Page 45 of A Captain, a Corpse, and Miss Bridges
“There are no stagecoaches until tomorrow,” she added smoothly. “Mrs Pinnock won’t be going anywhere. You might as well take the night off, Captain, and enjoy yourself.”
James inclined his head in reluctant agreement—though anticipation had already begun to stir. He would have countless moments alone with Miss Bridges, perhaps even the chance to hold her in his arms if Plumpton proved forward enough to allow waltzing. Suddenly, pressing Mrs Pinnock to confess did not seem quite so urgent.
“Very well,” he conceded graciously. “We’ll hold off until morning. I apologise for intruding on your morning together.”
“Not at all,” Crabb rebuffed cheerfully. “Would you stay for luncheon?”
James thanked him for the invitation but declined. He would ride back to the inn, where he meant to scrub himself within an inch of his life, shave until his chin was softer than baby Michael’s, and restlessly anticipate the moment he could claim Miss Bridges’ hand upon the dance floor.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
FLORA HAD BEENto Plumpton’s assemblies before, though never as a guest in her own right. Lord Crabb had always insisted on purchasing vouchers for the staff at Crabb Hall, and she had been grateful then for the chance to dance, even if those dances had felt stolen.
Tonight felt different. She would not scrape and bow, glad to be admitted, but arrive with the confidence that she belonged. To help that confidence remain, she had tucked a few sprigs of rosemary in her reticule for courage and protection.
She travelled from Brackenfield in the gig with Helen, for whom she had purchased a voucher. The maid was garbed in Flora’s second-best dress, while Flora wore the lavender silk gown the duchess had sent over.
“I don’t feel myself at all,” Helen whispered wonderingly, as she plucked at her skirts.
“Nor I,” Flora admitted. She had never worn a gown so fine, nor paid so much attention to her toilette. Her hair was swept up, leaving her neck and décolletage exposed, and she shivered as the night air caressed her skin.
“Still, we will have fun,” Flora assured the girl—who had been shocked when she had been presented with a voucher of her own.
Flora’s attempt at lifting her spirits were unfortunately accompanied by a loud hawking sound as, at the front of the gig, Gem—Brackenfield’s man of all work—coughed up a ball of phlegm and spat it down on the road.
They soon reached the village and, as they stepped down from the gig outside The Ring o’Bells, Helen’s hand tightened on her arm.
“There he is,” she hissed, her eyes darting toward a figure in the queue. Mr Henderson, looking more subdued than usual, hovered near the door.
Sensing that she was not the only one in need of a talisman, Flora dipped a hand into her reticule and withdrew a sprig of thyme. She pressed it gently into Helen’s palm.
“For courage,” she murmured.
Helen blinked at it, startled, before curling her fingers protectively around the herb. “Thank you, miss,” she whispered, her eyes softening.
They joined the long queue, which crept forward at a snail’s pace, though the air was merry with chatter as villagers adjusted gloves, smoothed skirts, and exchanged greetings across the line.
When at last they neared the front, Flora discovered the reason for the delay: Mrs Canards.
Installed behind a small desk at the foot of the stairs to the assembly rooms, she held up progress with the diligence of a customs officer at Dover. No soul was permitted past until their voucher had been inspected, held up to the lantern light, and rubbed between finger and thumb, as though Mrs Canards might divine forgeries by texture alone.
“Smudged ink,” she muttered darkly, as she finished inspecting Mrs Walton’s voucher. “Looks very irregular. I’m not sure we ought to admit you on the strength of this.”
“I purchased it directly from Lady Deverell,” Mrs Walton retorted, her face now as red as the satin of her dress. “Are you impugning her honesty, Mrs Canards?”
“Criminal circles are everywhere, Mrs Walton,” Mrs Canards began to reply, though she fell silent, as the tall and dark-hairedEarl of Ashford appeared beside her. He had, Flora guessed, just come in through the door of the pub—the menfolk of Plumpton, lacking sprigs of thyme, were known to sneak a pint or two for courage before the dancing started.
“Are you suggesting my wife is involved in a criminal gang that forges vouchers, Mrs Canards?” the earl inquired, his tone mild but edged with steel.
“No, my lord,” Mrs Canards lied, her lips pinched tight.
“She was and she did,” Mrs Walton cut in crisply, flashing her rival a triumphant smile.
The earl let the interruption pass, his gaze settling once more on Mrs Canards. “Cease your mischief, madam, or I’ll see you removed from the Ladies’ Society altogether.”
Mrs Canards lifted her chin. “We require a unanimous vote for such a thing, my lord,” she sniffed, darting a meaningful glance at Mrs Wickling—who had clearly voted in her favour the last time her membership had come up for debate.
“I am as wealthy as I am petty, Mrs Canards,” the earl replied pleasantly. Then he turned the full brilliance of his smile upon Mrs Wickling. Her fan fluttered furiously, though not fast enough to hide the flush spreading across her cheeks.
