Page 25 of A Captain, a Corpse, and Miss Bridges
Luckily, Goodwin was precisely the sort of fellow who never stopped to wonder whether others found him quite as fascinating as he found himself.
“A few more days at least,” he shared, leaning forward in his seat. “I expect I’ll stay until Sir Ambrose’s will is read. Then,as my financial situation should be much improved, I’ll likely return to town.”
James exchanged a startled look with Lord Crabb.
“Were you so well acquainted with the late Sir Ambrose that you expect him to have remembered you in his will?” he asked, keeping his tone deliberately mild.
Goodwin puffed out his chest, plainly gratified by the chance to elaborate.
“We were partners, actually,” he corrected earnestly. “When Sir Ambrose decided to go into the import business he sought me out—said he wanted one of his brightest former pupils to help him make his fortune. I supplied a little capital and engaged several other investors, while he took charge of the paper work.”
James struggled to school his expression into one of polite interest as a horrible suspicion began to grow.
“How is the trading business?” Lord Crabb queried, noting that James was lost for words.
“Booming,” Mr Goodwin replied, taking a quick triumphant swallow of brandy before continuing. “I don’t know the exact details as Sir Ambrose preferred to manage the finances himslef but I am assured of a sound return on my investment. I expect his executors will see fit to confirm the arrangement of the transfer of funds when the will is read.”
“Did you ever visit Sir Ambrose at his home to discuss the business?” James asked, worry making his tone sharp.
“Of course!” Goodwin blustered. “I mean, I tried to but he was never at home. I suppose managing a fortune is a time consuming business.”
As he trailed off, James searched Goodwin’s face for any sign of guile or spark of cunning. He found none. He stifled a sigh as he realised with disappointment that it appeared the only thing Mr Goodwin might be guilty of was being vain and gullible.
“The only thing more elusive than money is the man who promises to double it for you once he has yours in his pocket,” Mr Mifford observed wryly from his seat in the corner, much to the dismay of Mr Goodwin.
“Oh, I’m certain Sir Ambrose’s estate will see me right,” the young man protested, glancing to Highfield for assurance.
“Nothing in life is certain except that my wife will have me sleeping in the garden if I return to her in my cups,” the marquess answered, setting his glass down on the table. “But if it proves that Sir Ambrose did indeed deceive you, I’ll see you safe home. That, after all, is what friends are for. Shall we rejoin the ladies?”
The men all made noises of approval and rose from their seats. Lord Crabb poured a glass of one of his finest brandies for Mrs Pinnock’s inspection, then they all followed him to the drawing room.
James trailed the others, the taste of disappointment on his tongue overshadowing the brandy. He had gone to the library hoping to unmask a villain and had found only a fool. So much for being the hero of the evening.
As he entered the room behind the other gentlemen, Flora looked up. Her gaze caught his across the room, and for the briefest moment his breath deserted him.
Her dark eyes were filled with hope and questions. He gave the slightest shake of his head, and her expression faltered—the disappointment in her face struck him harder than any blow he had ever taken, shrapnel included.
A realisation jolted through him: his happiness had become inextricably bound to that of a bird-like slip of a girl who brewed herbal remedies in her kitchen and had once scrubbed the very floors of this room. A little disconcerting for a man who had always faced life alone. Yet, as the thought settled, he found herather liked the notion of Flora anchoring him, when he had been adrift for so long.
“Finished solving all the world’s ills?” the Duchess of Northcott cut into his thoughts, greeting her husband with a wryly arched brow.
“And then some,” Northcott replied, his tone grave though his eyes betrayed a twinkle.
“Never mind the problems of the world, have you brought me a brandy?” Mrs Pinnock groused from the depths of an overstuffed settee.
“I await your review, my lady,” Lord Crabb said as he handed the glass of brandy to her with a flourishing bow.
Mrs Pinnock accepted it with all the gravity of a bishop blessing the sacrament. She held it up to the light, tilting the liquid with a critical eye. Then she swirled it, sniffed with great deliberation, and at last touched it to her lips. The company watched in collective suspense as she smacked her lips once, twice, and finally declared:
“Acceptable.”
The room seemed to exhale relief in unison—chiefly because Mrs Mifford, who had looked ready to mount a fresh attack, appeared mollified by the appraisal.
“Where did you develop your interest in brandy, Mrs Pinnock?” Lady Crabb asked, as she directed a maid to pour tea for the newly arrived gentlemen.
James accepted a cup from the girl, then began to edge discreetly across the room toward Miss Bridges.
“My late husband was a merchant,” Mrs Pinnock replied with a sniff of pride. “He made a very tidy fortune importing brandy and wines from the Continent. Would have doubled it too, had he not been led astray by unsound investment advice.”
