Page 47 of A Captain, a Corpse, and Miss Bridges
“Did you have a chance to speak with Miss Vale?” she asked, careful not to add alone—for she did not trust herself not to sound churlish on the word.
He did not answer at once, but instead moved them a little aside, to a discreet corner where the hubbub of the room softened.
“I spoke to her this morning,” he said quietly, leaning closer. “She corroborated Henderson’s account—Mrs Pinnock wantedrevenge on Sir Ambrose. She believes the brandy has addled her brain.”
As he spoke, he gave the smallest of nods toward the benches. Flora followed his gaze just in time to see Mrs Pinnock, with practiced ease, slip a small hipflask from her reticule and add a dash to her lemonade before taking a sip, as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world.
Flora’s heart gave a jolt. It was as though the woman had staged her own incrimination—right in front of them.
“What will we do next?” Flora whispered.
“Dance,” he replied, his tone light. “Tomorrow, Lord Crabb and I will visit her at the inn and press for her confession. You’ll be exonerated completely, Miss Bridges. Your next act can begin. I only hope you’ll allow me a role in it.”
Her heart soared at his words, touched that he—like she—had recalled the words of their first proper conversation.
“I’ve already promised that role to a handsome naval officer, who declared that his intentions toward me were entirely honourable…” she teased, lightly.
“He did?” Thorne arched a brow.
“Yes,” Flora nodded with mock solemnity. Then the sprig of thyme in her reticule seemed to lend her courage. “Though I rather hope that he might have some dishonourable intentions too. He is very handsome, you see.”
Captain Thorne closed his eyes briefly, as if in pain. Flora’s stomach plunged—had she gone too far? But when his eyes opened again, they burned into hers.
“Miss Bridges,” he said low and steady, “We had best return to the dance floor at once—both your good name, and my last shred of restraint, are in grave danger.”
He let the weight of his words settle, a smile curving on his lips as Flora’s cheeks turned pink, before offering her his arm toescort her back to the dancefloor. As they passed the benches, Flora saw that Miss Vale had joined her mistress.
“Really, Mrs Pinnock,” Miss Vale chided. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”
“It’s just a drop to warm my bones, girl.” Mrs Pinnock brushed aside her concerns. “You’d think the cost of the voucher might be put toward heating the place.
James’s arm stiffened briefly under Flora’s touch, but he only steered her onward, leaving the pair behind.
“Come, Miss Bridges,” he murmured. “The fiddlers are waiting.”
They joined the set just as the bows struck up a lively tune, and Flora moved as though carried by the music. Each turn, each clasp of his hand, stole her breath. She half-expected her slippers to leave the floor entirely, certain she might float away on a cloud of happiness.
The set ended to a flurry of applause. James leaned toward her, his lips parting to speak—when a piercing shriek split the air.
The fiddlers faltered, bows screeching against strings. The dancers froze, all eyes swinging toward the stairwell.
Mrs Mifford, nearest to the landing, rushed forward and craned over the rail. Her horrified cry carried across the room.
“It’s Mrs Pinnock—she’s fallen!”
A hum of whispers rose like a swarm of bees. Flora’s hand flew to James’s sleeve, fingers gripping tight, but he was already stepping away, his face set with grim resolve.
And then he was moving—striding through the frozen dancers, cutting a path toward the stairwell with all the surety of a man accustomed to storms and battles. As she watched him stride away, Flora’s heart swelled with pride—yet a dash of self-pity crept in too, for now the waltz she had dreamed of would not come to pass.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE ECHO OFMrs Pinnock’s shriek still rang in James’s ears as he forced his way through the crowd to the stairwell. At the top step he halted, peering down. A crumpled figure lay at the foot of the stairs—Mrs Pinnock, unmoving, eerily still. Miss Vale crouched over her, wailing, while nearby Mrs Canards—having abandoned her ticket desk—stood frozen, eyes wide with shock.
“Someone send for Dr Bates,” James called over his shoulder, before descending the stairs, three at a time.
He dropped to one knee beside Mrs Pinnock and pressed his fingers to her wrist, exhaling with relief as he found a pulse. Weak but present.
“Is she..?” Miss Vale’s wide eyes searched his face.
