fashioned and set in his ways; I have big plans for the estate and my fortune - starting with investing. Tell me, how have you found working with Mr Lowell, Crabb? I spoke with him in the library, and he assures me that the cotton industry is a safe bet.”
Under normal circumstances, such talk might be considered gauche, but as Mr Lowell was seated on the Chesterfield opposite Lord Percival, it was the height of rudeness.
“Mr Lowell and I have only just begun working together,” Lord Crabb replied, gesturing to the industrialist to remind Lord Albermay of his presence, “This is our first meeting; I can say that I am happy thus far, but I am loath to offer investment advice to a friend.”
“If it all goes wrong, financial advice is a surefire way to turn a friend into an enemy,” Highfield called out cheerfully as he sidled across the room to come stand beside Rob.
“Lud, but this is all terribly awkward,” he whispered as the gentlemen instigated forced conversations with those beside them to take the attention away from Lord Albermay.
“Perhaps we can chalk his indiscretion up to shock?” Rob murmured in response.
“Or the eight glasses of wine he drank at dinner,” Highfield replied with an amused snort. His expression turned somewhat serious, and he turned to Rob with puzzlement in his eyes, “It’s odd, isn’t it? He doesn’t appear at all interested in finding out who murdered his father - he’s more preoccupied with his fortune.”
“His fortune won’t last long if he continues to seek investment advice whilst in his cups,” Rob shrugged, though he was inclined to agree with his friend that the viscount’s behaviour was most unusual.
If his father - or any member of his family, for that matter - had been brutally murdered, then Rob would not rest until he had found the culprit and pummeled him straight into the next life. It was strange that Lord Albermay was not similarly inclined; even if he had not liked his father, surely he cared somewhat that he had been murdered?
More than ever, Rob found himself convinced that Lord Albermay had murdered his father, but a nagging voice at the back of his mind would not allow him to forget Higgins’ earlier confession.
Was it possible that Rob’s dislike of Lord Albermay was blinding him to the other most likely suspect?
He took a deep sip of his brandy, hoping that it would clear his head, but it did nothing to relieve his confusion.
The only thing that would help, he decided, was talking matters out with Eudora.
CHAPTER SEVEN
AFTER DINNER, THEmen disappeared into the library for cigars and brandy while the ladies retired to the drawing room for tea.
Jane took charge of the tea tray, pouring for each guest, while Cecilia - much to Mrs Mifford’s chagrin - took charge of the conversation.
