Page 24 of A Captain, a Corpse, and Miss Bridges
Miss Vale’s tone was light, but Flora detected a wry undercurrent, as she quietly acknowledged that agreeing with Mrs Pinnock was the surest way to keep the peace—and her job.
“If only you had met me first,” Mrs Mifford sighed loudly, drawing the conversation back to her favourite subject—herself. “I’m something of a matchmaker, I’ll have you know. Four daughters, all married well, and only recently I saw Miss Hughes—whom I think of as a daughter—married to an earl. Stick with me, Miss Vale, and you’ll be wed before your trip is finished.”
“Oh, I would not wish for anything more than I already have,” Miss Vale smiled prettily—though Flora noted, with a jolt of jealousy, her gaze drift past Mrs Mifford to Captain Thorne.
“Balderdash,” Mrs Mifford replied with her usual tact. “What young lady wouldn’t want a family of her own? Tell me, Miss Vale, will you be in Plumpton much longer?”
“I do not know,” the girl shrugged in turn. “We were supposed to depart a few days ago. However, Plumpton’s attractions have persuaded Mrs Pinnock otherwise. Alas, where she stays I must stay also.”
Miss Vale’s tone was glum, though Flora did not dwell on it. It was Mrs Mifford’s remark—that all ladies must want a family—that caught her instead. The thought startled her. She had never considered it before; the possibility of a family of herown. Her world had always been so small, just herself and her grandmother, and she had accepted that as the natural order of things. But now, as the idea took root, she found it unexpectedly appealing.
Children, a husband… The image was so vivid, so achingly possible, that she had to turn away—only to have her gaze alight on Captain Thorne.
Flustered by an ache of longing, she reached for her wine glass, relieved to find it full this time. She took a careful sip, hoping it might calm the erratic thump of her heart. Unfortunately for her poor nerves, just as she set the glass back down, the captain leaned in so close to speak to her that his breath tickled her ear.
“I’ll collar Mr Goodwin in the smoking room after dinner,” he whispered. “Press him about his visits to Sir Ambrose after a few glasses of brandy.”
Flora’s heart sank as she realised he was not whispering sweet nothings but focused instead on their investigation. While she was hopefully daydreaming of marriage and babies, his mind remained firmly fixed on murder. She managed a small nod of reply, though the wine suddenly tasted rather acidic on her tongue.
“Good idea,” she said firmly, though inwardly she scolded her foolish heart for mistaking his kindness for interest.
She reached for her wine glass again and raised it in a silent toast to her former self—who would have known better than to imagine things that weren’t hers to dream of.
CHAPTER TEN
JAMES COULD SCARCELYrecall the last time he had enjoyed a dinner so thoroughly—and it had nothing to do with the mains of collared beef, though that had indeed been delicious. Sitting beside Miss Bridges, close enough to catch the faint lavender of her scent, had left him far more intoxicated than the two glasses of wine he had consumed. Every tilt of her head, every shy glance, had enchanted him so much that he worried she might catch him staring.
Still, when the dinner ended and the gentlemen rose to follow their host to the library, he forced himself into step with them. There was work to be done. Mr Goodwin awaited, and James was determined to drag some kind of clue from the young buck—especially while his lips were well lubricated by wine.
“I’ve a box of cheroots from Fribourg & Treyer that I’ve been saving for exalted company,” Lord Crabb called cheerfully to his guests.
“I’ve been in this library at least a dozen times since you were last in London, and this is the first I’ve heard of them,” the Marquess of Highfield huffed, though he accepted the box readily enough.
“Like I said, I was saving them for honoured guests,” Lord Crabb grinned, the sting of his words softened by the large glass of brandy he pressed into his brother-in-law’s hand.
“If only you’d invited me to visit with you instead of Highfield,” Mr Goodwin interjected wistfully, as he sniffed the cheroot in his hand.
Highfield’s brows shot up so high they nearly vanished into his hairline.
“Feel free to spend the rest of your visit petitioning Crabb, rather than me, to accompany you to The Ring at daybreak,” the marquess said dryly. “I would not wish to stand in the way of a budding friendship.”
Goodwin’s brow furrowed as he tried to decipher whether or not he had just been insulted.
“How did you two meet?” James asked quickly.
“A very good question,” Highfield replied, his expression genuinely perplexed.
“We met in White’s,” Goodwin eagerly supplied, his eyes misting over at the memory. “Highfield had won a bet for two-hundred pounds and was determined that everyone present should drink the winnings.”
“That explains why my memory of the night is somewhat hazy,” the marquess sighed.
“It was the start of a beautiful friendship,” Goodwin reminded him with an eager nod.
“Then we must toast to friendship—a bond so strong it can apparently transcend even memory,” the marquess said dryly, lifting his glass with an air of detached amusement.
“To friendship,” James echoed, glad to lift his drink to his lips to hide his smile as poor Goodwin uncertainly followed suit.
“Do you intend to stay in Plumpton much longer?” James continued, determined to keep the conversation focused solely on his quarry.
