Page 56 of A Captain, a Corpse, and Miss Bridges
“Which room?”
“Thirty-two,” Edward said at once, then faltered, uncertainty clouding his face. “You’re not thinking of going up there, are you, Captain? Far be it from me to lecture my betters, but you shouldn’t call in on a young lady alone.”
James was already striding for the stairs, paying the boy no heed. “Fetch Marrowbone and Lord Crabb,” he barked over his shoulder.
Edward muttered after him, half to himself, “That’s hardly necessary—it’s a matter of morals, not a crime—”
“Fetch them now!” James roared, his words echoing through the cavernous hall.
He took the staircase three steps at a time, his heart pounding as though it would burst from his chest. At the top landing, he sprinted for room thirty-two, every nerve braced for what he might find beyond the door.
The door stood ajar. James halted for the barest moment, breath caught in his throat—then a high, piercing cry split the air, followed by the heavy crash of something—or someone—falling to the floor.
“Flora—”
Her name ripped from his lips as James crashed through the door. His heart knew only fear. He would never forgive himself if anything had happened to her. He had not told her he loved her, had not asked her to be his wife, had not yet—
“Captain Thorne.”
Flora whirled at his entrance, the coal scuttle in her hands raised reflexively as a weapon.
On the floor lay Miss Vale, completely unconscious, a swelling already rising on her forehead.
“She thought she could fight her way out,” Flora said with a shaky laugh, lowering the scuttle. “But she didn’t know she was dealing with a former maid. I know just how heavy a coal scuttle is—and that it might serve as a weapon, if one must.”
“I love you,” James blurted, not caring that this was quite possibly the least romantic time to confess it. “Most ardently.”
“You do?” Flora whispered, letting the coal scuttle fall with a clatter to the floor.
“I do,” he confirmed, striding across the room. “And I would like you for my wife, Miss Bridges—if you would be willing?”
“Oh, I would,” she rushed forward to meet him, her cheeks flushing. “I mean—I do. Or yes, I will—”
James grinned, touched beyond words by her fluster.
“What I mean is,” she finished at last, winding her arms about his neck, “I love you too, Captain Thorne.”
Despite the chaotic surroundings—and the unconscious Miss Vale sprawled on the floor—a hallelujah chorus rang out in James’s head. He bent to seal the vow with a kiss, desire mingling with gratitude and joy that the woman he loved was safe in his arms.
“Ahem.”
They sprang guiltily apart. Lord Crabb stood in the doorway, amusement writ plain on his face.
“Edward sent me up here muttering something about being worried for your morals, Captain,” the viscount informed him, before turning to Flora with a wink. “And I can see that his concern was warranted. I’m afraid, Miss Bridges, that after being caught like this, you’ll have to make an honest man of our Captain Thorne.”
Will you call me out if I do not?” Flora teased.
“Mrs Mifford will,” Crabb replied gravely, which James rather thought was threat enough to scare even the most committed Casanova.
The viscount’s gaze shifted to Miss Vale, who was beginning to stir, a low moan escaping her lips. Her brief spell of unconsciousness, it seemed, would not last much longer.
“Care to explain?” Crabb asked gently, his brows lifting.
“I’ll leave that to Flora,” James said at once, pride swelling in his chest. “She is the one who solved the case in the end.”
“We did it together,” Flora corrected softly—but she obliged them both by recounting what had led her to Miss Vale. How Mrs Fitzhenry had dropped one final clue, how the pieces had clicked into place at last.
“I came straight up here once I realised she was the culprit,” Flora concluded, her chin lifting with quiet courage. “She denied it at first, but when she saw the truth was out, she grew defensive. She lunged for me—I grabbed the coal scuttle—and, well… you can see the result for yourself.”
