Chapter Twelve
THE PINT IN front of him had gone flat, though James had scarcely touched it. He sat hunched over the scarred oak bar of The Ring’O’Bells, glowering into the rapidly dispersing foam.
“In all my years pulling pints, I’m yet to see a man find the answers he wants at the bottom of a glass.”
The voice of the bushy-bearded proprietor cut through James’ ruminations.
“I’ll pour you another,” he continued, with a nod of distaste toward the flat pint. “You’re already miserable enough without stale ale to sour you further.”
James did not protest the offer. He pushed a few coins across the bar and was soon rewarded with a fresh pint to stare into. Tentatively, he took a sip, surprised that it didn’t taste as bitter as his own thoughts.
He was angry and he told himself he had every right to be. Flora had kept something vital from him. He had thought she trusted him. He had thought… well, blast it, he had thought wrong.
It was a galling discovery for a man unused to being deceived. He had commanded ships, held men’s lives in his hands, and never doubted his judgement. And now a slip of a girl, with big dark eyes and a sweet smile had undone him entirely.
“I was going to ask if I could join you, Thorne, but they say misery loves company so I’ll assume I’m welcome.”
James looked up to find Lord Crabb slipping wearily onto the stool beside him.
“A pint of your finest, Angus,” the viscount called to the barkeep. “And another for my friend.”
“There’s no need,” James protested, gesturing toward his almost-full glass.
“I’ll have to start charging rent on the chairs if people will insist on lingering over one drink for hours,” a loud grumble from Angus put paid to James’ protests.
“It’s wild out there,” Lord Crabb continued, shrugging off his coat. “Though high winds and lashing rain are safer than being in my drawing room with my wife at present.”
“What have you done?” James asked with an arched brow. Lady Crabb was all that was ease and grace, so he assumed the cause of friction to be his friend’s fault.
“Nothing,” Crabb answered with perfect solemnity. “Merely agreed with her. A husband may listen to his wife complain about her mother until the cows come home, but the instant he dares echo the sentiment—”
He drew a finger across his throat in illustration.
“I’ll be lucky if she lets me back inside before Twelfth Night.”
“Well, I’ll probably be in this spot until then, so you can keep me company,” James replied, lifting his pint in a morose toast.
“Something happen?” he asked curiously, squinting at James over the rim of his tankard.
“It’s nothing,” James muttered, staring into his drink.
Crabb gave him a long, knowing look. “Come now. I’ve been married long enough to know the signs. A man brooding over a woman always looks the same—tragic, noble, and about as pitiful as a dog left out in the rain.”
“Now that I think on it, I didn’t actually invite you to sit down,” James retorted, though seeing his friend’s resolute expression he glumly continued. “It’s Flora—I discovered that she deceived me.”
“Flora?” Crabb nearly spluttered into his ale. “I’ve never once heard her name linked with the word deception in all my years in Plumpton. Not once. If there’s a soul more without artifice than Flora Bridges, I’ve yet to meet them.”.
“Deceived is too strong,” he said stiffly, already regretting his words. “She withheld something—something very important. She ought to have told me.”
Crabb narrowed his eyes over the rim of his tankard. “On what basis do you feel she ought to have told you?”
On the basis that I want her to be my wife. The answer came to James at once, though he did not, of course, utter it aloud. He was only two pints in after all.
“I gave her no cause to doubt me,” he said instead, his voice clipped.
Crabb let out a long sigh, setting down his drink with deliberate care. From the gravity of his expression, James realised that he was in for a lecture. And from the slight twist of guilt he felt, he realised that he probably deserved one.
“I am sure you did not,” Crabb began by agreeing with him, before then beginning his argument.
“But there are very few people who have ever given Miss Bridges cause to offer her trust freely. She has been whispered about her whole life—her grandmother, her parentage. Only recently did she learn that she grew up in the shadow of a grandfather who refused to acknowledge her. Life has taught her to protect herself from others and that sort of habit takes years to unlearn—and it’s not overcome in a fortnight, however dashing the captain. ”
Silence fell. James stared into his pint, guilt now pressing heavier in his chest than before. He felt wretched when he thought of the cold manner in which he had left Flora earlier.
“So, you think me dashing?” he said at last, attempting levity.
“All my years aboard ships has taught me that there are no dashing men,” Lord Crabb grimaced, thumping his tankard down. “We are fortunate indeed that women deign to suffer our company at all.”
“I’ll drink to that,” James lifted his glass, with far more enthusiasm than his last toast.
“Your confession behooves me to ask,” Crabb said, as James set his pint back down. “How honest have you been with Miss Bridges?”
“Completely,” James retorted, affronted by the suggestion.
“Oh?” Crabb arched a brow. “So you have declared your feelings for her?”
James shifted uncomfortably and gave a short shake of his head.
“You have at least hinted at your intentions?” Crabb pressed.
Another shake of the head.
A slow smirk tugged at Crabb’s mouth. “Then perhaps Miss Bridges is not the only one who is slow to trust.”
James stiffened, a retort on his lips—but none came. Because Crabb, blast him, was right.
He had not declared himself. Had not even hinted. He had sworn to prove her innocence, had defended her name against Marrowbone’s slurs—but never once had he spoken aloud the truth of his feelings to her.
That he was half in love with her already.
His realisation was cut short by the door banging open, a gust of cold rain sweeping in with it.
“She’s blowing fierce, Angus,” Mr Marrowbone exclaimed, stamping his boots. “We’ll be battening down the hatches tonight, mark my words. Just like the storm of ’06, when we all had to bunk together upstairs for a week.”
“Lud,” Crabb muttered with a shudder. “If ever an idea inspired a fellow to go grovelling to his wife, it’s that.”
The viscount lifted his pint to his lips and drained it quickly. James followed suit, equally appalled by the notion of having to sleep top-to-toe in a bed with Mr Marrowbone.
“Do let me know if Miss Bridges forgives you,” Crabb instructed as they parted at the door.
As the gale struck them full in the face, James merely gave a curt nod and offered his friend a wave.
The viscount set off toward Crabb Hall, collar turned high, head bent low against the wind and rain. James had no concern for his friend’s safe return; he knew the man had weathered far worse storms at sea.
Shivering, he made for The King’s Head, where he was greeted by a sleepy Edward—who, like most boys of his age, seemed to know no other state.
“Windy out there, captain,” the footman commented, stifling a yawn with his hand.
“Just a touch,” James agreed, as an empty ale-barrel went clattering past the doorway. He closed the door behind him, half-wondering if Mr Marrowbone would come chasing after it—runaway mead being the only culprit likely to stir the idle constable to action.
James bid Edward a good evening and was turning toward the stairs when he nearly collided with Goodwin, who was blocking the passage with his usual enthusiasm.
“Dashed inconvenient,” the young man lamented. “The will’s to be read in Cirencester of all places—I was only there two days ago, meeting with my mother. They might have done it then.”
“Consideration has never been part of a solicitor’s brief,” James answered, sidestepping him.
“Don’t suppose you fancy a brandy to see in the storm?” Goodwin asked hopefully, eyes bright with the eager expectancy of a spaniel begging scraps.
“You suppose correctly,” James quipped, then softened his approach as he noted the young man’s crestfallen face. “I’ve work to do. Edward—add a drink for Mr Goodwin to my bill. Just the one mind, I’m not standing you for a bottle again.”
Goodwin’s face lit up, his spirits instantly restored. If only his own could be so easily repaired, James thought, as he climbed the stairs to his room.
Inside, he found that an industrious maid had lit a roaring fire. He shrugged off his coat, brushed it down, and hung it neatly away before tugging off his boots and setting them by the door—old habits of naval order were hard to shake.
He wandered to the window before setting to work, the casement rattling in its frame as the gale howled outside. Below, he caught sight of Mr Henderson scurrying from the butcher’s shop, this evening encased in breeches so tight they made one fret for the lad’s circulation.
James shook his head and turned away, wondering if the nails he had driven into Mrs Bridges’ shed would hold against the storm.
For a moment he considered riding out to see Flora safe—but then recalled how her grandmother had foretold the tempest while the skies were still blue.
She was in safe hands. Hands that had not stormed from her kitchen in a huff.
With a sigh, he settled at the small table and spread Sir Ambrose’s ledgers before him. Yet two questions chased him even as he bent to the accounts: who had taken the wolfsbane? And would Flora ever forgive him?