A Captain, a Corpse, and Miss Bridges (Regency Murder and Marriage #6)

Chapter One

THERE WAS NOTHING like unexpectedly inheriting a fortune to make one see lifelong acquaintances through new eyes.

Miss Flora Bridges—now Miss Florence Gardiner—had recently inherited land, money, and a name from a grandfather who had never acknowledged her in life.

This new name—along, she guessed, with the fortune—meant that villagers who had ignored her all her life now stopped her in the street to say hello.

Case in point: Mrs Canards.

As the village tabby cornered her for a chat, Flora decided that coming into money was not nearly so lucky a thing as some might think.

“Miss Gardiner,” Mrs Canards cooed, as Flora halted on her way down the main street of Plumpton village. “Will you be attending the next meeting of the Parish Ladies’ Society?”

“I hadn’t planned to, Mrs Canards,” Flora answered truthfully.

“But you must, now that you are living at Brackenfield,” Mrs Canards insisted.

To an outsider Mrs Canards’ words might have sounded warm and inviting, but Flora could read the subtext well enough. In Mrs Canards’ eyes, now that she was no longer a maid—but instead a member of the landed gentry—she was finally worthy of joining the Ladies’ Society.

“Thank you, Mrs Canards, I will think about it,” Flora answered, tilting her chin.

Mrs Canards’ eyes narrowed with annoyance. She had obviously expected her benevolent invitation to be met with gratitude.

Flora hastily bid her goodbye before she had a chance to retort, and continued on her journey through the village.

Discovering she had a new identity after twenty years of believing she was simply Flora Bridges, the orphaned granddaughter of Plumpton’s herbalist was difficult enough to grapple with, without also having to suffer Mrs Canards’ feigned overtures of friendship.

Flora almost missed the anonymity that her maid’s mob-cap had afforded her, not to mention the routine that had accompanied her life of cleaning at Crabb Hall.

Which was why, today, she was marching with some determination to the home of her fortune’s trustee, Sir Ambrose Brocklehurst, who resided in a yellow-stone cottage near the bridge.

Her estranged grandfather, Mr Gardiner, had been great friends with Sir Ambrose, and had appointed him as guardian of her fortune until she reached her majority.

Flora had never known her grandfather, but if she were to judge his character by the company he kept, she rather doubted that she would have liked him.

For Sir Ambrose was vain, snobbish, frequently rude, and dismissive of any opinion that was not his own—especially if voiced by a woman.

Unfortunately, as he held the strings to Flora’s purse for the next year, she was forced to ask his permission anytime she required funds outside of her meagre quarterly allowance.

Flora closed her eyes and took a steadying breath before pushing open the garden gate to the cottage. As she stepped through, she heard the unmistakable sound of an argument from within the house.

At first, she assumed it must be Sir Ambrose and his housekeeper, Mrs Fitzhenry. A wiry older woman who possessed all the same charms as her employer.

But the voices were both male. Flora froze, hesitating halfway through the gate.

She hovered, torn between the urge to intervene—Sir Ambrose was, after all, an elderly man—and the risk of barging into what might be a private disagreement. Intruding would be mortifying, and Sir Ambrose would be certain to ensure she knew it.

“Are you planning to go in, Miss Gardiner, or just think about it all day?”

Flora startled as Mrs Fitzhenry appeared behind her, her eyes narrowed and her expression pinched. The housekeeper stepped neatly around her without waiting for an answer, and rapped sharply on the door before she pushed it open.

As the arrival of Mrs Fitzhenry had taken the decision from her hands, Flora meekly followed her inside.

Sir Ambrose emerged from the parlour room to meet the two ladies in the hall. The sound of a door slamming from the back of the house caused the housekeeper to glance at her master curiously.

“Is someone here?” she queried, to which Sir Ambrose shook his head.

“I expect you left the kitchen door open again, Agatha,” he sighed. “And let all the heat escape. I’m not made of money, you know.”

“Oh, I well know it,” the housekeeper grumbled in turn, nonplussed by his scolding. “But it wasn’t I who left the door open. You must have forgotten to close it, same as you forgot to inform me you were expecting a visitor.”

Mrs Fitzhenry jerked her head toward Flora, who did her best to look as unassuming as possible.

“Miss Gardiner,” beneath his neat moustache, Sir Ambrose’s lips curled with distaste. “What a pleasant surprise. Mrs Fitzhenry, tea please.”

The housekeeper heaved a sigh of disgust and disappeared to the kitchen, though not before throwing Flora a pointed glare.

Flora followed Sir Ambrose to the parlour room, where he set about clearing away the loose sheaves of paper on the table before bidding her sit.

“What do you need this time, Miss Gardiner?” he queried, as he shoved the pages into a drawer in his desk and closed it with a snap. “Money for ribbons? New gloves? Some jaunty trimmings for your bonnet? At this rate you’ll have your whole inheritance spent before you reach your majority.”

As Sir Ambrose kept a vice-like grip on the purse-strings of her wealth, Flora highly doubted that she would. And he was one to talk about fiscal responsibility, she thought, noting the new—and rather gaudy—gilt mirror above the fireplace, that looked as though it belonged in Versailles.

“I have found myself at something of a loose-end, since I handed in my notice at Crabb Hall,” Flora began, trying to keep any note of blame from her voice.

It had been Sir Ambrose’s idea—or edict, really—that she give up her work as a maid.

He had deemed such work unseemly for a lady and Flora—who had not known he deemed everything unseemly for ladies—had foolishly heeded his advice.

“If that is the case, then take up embroidery,” Sir Ambrose interrupted, waving a dismissive hand. “There’s nothing more appropriately diverting for a young lady than stitching a nice sampler.”

“I’m already an accomplished embroiderer,” Flora was firm. “I need something to truly occupy my days. I should like to make a request to draw funds down from my inheritance to open an apothecary in the village.”

“My dear,” Sir Ambrose was stunned, “That’s simply not possible.”

“There’s plenty of funds available,” Flora protested.

Her grandfather had left her his house, his land, and a sizable fortune. Mr Treswell, the solicitor, had explained that while most of said fortune was tied up in investments and bonds, there was more than enough liquid cash to see her through until she decided to sell them.

“It’s not a matter of funds,” Sir Ambrose scoffed, patting his brow with a handkerchief, “It’s a matter of propriety. A young lady, playing at trade? I can’t imagine a more ghastly proposal.”

He gave a shiver of distaste to emphasize his point.

“I would not be playing at trade, sir,” Flora answered, desperately trying to quell her rising anger. “I would be helping the villagers of Plumpton. The nearest druggist is in Stroud, which is no help when someone is ill.”

“And that’s their problem,” Sir Ambrose shrugged, “Besides, you are wholly unqualified to open an apothecary. Never mind the fact that you’re a woman, you’ve also no training in the field.”

“My grandmother has taught me—” Flora began but was cut off as her guardian gave a scoff of laughter.

“Your grandmother is nothing more than a charlatan,” he sneered, “She has probably harmed more people than she has helped with her concoctions. In the old days, she would have met an early end and been burned for the witch she is.”

Flora did not often lose her temper but when she did she was liable to say the first thing that popped into her head. Which, unfortunately, was what happened next.

“You odious old snoot,” she retorted as she jumped to her feet. “How dare you speak of my grandmother that way. She has twice the knowledge in her little finger than you have in your entire thick skull—even for all your papers and awards. Oh, I wish someone would murder you, I really do.”

It was a terrible thing to wish on an old man, even an odious one. No sooner had the words left Flora’s mouth, than she wanted to reach out, catch them mid-air, and cram them back inside.

She felt terrible. Her only consolation was that no one else had seen her behave so abhorrently, excepting the abhorrent man himself.

“Ahem.”

Flora and Sir Ambrose whirred to face the door and found an audience of three gathered there. Mrs Fitzhenry, Mrs Wickling—a friend of Mrs Canards—and a tall, handsome gentleman, whose expression gave the impression that he was trying to hold back laughter.

“Sir Ambrose, sir,” Mrs Wickling croaked, “Excuse the intrusion but I met this gentleman ‘ere who needed directions to your house, so I took it upon myself to walk ‘im ‘ere.”

From the look of barely concealed glee on her face, Flora guessed that Mrs Wickling could hardly believe how fortuitous her impulsive act of charity had been.

“Er, I’ll just be leaving then,” she continued, backing away slowly, her eyes still darting between Flora and Sir Ambrose.

“And who might you be?” Sir Ambrose boomed to the newcomer.

“Captain James Thorne, sir,” he answered, in a deep voice with a pleasant timbre. “I am visiting with an old friend, Captain Bonville—excuse me—Lord Crabb.”

Despite the anxiety of her situation, Flora could not help but find the amused quirk his mouth gave as he corrected himself utterly charming. It told her plainly that the captain had known Lord Crabb long before the notion of him becoming a viscount had seemed anything other than laughable.

“You taught me briefly at Winchester,” the captain continued, “And I recently read your paper on the Romans, which I should like to discuss in depth with you when you’re next free.”

“I’m free now, my boy,” Sir Ambrose cried, his eyes alight at the idea of discussing his favourite topic—his own genius.

Captain Thorne glanced to Mrs Fitzhenry who bore a tea-tray carrying enough for two, then from there he glanced to Flora.

Sir Ambrose followed the line of his gaze and he gave a nervous giggle.

“Miss Gardiner was just leaving,” he said firmly.

For one brief moment, the captain’s eyes met Flora’s. They twinkled with amused apology and the corner of his mouth gave another charming quirk. The combination of the two caused Flora’s stomach to give a queer squeeze and she felt her cheeks flush.

“Thank you for your time, Sir Ambrose,” she said with stiff dignity, before offering the captain a curt nod. “A pleasure to meet you, captain.”

“And you, Miss Gardiner,” he replied, executing an elegant bow.

Mrs Fitzhenry stood aside to allow to Flora pass and she left the room with her head held high. She managed to maintain her proud bearing for the entire walk from the cottage, though once she was out of sight, her shoulders dropped in despair.

What had she done? Not only had she lost her temper with the man who controlled her finances for the next year but she had done so in front of one of Plumpton’s biggest gossips. Soon the whole village would hear about it!

Flora had weathered much whispering and many taunts throughout her life—most notably as a child, when the village children had decided she was a witch—but at least then, she’d had the certainty of her innocence.

There was nothing worse than ruing one’s owns actions, she thought glumly. She just hoped that her words would not come back to haunt her.

So despondent was she, as she made her way back home, that she didn’t even spare a second for Captain Thorne and his twinkling eyes—though later that night, she would recall just how charming she’d found them.