Page 32 of A Captain, a Corpse, and Miss Bridges
“All my years aboard ships has taught me that there are no dashing men,” Lord Crabb grimaced, thumping his tankard down. “We are fortunate indeed that women deign to suffer our company at all.”
“I’ll drink to that,” James lifted his glass, with far more enthusiasm than his last toast.
“Your confession behooves me to ask,” Crabb said, as James set his pint back down. “How honest have you been with Miss Bridges?”
“Completely,” James retorted, affronted by the suggestion.
“Oh?” Crabb arched a brow. “So you have declared your feelings for her?”
James shifted uncomfortably and gave a short shake of his head.
“You have at least hinted at your intentions?” Crabb pressed.
Another shake of the head.
A slow smirk tugged at Crabb’s mouth. “Then perhaps Miss Bridges is not the only one who is slow to trust.”
James stiffened, a retort on his lips—but none came. Because Crabb, blast him, was right.
He had not declared himself. Had not even hinted. He had sworn to prove her innocence, had defended her name against Marrowbone’s slurs—but never once had he spoken aloud the truth of his feelings to her.
That he was half in love with her already.
His realisation was cut short by the door banging open, a gust of cold rain sweeping in with it.
“She’s blowing fierce, Angus,” Mr Marrowbone exclaimed, stamping his boots. “We’ll be battening down the hatches tonight, mark my words. Just like the storm of ’06, when we all had to bunk together upstairs for a week.”
“Lud,” Crabb muttered with a shudder. “If ever an idea inspired a fellow to go grovelling to his wife, it’s that.”
The viscount lifted his pint to his lips and drained it quickly. James followed suit, equally appalled by the notion of having to sleep top-to-toe in a bed with Mr Marrowbone.
“Do let me know if Miss Bridges forgives you,” Crabb instructed as they parted at the door.
As the gale struck them full in the face, James merely gave a curt nod and offered his friend a wave.
The viscount set off toward Crabb Hall, collar turned high, head bent low against the wind and rain. James had no concern for his friend’s safe return; he knew the man had weathered far worse storms at sea.
Shivering, he made for The King’s Head, where he was greeted by a sleepy Edward—who, like most boys of his age, seemed to know no other state.
“Windy out there, captain,” the footman commented, stifling a yawn with his hand.
“Just a touch,” James agreed, as an empty ale-barrel went clattering past the doorway. He closed the door behind him, half-wondering if Mr Marrowbone would come chasing after it—runaway mead being the only culprit likely to stir the idle constable to action.
James bid Edward a good evening and was turning toward the stairs when he nearly collided with Goodwin, who was blocking the passage with his usual enthusiasm.
“Dashed inconvenient,” the young man lamented. “The will’s to be read in Cirencester of all places—I was only there two days ago, meeting with my mother. They might have done it then.”
“Consideration has never been part of a solicitor’s brief,” James answered, sidestepping him.
“Don’t suppose you fancy a brandy to see in the storm?” Goodwin asked hopefully, eyes bright with the eager expectancy of a spaniel begging scraps.
“You suppose correctly,” James quipped, then softened his approach as he noted the young man’s crestfallen face. “I’ve work to do. Edward—add a drink for Mr Goodwin to my bill. Just the one mind, I’m not standing you for a bottle again.”
Goodwin’s face lit up, his spirits instantly restored. If only his own could be so easily repaired, James thought, as he climbed the stairs to his room.
Inside, he found that an industrious maid had lit a roaring fire. He shrugged off his coat, brushed it down, and hung it neatly away before tugging off his boots and setting them by the door—old habits of naval order were hard to shake.
He wandered to the window before setting to work, the casement rattling in its frame as the gale howled outside. Below, he caught sight of Mr Henderson scurrying from the butcher’s shop, this evening encased in breeches so tight they made one fret for the lad’s circulation.
