Chapter Nine
THE LAST TIME that Flora had crossed the threshold of Crabb Hall she had carried a mop, not an invitation to dine with the lord and lady of the house.
As she followed the aged butler—Mr Allen—into the receiving room, Flora nervously wondered if he would instruct her to polish the silver before the guests sat down to eat.
He did no such thing; instead, he announced her arrival to the already assembled guests with as much grace and ceremony as he might have used to announce the arrival of the Prince Regent.
Perhaps even more so—for the skinflint Prince Regent was more likely than she to run off with the family silver, and Mr Allen was quite attached to the Crabbs’ knives and forks.
“Miss Bridges,” Lady Crabb took her hands in hers, her smile warm. “How glad we are that you could join us. Have you met our other guests?”
With an easy grace Flora could only wish for, Lady Crabb made swift introductions to the unfamiliar faces amongst the guests.
This included Mrs Pinnock, who was staying at the King’s Head, and her companion, Miss Vale—the latter wincing discreetly as her employer bellowed a greeting. Then there was Mr Jasper Goodwin, a charmingly eager young buck who was—Flora guessed—well on his way to being in his cups.
Finally, the viscountess reached Captain Thorne, though he politely informed his hostess that he and Flora had already been introduced.
“Oh, thank heavens for that,” Lady Crabb smiled. “For Mama insisted I seat you beside each other for dinner.”
Flora blushed bright red as, from across the room, Mrs Mifford offered her a conspiratorial wink. She worried that Captain Thorne might spot her theatrics and think that Flora had put her up to orchestrating the seating arrangement.
She stole a glance at the captain and found—to her surprise—that he had turned as red as she.
“We are just awaiting Emily and Freddie and then we can be seated,” Lady Crabb informed her guests, with an anxious glance toward the window.
“I expect they’re dallying over leaving the babe for the evening,” the Duke of Northcott commented with an indulgent smile. “I was similarly anxious about George when he was first born.”
“You’re still anxious,” his wife, Mary, Duchess of Northcott, teased. “As we left this evening you made the driver turn the carriage around so you could double-check that his bedroom window was properly closed.”
“I expect Northcott’s concern was more for the villagers than George; imagine what havoc he’d wreak if he escaped out the window while you’re away,” Mr Mifford, the local vicar, chortled.
Flora quickly cast her gaze to her feet to hide her smile; the heir to the ducal title was something of a terror.
“George would do no such thing,” Mary chided her father, her expression highly affronted. “He is an exceptionally delicate child. Whatever happened to your eye?”
Flora dragged her gaze from her feet to glance at Mr Mifford, who was sporting a shiner worthy of Gentleman Jackson.
“Your exceptionally delicate son has a remarkably true aim,” Mr Mifford replied mildly. “Nothing a good poultice won’t mend, isn’t that right, Miss Bridges?”
“A chamomile poultice would soothe it,” Flora agreed brightly. “And perhaps a tonic of sage.”
“To aid with circulation?” the vicar guessed, eyes twinkling.
“To strengthen the nerves,” Flora replied with a mischievous smile. “And perhaps its protective properties might act as a talisman of sorts against unexpected missiles.”
Mr Mifford gave a great shout of laughter, while the duchess looked suitably scandalised at the very idea of anyone needing protection from her delicate son.
The arrival of Lord and Lady Chambers put paid to Flora’s impromptu advice on herbal protections. A footman then announced that dinner was to be served, and the guests made their way from the drawing room to the dining room.
Captain Thorne offered his arm to escort Flora to her seat.
She rested her hand on his forearm, shocked by the steady strength of his muscles beneath the fine cloth of his jacket.
For a moment, the murmur of voices and the gleam of silver seemed distant, her thoughts caught instead on the warmth of his nearness.
“I believe this is us,” Captain Thorne paused mid-way down the table.
He chivalrously helped Flora into her chair before taking the seat beside her. They were soon flanked by other guests, Mrs Mifford to Flora’s right and Mrs Pinnock to the left of the captain.
“Miss Bridges, you look radiant this evening,” Mrs Mifford declared, as she settled herself into her chair.
Flora felt a rush of warmth at the compliment, which evaporated instantaneously as the vicar’s wife leaned across her to loudly ask, “Don’t you agree, Captain, that Miss Bridges looks wonderful this evening?”
“Miss Bridges always looks wonderful,” he replied easily, causing Flora to flush.
Mollified by his answer, Mrs Mifford leaned back in her seat and began conversing with Miss Vale, who was seated beside her—leaving Flora alone to deal with the mortifying aftermath of her unwanted intervention.
She turned her eyes apologetically to the captain and was surprised to find his cheeks as rosy as her own.
As their eyes met, Flora felt a jolt of longing, deep in the pit of her stomach.
Startled by the strength of feeling, she nervously reached for her wine glass to distract herself, only to realise as she brought it to her lips that it was empty.
“Did Mrs Fitzhenry reveal anything during your interview?” she asked, as she awkwardly set the empty glass back down on the table, wondering if she could crawl beneath it to hide.
“I believe our London gent is none other than Mr Goodwin,” the captain replied softly, with a discreet nod down the table.
Flora followed the line of his gaze to Mr Goodwin, who was seated near the Marquess of Highfield. His hair gleamed gold beneath the chandelier and his expression was open and eager as he nodded along to whatever Highfield was saying.
“He doesn’t look like a criminal genius,” Flora murmured, trying to hide her disappointment.
If the local gossips were to believe in her innocence, she suspected they’d require a villain that looked, well, villainous.
Mr Goodwin put one in mind of a cheerful spaniel—she could almost imagine his tail wagging beneath the table.
“I don’t believe he’s anything of the sort,” Captain Thorne agreed. “Rather, I believe that once he realised he’d been hoodwinked by Sir Ambrose, he decided to kill him in a fit of anger.”
Flora nodded silently, though inwardly she questioned this theory. A murderous rage—as she knew from Plumpton’s previous murders—was usually a more bloody event.
The footmen glided in with the first course, ladling steaming soup into bowls as the company fell momentarily quiet. Flora lowered her gaze politely, though her thoughts remained on the murder.
“Did Mrs Fitzhenry say that Mr Goodwin called on Sir Ambrose frequently?” she whispered, tearing her gaze away from the young gentleman down the table.
“No.” Captain Thorne frowned down at his soup. “She said that any time he called, Sir Ambrose refused to receive him.”
“Then how did he get to slip the poison into the brandy bottle?” Flora wondered aloud.
“And where did he get the wolfsbane?” Captain Thorne asked with a sigh. “These are all questions which will need to be answered if we are to prove he did it.”
Flora’s mouth turned dry; now was her chance to reveal to Captain Thorne her suspicion that the poison had been stolen from her grandmother’s stores. She paused, wondering if it was a good idea to share her secret at a packed dinner table, when Mrs Pinnock loudly interrupted.
“Did I hear you mention brandy, Captain?” the elderly woman queried, peering intently at Captain Thorne from behind her spectacles. “I’m quite the connoisseur—well, a collector really.”
Flora grappled with a mix of relief and frustration at the untimely interruption—would she ever get to tell Captain Thorne her secret? Beside her, Mrs Mifford stirred with interest.
“A brandy connoisseur, you say?” the vicar’s wife leaned forward, her eyes glinting competitively. “Why, the late Lord Crabb—my dear uncle—kept a cellar that was spoken of as far as Cheltenham. He had a wonderful collection of Cognac. I daresay I’ve inherited his palate.”
“Cognac?” Mrs Pinnock sniffed, unimpressed. “If one is going French, then nothing compares to a good Armagnac. It’s stronger and full of character—rather like myself.”
“Cognac is the smoother of the two,” Mrs Mifford’s nostrils flared as she replied. “It’s more refined—just like me.”
Flora began to worry that there might be a call for the pair to meet with decanters at dawn, when Mr Goodwin cheerfully interrupted them all.
“Did I hear you say that the late Lord Crabb’s cellar was renowned, Mrs Mifford?” he called down the table, determined not to be left out of the conversation, whether he belonged in it or not. “Why, we’ll have to test that claim after dinner; won’t we, Mrs Pinnock?”
“I never say no to an offer of brandy—even if it is a Cognac,” Mrs Pinnock sniffed. “Though I doubt that anyone’s collection could rival my own. Isn’t that right, Miss Vale?”
“She never says no to a glass of brandy,” Miss Vale agreed earnestly, with a bright smile at the table.
Mrs Pinnock gave a squawk of annoyance, though Flora rather thought the sweet Miss Vale more na?ve than mischievous in her answer.
“Speak out of turn again, Miss Vale, and you’ll soon talk yourself out of employment,” Mrs Pinnock called sharply to her poor companion.
“H-how did you come to work for Mrs Pinnock, Miss Vale?” Flora stuttered, in a desperate attempt to smooth the waters.
“I’m sure it’s an interesting tale,” Captain Thorne added, aiding her attempt to steer the conversation to safer waters.
Flora cast him an appreciative glance for his assistance. The crooked smile he offered in return caused her stomach to give a queer squeeze, so she hastily redirected her attention to Miss Vale.
“You’d most likely find a dozen ladies in the Cotswolds alone with a tale similar to my own,” Miss Vale demurred, gently deflecting their attention.
“My circumstances were such that I needed to seek employment, and I was blessed indeed that a family friend acquainted with Mrs Pinnock heard she required a companion. We have rubbed along nicely since—mostly, I believe, because I also hold very firm views that Armagnac is far superior to Cognac.”
Miss Vale’s tone was light, but Flora detected a wry undercurrent, as she quietly acknowledged that agreeing with Mrs Pinnock was the surest way to keep the peace—and her job.
“If only you had met me first,” Mrs Mifford sighed loudly, drawing the conversation back to her favourite subject—herself.
“I’m something of a matchmaker, I’ll have you know.
Four daughters, all married well, and only recently I saw Miss Hughes—whom I think of as a daughter—married to an earl.
Stick with me, Miss Vale, and you’ll be wed before your trip is finished. ”
“Oh, I would not wish for anything more than I already have,” Miss Vale smiled prettily—though Flora noted, with a jolt of jealousy, her gaze drift past Mrs Mifford to Captain Thorne.
“Balderdash,” Mrs Mifford replied with her usual tact. “What young lady wouldn’t want a family of her own? Tell me, Miss Vale, will you be in Plumpton much longer?”
“I do not know,” the girl shrugged in turn. “We were supposed to depart a few days ago. However, Plumpton’s attractions have persuaded Mrs Pinnock otherwise. Alas, where she stays I must stay also.”
Miss Vale’s tone was glum, though Flora did not dwell on it.
It was Mrs Mifford’s remark—that all ladies must want a family—that caught her instead.
The thought startled her. She had never considered it before; the possibility of a family of her own.
Her world had always been so small, just herself and her grandmother, and she had accepted that as the natural order of things.
But now, as the idea took root, she found it unexpectedly appealing.
Children, a husband… The image was so vivid, so achingly possible, that she had to turn away—only to have her gaze alight on Captain Thorne.
Flustered by an ache of longing, she reached for her wine glass, relieved to find it full this time.
She took a careful sip, hoping it might calm the erratic thump of her heart.
Unfortunately for her poor nerves, just as she set the glass back down, the captain leaned in so close to speak to her that his breath tickled her ear.
“I’ll collar Mr Goodwin in the smoking room after dinner,” he whispered. “Press him about his visits to Sir Ambrose after a few glasses of brandy.”
Flora’s heart sank as she realised he was not whispering sweet nothings but focused instead on their investigation.
While she was hopefully daydreaming of marriage and babies, his mind remained firmly fixed on murder.
She managed a small nod of reply, though the wine suddenly tasted rather acidic on her tongue.
“Good idea,” she said firmly, though inwardly she scolded her foolish heart for mistaking his kindness for interest.
She reached for her wine glass again and raised it in a silent toast to her former self—who would have known better than to imagine things that weren’t hers to dream of.