Page 3 of A Captain, a Corpse, and Miss Bridges
“You taught me briefly at Winchester,” the captain continued, “And I recently read your paper on the Romans,which I should like to discuss in depth with you when you’re next free.”
“I’m free now, my boy,” Sir Ambrose cried, his eyes alight at the idea of discussing his favourite topic—his own genius.
Captain Thorne glanced to Mrs Fitzhenry who bore a tea-tray carrying enough for two, then from there he glanced to Flora.
Sir Ambrose followed the line of his gaze and he gave a nervous giggle.
“Miss Gardiner was just leaving,” he said firmly.
For one brief moment, the captain’s eyes met Flora’s. They twinkled with amused apology and the corner of his mouth gave another charming quirk. The combination of the two caused Flora’s stomach to give a queer squeeze and she felt her cheeks flush.
“Thank you for your time, Sir Ambrose,” she said with stiff dignity, before offering the captain a curt nod. “A pleasure to meet you, captain.”
“And you, Miss Gardiner,” he replied, executing an elegant bow.
Mrs Fitzhenry stood aside to allow to Flora pass and she left the room with her head held high. She managed to maintain her proud bearing for the entire walk from the cottage, though once she was out of sight, her shoulders dropped in despair.
What had she done? Not only had she lost her temper with the man who controlled her finances for the next year but she had done so in front of one of Plumpton’s biggest gossips. Soon the whole village would hear about it!
Flora had weathered much whispering and many taunts throughout her life—most notably as a child, when the village children had decided she was a witch—but at least then, she’d had the certainty of her innocence.
There was nothing worse than ruing one’s owns actions, she thought glumly. She just hoped that her words would not come back to haunt her.
So despondent was she, as she made her way back home, that she didn’t even spare a second for Captain Thorne and his twinkling eyes—though later that night, she would recall just how charming she’d found them.
CHAPTER TWO
WHEN CAPTAIN JAMESThorne had decided to visit Plumpton, he’d had two goals in mind. The first was to spend time with his old friend Ivo Bonville and learn how one adjusted to a life on land. The second was to speak with Sir Ambrose Brocklehurst and discover what exactly—if anything—the old snoot knew about the investment scheme that had relieved a fellow officer of half his fortune.
His first goal had been easily achieved. A few days in Ivo’s company—now styled Lord Crabb—had made it abundantly clear that the best way for a man to settle down was to marry a woman he adored and promptly begin producing offspring.
The second goal, however, was proving trickier.
James had endured an interminable, one-sided conversation with Sir Ambrose about his thesis on the Romans—Excreta et Imperium: A Political History of Roman Public Conveniences. When the man had at last exhausted the subject of his own genius, James had attempted to steer the discussion toward matters of finance. Unfortunately, it seemed the only thing that James was good for steering was a ship, for Sir Ambrose’s lips had clamped shut like a limpet to a hull.
As he made his way from the old teacher’s cottage back to The King’s Head Coaching Inn, James knew he ought to feel dejected. And yet, he could summon little emotion beyond a burning curiosity about the young lady he’d seen on his arrival who had, quite sincerely, hoped their host would be murdered.
Not only was he curious about the cause of her outburst—had she too lost money to the old fool?—but also about her circumstances. What was her name? Was she married? And what colour was her hair beneath that charming bonnet? He guessed dark, for her eyes had been dark—and rather bewitching to behold.
At The King’s Head, James was greeted by Edward, the footman, who informed him that lunch was soon due to be served in the dining room.
“It’s beef, Captain,” he said wistfully, “With swede and potatoes and dripping. The potatoes aren’t as good as those that Moinsour Canet used to make, but the dripping makes up for it.”
“Moinsour Canet?” James echoed.
“The old chef,” Edward explained cheerfully. “He was murdered a while back.”
“I can’t imagine anyone being murdered in a sleepy village like Plumpton,” James commented, raising a brow.
Edward turned beet-red above his pimples and mumbled something incoherent before making a rapid escape. James watched him go with growing interest. Surely the lad had been trifling with him? Plumpton was everything that one pictured when they imagined a Cotswolds village; quaint, calm, and unbothered by scandal.
In the dining room, James opted for a table at the back in the hope that it might discourage company. Unfortunately, no sooner had he seated himself, than he was joined by three other fellow guests; Mr Jasper Goodwin, Mrs Honoria Pinnock, and Mrs Pinnock’s companion, Miss Julia Vale.
Like him, the trio were taking an extended visit to Plumpton. Unlike him, they were determined to form friendships with every other soul doing the same.
“Miss Vale and I took a stroll by the Churn,” Mrs Pinnock bellowed across to the two men. “It was most relaxing.”
James met Miss Vale’s eye across the table and hid a grin; Mrs Pinnock was hard of hearing but too vain to use an ear-trumpet. He doubted her long-suffering companion had found their walk in any way as relaxing as she.
