Chapter Seventeen
FLORA HAD BEEN to Plumpton’s assemblies before, though never as a guest in her own right. Lord Crabb had always insisted on purchasing vouchers for the staff at Crabb Hall, and she had been grateful then for the chance to dance, even if those dances had felt stolen.
Tonight felt different. She would not scrape and bow, glad to be admitted, but arrive with the confidence that she belonged. To help that confidence remain, she had tucked a few sprigs of rosemary in her reticule for courage and protection.
She travelled from Brackenfield in the gig with Helen, for whom she had purchased a voucher. The maid was garbed in Flora’s second-best dress, while Flora wore the lavender silk gown the duchess had sent over.
“I don’t feel myself at all,” Helen whispered wonderingly, as she plucked at her skirts.
“Nor I,” Flora admitted. She had never worn a gown so fine, nor paid so much attention to her toilette. Her hair was swept up, leaving her neck and décolletage exposed, and she shivered as the night air caressed her skin.
“Still, we will have fun,” Flora assured the girl—who had been shocked when she had been presented with a voucher of her own.
Flora’s attempt at lifting her spirits were unfortunately accompanied by a loud hawking sound as, at the front of the gig, Gem—Brackenfield’s man of all work—coughed up a ball of phlegm and spat it down on the road.
They soon reached the village and, as they stepped down from the gig outside The Ring o’Bells, Helen’s hand tightened on her arm.
“There he is,” she hissed, her eyes darting toward a figure in the queue. Mr Henderson, looking more subdued than usual, hovered near the door.
Sensing that she was not the only one in need of a talisman, Flora dipped a hand into her reticule and withdrew a sprig of thyme. She pressed it gently into Helen’s palm.
“For courage,” she murmured.
Helen blinked at it, startled, before curling her fingers protectively around the herb. “Thank you, miss,” she whispered, her eyes softening.
They joined the long queue, which crept forward at a snail’s pace, though the air was merry with chatter as villagers adjusted gloves, smoothed skirts, and exchanged greetings across the line.
When at last they neared the front, Flora discovered the reason for the delay: Mrs Canards.
Installed behind a small desk at the foot of the stairs to the assembly rooms, she held up progress with the diligence of a customs officer at Dover.
No soul was permitted past until their voucher had been inspected, held up to the lantern light, and rubbed between finger and thumb, as though Mrs Canards might divine forgeries by texture alone.
“Smudged ink,” she muttered darkly, as she finished inspecting Mrs Walton’s voucher. “Looks very irregular. I’m not sure we ought to admit you on the strength of this.”
“I purchased it directly from Lady Deverell,” Mrs Walton retorted, her face now as red as the satin of her dress. “Are you impugning her honesty, Mrs Canards?”
“Criminal circles are everywhere, Mrs Walton,” Mrs Canards began to reply, though she fell silent, as the tall and dark-haired Earl of Ashford appeared beside her.
He had, Flora guessed, just come in through the door of the pub—the menfolk of Plumpton, lacking sprigs of thyme, were known to sneak a pint or two for courage before the dancing started.
“Are you suggesting my wife is involved in a criminal gang that forges vouchers, Mrs Canards?” the earl inquired, his tone mild but edged with steel.
“No, my lord,” Mrs Canards lied, her lips pinched tight.
“She was and she did,” Mrs Walton cut in crisply, flashing her rival a triumphant smile.
The earl let the interruption pass, his gaze settling once more on Mrs Canards. “Cease your mischief, madam, or I’ll see you removed from the Ladies’ Society altogether.”
Mrs Canards lifted her chin. “We require a unanimous vote for such a thing, my lord,” she sniffed, darting a meaningful glance at Mrs Wickling—who had clearly voted in her favour the last time her membership had come up for debate.
“I am as wealthy as I am petty, Mrs Canards,” the earl replied pleasantly. Then he turned the full brilliance of his smile upon Mrs Wickling. Her fan fluttered furiously, though not fast enough to hide the flush spreading across her cheeks.
“Loyalty,” he added silkily, “can always be purchased. Now—let Mrs Walton pass.”
Mrs Canards fell silent as she waved the wheelwright’s wife through. She gave a saccharine smile to the earl, then beckoned Flora and Helen forward.
“Acceptable,” she sighed boredly, handing their vouchers back without so much as glancing at either girl.
Flora followed Helen up the narrow staircase, her anticipation mounting with every creak of the steps. At the top, she emerged into the assembly room—a space that, though hardly grand, had been polished and preened for the occasion.
Garlands of autumn greenery draped the windows, their ribbons stirring faintly in the draught, while a trio of fiddlers tuned their instruments upon the dais at the far wall.
The air thrummed with excitement that seemed to echo Flora’s own racing pulse.
Helen gave her excuses and made for one of the benches where Nora, the Mifford’s maid, was seated.
Alone now, Flora scanned the room, feeling suddenly conspicuous. Anxiety began to set in and then she saw him—Captain Thorne—already making his way toward her. Her breath caught, and for one wild moment she feared she might combust on the spot.
How tragic it would be, she thought, if she were consumed by flames before she had even had the chance to feel his arms around her.
Mercifully he reached her side before death could claim her, bowing low as though she were a duchess and not simply Flora Bridges in borrowed silk.
“You look ravishing, Miss Bridges,” he said.
Her heart gave a traitorous flutter. Ravish me, Captain, her mind supplied at once—though she was sensible enough to bite down hard on the thought before it escaped her lips. Instead, she managed to offer her own shy compliments on his appearance.
He looked every inch the captain and gentleman—broad-shouldered in dark evening dress, his cravat tied with unstudied elegance. That he should cross the crowded room to stand at her side, when he might have chosen any lady there, seemed almost too wonderful to be real.
“Your dance card?” he queried, one brow lifting in faint challenge.
Flora fumbled with the reticule clasp until it yielded. She drew out the flimsy card and, for one absurd moment, nearly snatched the rosemary sprigs too—wondering if chewing them might conjure more courage than simply carrying them.
The captain drew a pencil from his pocket and, without hesitation, scratched across her dance card before returning it to her.
Flora glanced down—and her breath caught. Beside every set, in his strong hand, he had scrawled a single word: mine.
“I trust that makes my intentions clear?” he asked, one brow arched, his tone somewhere between teasing and utterly serious.
“Completely,” Flora replied weakly. When he offered her his arm to escort her for lemonade, she accepted it at once, grateful for his strength. How strange, she thought, that he should be the very answer to the storm he set loose in her.
They had just claimed two cups of lemonade from the refreshment table when a familiar voice caught their attention.
“Mrs Walton! I knew the assembly would draw you out!” Mrs Mifford cried, bustling toward the table with a broad smile. Her eyes sparkled as they dropped to the lady’s gown. “And I see you kept the satin after all.”
Mrs Walton’s cheeks pinkened, and she gave a stiff curtsy before flouncing away from the refreshment table with her nose in the air.
“What?” Mrs Mifford turned to the Duchess of Northcott, who had tailed her, staring daggers. “I said draw, not drawers.”
“I think it would be safest Mama, if tonight you were to keep speaking to an absolute minimum,” the duchess sighed in reply. She turned her attention to Flora, her expression brightening. “Why, Miss Bridges, you look wonderful. Doesn’t she, Mama?”
Mrs Mifford nodded mutely in response and the duchess pinched the bridge of her nose as though she had acquired a sudden headache.
Thankfully, the musicians at last struck up the notes of the first set and Captain Thorne excused them both.
“Miss Bridges has promised me this dance,” he informed Mrs Mifford. “In fact, she has promised me all her dances for the night.”
“I told you I have a gift,” Mrs Mifford cried in reply, her vow of silence broken by her biggest temptation—boasting.
On the dance floor, Flora and James took their places in the long lines of the country set.
Flora was aware of the curious glances of the villagers, though she assumed their interest had more to do with her partner than the murder.
Perhaps Mrs Mifford was correct, she thought; people were willing to overlook an accusation of murder if a woman married well.
The country set was a brisk and lively affair—hands joined, parted, turned, and rejoined again in quick succession. The figures came fast, and Flora found herself breathless, the heat of Captain Thorne’s steady hand at her waist making her clumsy at steps she thought she knew.
As they cast down the line and back again, she spotted Mr Goodwin grinning at her from across the set. He gave a vigorous wave that nearly knocked Miss Vale off balance. The poor girl looked pale and wan beside him, as though she’d rather be anywhere else than there.
The set ended in a whirl of laughter and clapping, and Captain Thorne guided Flora back toward the refreshment table. She sipped at her lemonade to calm her breath, then forced herself to speak before nerves betrayed her.
“Did you have a chance to speak with Miss Vale?” she asked, careful not to add alone—for she did not trust herself not to sound churlish on the word.
He did not answer at once, but instead moved them a little aside, to a discreet corner where the hubbub of the room softened.
“I spoke to her this morning,” he said quietly, leaning closer. “She corroborated Henderson’s account—Mrs Pinnock wanted revenge on Sir Ambrose. She believes the brandy has addled her brain.”
As he spoke, he gave the smallest of nods toward the benches. Flora followed his gaze just in time to see Mrs Pinnock, with practiced ease, slip a small hipflask from her reticule and add a dash to her lemonade before taking a sip, as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world.
Flora’s heart gave a jolt. It was as though the woman had staged her own incrimination—right in front of them.
“What will we do next?” Flora whispered.
“Dance,” he replied, his tone light. “Tomorrow, Lord Crabb and I will visit her at the inn and press for her confession. You’ll be exonerated completely, Miss Bridges. Your next act can begin. I only hope you’ll allow me a role in it.”
Her heart soared at his words, touched that he—like she—had recalled the words of their first proper conversation.
“I’ve already promised that role to a handsome naval officer, who declared that his intentions toward me were entirely honourable…” she teased, lightly.
“He did?” Thorne arched a brow.
“Yes,” Flora nodded with mock solemnity. Then the sprig of thyme in her reticule seemed to lend her courage. “Though I rather hope that he might have some dishonourable intentions too. He is very handsome, you see.”
Captain Thorne closed his eyes briefly, as if in pain. Flora’s stomach plunged—had she gone too far? But when his eyes opened again, they burned into hers.
“Miss Bridges,” he said low and steady, “We had best return to the dance floor at once—both your good name, and my last shred of restraint, are in grave danger.”
He let the weight of his words settle, a smile curving on his lips as Flora’s cheeks turned pink, before offering her his arm to escort her back to the dancefloor. As they passed the benches, Flora saw that Miss Vale had joined her mistress.
“Really, Mrs Pinnock,” Miss Vale chided. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”
“It’s just a drop to warm my bones, girl.” Mrs Pinnock brushed aside her concerns. “You’d think the cost of the voucher might be put toward heating the place.
James’s arm stiffened briefly under Flora’s touch, but he only steered her onward, leaving the pair behind.
“Come, Miss Bridges,” he murmured. “The fiddlers are waiting.”
They joined the set just as the bows struck up a lively tune, and Flora moved as though carried by the music. Each turn, each clasp of his hand, stole her breath. She half-expected her slippers to leave the floor entirely, certain she might float away on a cloud of happiness.
The set ended to a flurry of applause. James leaned toward her, his lips parting to speak—when a piercing shriek split the air.
The fiddlers faltered, bows screeching against strings. The dancers froze, all eyes swinging toward the stairwell.
Mrs Mifford, nearest to the landing, rushed forward and craned over the rail. Her horrified cry carried across the room.
“It’s Mrs Pinnock—she’s fallen!”
A hum of whispers rose like a swarm of bees. Flora’s hand flew to James’s sleeve, fingers gripping tight, but he was already stepping away, his face set with grim resolve.
And then he was moving—striding through the frozen dancers, cutting a path toward the stairwell with all the surety of a man accustomed to storms and battles.
As she watched him stride away, Flora’s heart swelled with pride—yet a dash of self-pity crept in too, for now the waltz she had dreamed of would not come to pass.