Page 46 of A Body, A Baron, and Miss Mifford
“So you spotted the shameless flirting, too?” Mrs Canards gave him a look of approval, “It doesn’t say much for a household when the servant-folk are so brazen as to behave like that in front of guests. You’re lucky that’s all you saw. Why, Mrs Wickling and I—”
Mrs Canards gave a performative gasp and covered her mouth with her hand.
Rob stifled a sigh at her feigned reticence; they both knew she was simply dying to share what she had seen.
“What did you see?” he pressed, his tone serious.
“I don’t like to slander the poor girl when she may be dead,” Mrs Canards replied, her tone suggesting the opposite, “But on the morning that the viscount’s murder was discovered, Mrs Canards and I stumbled across Mable and Lord Albermay slumbering together in the library.”
“They were in a state of undress,” Mrs Wickling added, afraid that Rob hadn’t understood the subtext.
“Thank you, Mrs Wickling,” Rob gave her a smile that was mostly gritted teeth. His mind whirred as he tried to piece together how this might fit in with the broader investigation.
“If Lord Albermay spent the night with Mable, then he can’t possibly have killed his father,” Rob deduced aloud.
This would also explain the pair’s argument; Lord Albermay must have wanted Mable to confess to having spent the night with him to release him from suspicion.
“Oh no, he was far too busy that night for murder,” Mrs Canards agreed, with a disapproving sniff. “If you ask me, the most likely suspect is Lady Albermay—she is an American, after all.”
A shiver of distaste accompanied the word American, leaving Rob to deduce that Mrs Canards’ guess as to Lady Albermay’s guilt was based on nothing more than bigotry.
“You have given me a lot to think on, Mrs Canards,” Rob said brusquely, suddenly desperate to end the interview, “Thank you for your time.”
“If I might offer you one more piece of advice, my lord?” Mrs Canards called as Rob stood to leave.
“Of course,” Rob answered, with a magnanimity he did not feel.
“Watch yourself around those Mifford girls—their mama is keen to marry the last one off, and I should hate to see a fine gentleman like you fall into her trap.”
This was the final nail in the coffin of Rob’s self-restraint. He drew himself up to his full height and glanced down his nose at the odious woman.
“I’m very pleased to inform you, Mrs Canards,” Rob said, with his haughtiest sniff, “That Miss Mifford is to become my wife the moment we are free from here. If you will excuse me, I wish you both adieu.”
With that, Rob turned on his heel and stalked in a dark thunder from the room. As the door clicked shut behind him, Rob realised that he would have to do some explaining to Eudora.
He would not only have to tell her that he had proposed to her via Mrs Canards, but he would also have to explain that they could no longer ignore the fact that it was most likely Lady Albermay who had killed her husband.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
WHILE LORD DELANEYwas busy interviewing Mrs Canards and Mrs Wickling, Eudora found herself at something of a lose end.
She attempted to whittle away some time in the main drawing room, but the arrival of her mother soon put a dampener on that plan.
Mrs Mifford, armed with wool and knitting needles, deposited herself on the chaise closest to the fire and immediately began complaining about the dowager duchess.
“Apparently, she’s used all her time here to knit a summer wardrobe for Baby George,” Mrs Mifford groused, as she attacked her misshapen creation with gusto. “Little does she know, that I know that knitting is not her only past-time.”
The last comment was delivered in a tone that begged Eudora to ask her to share some gossip. When Eudora did not respond in kind, Mrs Mifford offered it anyway.
“Apparently, Lord Percival has been spotted making visits to the duchess in her rooms,” Mrs Mifford whispered, her tone scandalised.
“Mama you should not spread rumours of that kind about the duchess,” Eudora chided, “It’s not kind and she is Northcott’s mother. Imagine how upset he would be if he knew that you were saying such things.”
“Cecilia is a widow, she may do as she pleases,” Mrs Mifford huffed, “And I am not so foolish as to share such gossip with anyone outside my immediate family.”
“Even then, your immediate family do not care to hear such things,” Eudora retorted sharply, before adding, “You dropped a stitch.”
As her mother glanced frantically down at her woolen-monstrosity, Eudora took her leave from the drawing room. She did not have the patience to indulge her mother’s one-sided competition with the dowager duchess.
