Page 20 of A Body, A Baron, and Miss Mifford (Regency Murder and Marriage #4)

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.”

Highfield held his glass up to the light to better appreciate the amber liquid with which his glass was filled.

“Vive la révolution,” he toasted, with a conspiratorial wink Rob’s way.

“That’s a different war,” Rob countered, but he lifted his own glass in a toast to the French Cellar Masters.

He drained his glass in one gulp—for his head was still slightly fuzzy from earlier—an act noted by Lord Albermay.

“I say, Crabb, you have a thirsty guest on your hands,” the viscount called, gesturing toward Rob, “I caught him roaming the hallways this afternoon in search of something to quench his thirst. You might be more liberal with replenishing the refreshments this evening, for Lord Delaney’s sake.”

“Of course,” Crabb answered, keeping his tone remarkably even, “For the baron’s sake…”

Highfield turned a suspicious glance Rob’s way.

“Don’t,” Rob pleaded, but the marquess was not to be deterred.

“You weren’t looking for a snifter of brandy, for if you were, you would have knocked on my door.

Which means you’re either investigating this murder as a solo venture or attempting to woo Miss Mifford,” Highfield whispered.

His tone was somewhat scandalised for a man who had at one time done both—albeit with his own Miss Mifford.

Rob remained silent, which only served to fan the flames of his friend’s excitement.

“You’re doing both,” Highfield whelped as realisation dawned upon his handsome face.

“Hush, for heaven’s sake, hush,” Rob admonished as several heads turned their way. Entertainment was thin on the ground, and Rob did not wish for his closely guarded feelings for Eudora to become fodder for gossip.

“Have you and Miss Mifford shared a kiss?” Highfield continued, his question impertinent but his voice, thankfully, at a whisper.

Rob felt the tips of his ears turn red, a sign which Highfield did not miss.

“Lud, man,” he sighed, obviously disappointed, “Whatever are you at? We’ve been here three days. You should have the marriage contract signed and sealed by this stage.”

Rob bristled with annoyance at the marquess’ damning assessment of his romantic prowess.

“Last night, we almost kissed,” Rob replied with a great dollop of indignation. However, only after he had spoken did he realise how pitiful this sounded.

“Almost is the saddest of words,” Highfield sighed in response, “I hope another opportunity to kiss Miss Mifford presents itself, my friend, for if it does not, you will regret almost kissing her for the rest of your life .”

“I wasn’t certain she wanted me to,” Robert answered flatly. “What if my desire for her is not at all reciprocated? How does one know?”

A look of pure bewilderment crossed Highfield’s handsome face.

“I can’t say I’ve ever struggled with those kinds of doubts,” he answered, clearly disorientated by the very concept that a man might be uncertain a lady found him attractive. He paused and took Rob in from top to toe through a pair of thoughtful eyes.

Rob stiffened, waiting for a critique of his hair or clothes—which, though fashionable, lacked the flair with which Highfield wore his.

“And I can’t see why you would suffer such misgivings,” Highfield concluded firmly, “You’re a capital chap, Delaney—handsome and sturdy. So, ruddy kiss the girl before someone else does.”

With that, the marquess rose fluidly to a stand and declared that he intended to join the ladies in the drawing room.

“I feel we would all benefit from a smidgen of female company,” he told the room before offering Rob a none-too-discreet wink.

Almost, Rob thought with a rueful grin as he made to follow him—Highfield had almost managed discretion.

He could not, however, find it in himself to be irritated, for the marquess had set a fire of urgency in his belly. Come hell, high water, or even another murder, Rob would kiss Miss Mifford before the night ended.