Page 22 of A Captain, a Corpse, and Miss Bridges
CHAPTER NINE
THE LAST TIMEthat 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 herto loudly ask, “Don’t you agree, Captain, that Miss Bridges looks wonderful this evening?”
