Chapter Twenty
CHAPTER TEWENTY
THE FRUITLESS SEARCH had been called to a halt with the arrival of a young lad to tell them that Henderson had been apprehended and was being held in the stables of The King’s Inn until Lord Crabb decided what to do with him.
James had not waited to see the viscount’s reaction—instead, he had turned his mount in the direction of Plumpton and galloped there at great speed.
He arrived at the stables covered in a sheen of sweat and handed his stallion—similarly perspiring—over to the groomsman.
“They’re inside,” the boy said, picking up a brush to wipe down the panting beast.
James entered expecting grimness and recriminations. Instead, he was greeted by the sight of Henderson—with a barrel strapped about his waist like some absurd toga—holding court. Opposite him, Marrowbone leaned forward eagerly, scribbling into a battered notebook.
“—and never, under any circumstance, should a gentleman allow his whiskers to grow uneven,” Henderson was proclaiming. “It suggests dissipation. Trim twice weekly, always with the grain, and finish with a dash of lavender water. A man must smell as refined as he looks.”
“Remarkable,” Marrowbone breathed. “Lavender water, eh? I’ll note it down.”
“For pity’s sake,” James muttered, striding forward. “Is this an interrogation or a toilette tutorial?”
Both men started—Marrowbone snapping his notebook shut guiltily, while Henderson sniffed with offended dignity.
“Captain,” the lad said, recovering himself. “I may be falsely accused of murder, but I will not be guilty of slovenliness.”
“You’ll be guilty of wasting my time if you don’t answer my questions,” James cut in. “Two people saw you on the stairs behind Mrs Pinnock. Were they lying?”
“Well, actually, Captain,” Marrowbone interjected, attempting gravitas, “Mrs Canards has since retracted her statement. Said it was dark. She couldn’t be certain.”
James’s eyes narrowed. “So it rests on Miss Vale’s word alone?”
“You see!” Henderson crowed, seizing the chance. “It wasn’t me. And if Miss Vale insists it was, one must ask why. Why lie unless she’s the one with something to hide?”
James stilled. “That’s a grave accusation.”
“It’s a logical one,” Henderson shrugged. “If it wasn’t me, and it wasn’t Mrs Pinnock—because someone pushed her, that much is certain—then who else remains?”
For once, James found himself robbed of words. The lad’s crude reasoning rang uncomfortably true.
His mind flew back to a sunlit walk by the river, Flora at his side, her voice earnest as she’d insisted that an angry ward was as viable a suspect as any.
He had dismissed her outright, unwilling to let suspicion of another ward cast a shadow on her innocence.
And by doing so, he realised grimly, he might have blinded himself to the truth.
“Where can I find Miss Vale?” he snapped at Marrowbone who gave a sulky shrug of his shoulders.
“How should I know?” the constable muttered. “I was running around all morning looking for this fella, not keeping tabs on the guests at the inn.”
The inn; James closed his eyes against his own stupidity—of course she was at the inn.
“I’ll just be on my way,” Mr Henderson said casually, as he attempted to discreetly shuffle toward the door—an impossible task when wearing a barrel for a skirt.
“Not so fast,” James cautioned. “You’re not yet exonerated—and there’s the little matter of bribery that Marrowbone needs to discuss with you.”
“Bribery?” the constable looked impressed. “Why, you’re a lad of many talents, I’ll grant you that, Henderson.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” James murmured aloud to himself. “Is there anyone in this village with an ounce of sanity?”
“Said the man talking to himself,” Marrowbone muttered slyly, taking out his note book to jot this down.
James cast him an appropriately droll look, before heaving a sigh and making for the door. He did not have time for the constable’s antics—he had a murder to solve.
Once outside the stables, he made straight for The King’s Head, comforted only by the thought that Flora was safely at her grandmother’s—one less worry to weigh him down.
But as he hurried along the path, a figure darted out of the greengrocer’s and collided with him so hard that James nearly lost his footing. A paper bag burst on impact, scattering boiled sweets across the cobbles.
“Apologies, Captain,” Mr Goodwin gasped, staring down in dismay at the sticky trail. “I wasn’t watching my surroundings—I’m in such a rush to get ready for the stage. You’re the second person I’ve barrelled into today. Nearly knocked Miss Bridges clean over.”
“Flora was here?” James snapped to attention.
“She was looking for Miss Vale,” Goodwin confirmed, crouching to scoop up a sweet from the cobbles. He sniffed it, blew the lint away, then popped it in his mouth without a qualm. “I told her she might still catch her at the inn—she’s packing, you see. Off to Bath, to fetch Mrs Pinnock’s kin.”
“Good Lord,” James exhaled, his worst fear confirmed.
“I know,” Mr Goodwin agreed with a misty smile, clearly misinterpreting. “Such a caring soul, Miss Vale—off to all that trouble for her mistress. I hope when I get my fortune, I have servants as loyal as she.”
James barely restrained himself from shaking the man. Loyal? If Goodwin had the faintest notion of what danger Flora might be in—
He did not wait to explain. With a clipped nod, James lengthened his stride toward the inn, every muscle taut with urgency.
James burst through the doors of The King’s Head, somewhat startled to find the entrance hall devoid of any chaos. At the front desk, Edward was dozing, chin tucked to chest.
“Did you see Miss Bridges?” James snapped, rousing the lad with such force that Edward nearly fell off his stool.
“She went upstairs a few minutes ago—to call on Miss Vale,” the footman stammered, blinking himself awake.
“Which room?”
“Thirty-two,” Edward said at once, then faltered, uncertainty clouding his face. “You’re not thinking of going up there, are you, Captain? Far be it from me to lecture my betters, but you shouldn’t call in on a young lady alone.”
James was already striding for the stairs, paying the boy no heed. “Fetch Marrowbone and Lord Crabb,” he barked over his shoulder.
Edward muttered after him, half to himself, “That’s hardly necessary—it’s a matter of morals, not a crime—”
“Fetch them now!” James roared, his words echoing through the cavernous hall.
He took the staircase three steps at a time, his heart pounding as though it would burst from his chest. At the top landing, he sprinted for room thirty-two, every nerve braced for what he might find beyond the door.
The door stood ajar. James halted for the barest moment, breath caught in his throat—then a high, piercing cry split the air, followed by the heavy crash of something—or someone—falling to the floor.
“Flora—”
Her name ripped from his lips as James crashed through the door. His heart knew only fear. He would never forgive himself if anything had happened to her. He had not told her he loved her, had not asked her to be his wife, had not yet—
“Captain Thorne.”
Flora whirled at his entrance, the coal scuttle in her hands raised reflexively as a weapon.
On the floor lay Miss Vale, completely unconscious, a swelling already rising on her forehead.
“She thought she could fight her way out,” Flora said with a shaky laugh, lowering the scuttle. “But she didn’t know she was dealing with a former maid. I know just how heavy a coal scuttle is—and that it might serve as a weapon, if one must.”
“I love you,” James blurted, not caring that this was quite possibly the least romantic time to confess it. “Most ardently.”
“You do?” Flora whispered, letting the coal scuttle fall with a clatter to the floor.
“I do,” he confirmed, striding across the room. “And I would like you for my wife, Miss Bridges—if you would be willing?”
“Oh, I would,” she rushed forward to meet him, her cheeks flushing. “I mean—I do. Or yes, I will—”
James grinned, touched beyond words by her fluster.
“What I mean is,” she finished at last, winding her arms about his neck, “I love you too, Captain Thorne.”
Despite the chaotic surroundings—and the unconscious Miss Vale sprawled on the floor—a hallelujah chorus rang out in James’s head. He bent to seal the vow with a kiss, desire mingling with gratitude and joy that the woman he loved was safe in his arms.
“Ahem.”
They sprang guiltily apart. Lord Crabb stood in the doorway, amusement writ plain on his face.
“Edward sent me up here muttering something about being worried for your morals, Captain,” the viscount informed him, before turning to Flora with a wink.
“And I can see that his concern was warranted. I’m afraid, Miss Bridges, that after being caught like this, you’ll have to make an honest man of our Captain Thorne. ”
Will you call me out if I do not?” Flora teased.
“Mrs Mifford will,” Crabb replied gravely, which James rather thought was threat enough to scare even the most committed Casanova.
The viscount’s gaze shifted to Miss Vale, who was beginning to stir, a low moan escaping her lips. Her brief spell of unconsciousness, it seemed, would not last much longer.
“Care to explain?” Crabb asked gently, his brows lifting.
“I’ll leave that to Flora,” James said at once, pride swelling in his chest. “She is the one who solved the case in the end.”
“We did it together,” Flora corrected softly—but she obliged them both by recounting what had led her to Miss Vale. How Mrs Fitzhenry had dropped one final clue, how the pieces had clicked into place at last.
“I came straight up here once I realised she was the culprit,” Flora concluded, her chin lifting with quiet courage. “She denied it at first, but when she saw the truth was out, she grew defensive. She lunged for me—I grabbed the coal scuttle—and, well… you can see the result for yourself.”
“Quite,” Crabb agreed cheerfully.