by Regina Scott
“Of course.” With a nod of thanks, he headed for the kitchen.
Jesslyn and Maudie passed him on their return. “But why cannot we summon the trolls?” Maudie was complaining.
“Because we don’t know whose side they might be on,” her niece rationalized.
Maudie humphed. “Well, they’re good English trolls. Of course they’d be on our side.”
“If Napoleon is indeed intent on taking his army through Grace-by-the-Sea, we’ll have to rely on help where we can find it,” Eva told them both. “But I still have hopes we can prevent that.”
They waited in the great hall for the militia to finish its work. Eva checked the other statue, but the spot that would have held Maudie’s hidey hole had been plastered over. Harris must have stumbled upon the one while searching the empty castle for safe places to pass messages.
James came back from the kitchen just before the last of his militiaman reported in.
“Nothing in that end of the house,” James told them all, with a look to Eva. That must mean Captain St. Claire had seen no one either.
“Now,” James continued, “before we return to the village, I will have an answer. Which of you shot Miss Archer?”
Jesslyn pressed her hands to her chest, and Maudie scowled at them all. The members of his troop looked at each other. For a moment, no one moved.
Then Mr. Greer stepped forward, face white against the red of his jacket. “I did. I didn’t want to be slow to respond, so I left the gun half-cocked. It went off all too easily. I will never forgive myself if anything happens to Abigail.”
Eva wasn’t sure what James intended, but he glanced from Greer to the rest of his men. “We are all facing circumstances we never thought to face. We don’t know how we’ll react. But the more we practice, the more likely we will respond with the honor and skill expected. I’ll ask Mr. Lawrence to draw up a schedule with more frequent drills.”
“What about the French, sir?” someone asked.
“If they return to Grace-by-the-Sea,” James said, “they will discover what true Englishmen are worth. Now, company, fall in.”
They hurried to line up and stand at attention.
“There’s something about a man in a red coat,” Maudie murmured dreamily.
“To the village, march!” James ordered.
They marched sharply out the door.
“We’ll go as well,” Jesslyn said. “Unless there’s anything else we can do for you, Magistrate?”
“No, thank you,” James said. “Your efforts are greatly appreciated.” He bowed to her and Maudie.
Maudie patted his arm. “The fairies are very proud of you, I know.”
He smiled his thanks as they left.
Eva glanced around at the dark house. “Then there may be Frenchmen in our midst, and we have no idea who they are.”
James led her to the door and set about locking up. “They cannot hide forever, Eva.” He shook his head as he twisted the latch. “I wonder, though, why I even bother to lock the door. Now, let’s see how Abigail fares.”
~~~
Abigail and her mother lived in rooms behind the gallery, as it turned out. Lights were glowing from the windows as James and Eva approached along High Street. At the back of the building, they knocked on the door.
An elderly woman with tightly curled white hair and a frail figure wrapped in a sea-green dressing gown greeted them. “Magistrate,” she said, mouth turned down. “Have you come to tell us who shot my Abby?”
“It was an accident, Mrs. Archer,” James assured her. “Would you allow my wife and me to come in? We’d like to explain the situation.”
She stepped aside and let them in. The little flat consisted of a sitting room, small dining room, and two bedchambers. Mrs. Archer led them to the smaller of the two, where Abigail lay propped up in bed. Her face was white, her body stiff, and a bandage thickened the upper part of her right arm.
“Are you all right?” Eva begged, hurrying forward.
“Fine,” she said. “No thanks to this oaf of a doctor.”
Eva glanced to the side of the door, where Doctor Bennett was standing. He turned to snap shut his black medical bag. “I cannot be blamed, madam, if you choose to involve yourself in ramshackle affairs that end with you getting shot.”
“And you also refuse to accept the blame for costing Miss Chance her position either,” she returned.
“I most certainly do.” He nodded to Eva and James. “Mr. and Mrs. Howland. I hope you can convince Miss Archer to stay abed and heal. She should not be painting with that arm.”
“Oh, so now you want to rob me of my position too?” Abigail fumed.
He rounded on her. “No, madam. I am trying to save the life of one of the finest painters I have ever seen. I hope I may count on your support.”
She blinked. “Certainly, sir. No need to shout.”
He nodded. “I’ll check on you in the morning before the spa opens. If you see Miss Chance before I do, please ask her to attend me at her earliest convenience. I have been trying to make her acquaintance to no avail. I have a position to discuss with her.” With a nod all around, he departed.
“Well,” Abigail said, and left it at that.
~~~
After letting Miss Archer know what had transpired at the castle, James led Eva back to the street. The moon had disappeared, but the eastern horizon was already lighting, streaks of pink and gold stretching across the sea.
“I must get this to Mr. Carroll,” he said, laying a hand on her arm. “But there’s no reason you can’t go back to Butterfly Manor, attempt to sleep.”
She regarded him. “Until I know what that note says, I doubt there’s much sleep in my future.”
He tucked her arm into his, more glad than he could say to have her beside him. “Then let’s see what Mr. Carroll thinks.”
They found the gentleman still in his uniform. “Are we marshaling?” he asked James, reaching for the musket that was propped beside the shop door.
James shook his head. “While you were getting Abigail to Doctor Bennett, we discovered that Mr. Harris from the spa was our French liaison. He attempted to leave this note in the castle.”
He accepted the note, peering at it through his spectacles. “Never liked the fellow. He had no interest in books. Give me a moment.”
He wandered back toward the counter, already muttering about Ps and Ss.
James followed with Eva.
“I have the code right here,” the shopkeeper assured them, bringing out a sheaf of paper with notes all over it. “Let’s see. Yes.” He selected a pencil and began scrawling letters.
Mr. Carroll looked up. “Short, but to the point. It reads, Do not land. Too many defenses. Seek another site.” He blinked, then grinned at them both. “Then we’re safe. The French know Grace-by-the-Sea can defend herself.”
“Only if they receive that note,” James said, holding out his hand. The shopkeeper lay the paper into it. “I will deposit this in the usual place and see if anyone takes the bait.”
After thanking Carroll, they left.
“Then, is it done?” Eva asked as they headed for Butterfly Manor at last.
“For now,” James said. “But the boat was still there when I talked with Quill. He and his men will be on the alert, as will the Excise Service and the Royal Navy, thanks to Lark. If the French return for this note, they will be found.”
She seemed to accept that, walking along beside him as if they were out for a promenade. But, as they neared the house, she spoke and proved her thoughts had taken a different direction.
“Before we knew there were spies, we talked about our future,” she said. “What do you intend, James?”
He stopped before the yard gate. “What do you wish, Eva?”
Her mouth quirked, and even in the misty light of dawn, he could see the twinkle in her eyes. “I asked you first.”
“A marriage,” he said. “A true marriage, husband and wife, together through good
times and bad.”
“One life, one mind, one heart,” she agreed. “I want that too.”
He bent and brushed his lips against hers, feeling the answering tremor in her. “Then, Eva Faraday Howland, will you be my wife and allow me to be your husband?”
“Yes, James. Nothing would make me happier.”
She tipped her chin and kissed him. The sun rose, brightening the sky, bringing a new day, a new future.
Together.
~~~
Two weeks later
“You need more roses,” Maudie said.
Eva glanced up from her work, trowel in hand. Their home was certainly living up to its name this morning—butterflies danced from flower to flower, gold and brown and blue.
“But we already have an entire hedge,” Eva said, pointing to the red and pink blossoms along the wrought-iron fence. “What about something that blooms more frequently?”
Maudie cocked her head, as if considering the matter. Then Eva realized she was listening. Tilting her head, she spied the carriage coming up Church Street. “He’s back!”
She dropped the trowel and ran for the gate just as the carriage pulled up. James leaped down and caught her close.
“Oh, but I missed you,” he murmured against her hair.
“And I missed you terribly,” she said, pulling back to look up into his dear face.
“That’s what happens between husbands and wives,” Maudie said wisely. “Even if it’s only been ten days.”
“An eternity,” Eva assured her.
Maudie nodded. “Then you’ll want time alone. Call on me when you want to dance among the mushrooms again.” She let herself out the gate.
James raised his brows. “Is that what you get up to while I’m gone—dancing in fairy circles?”
Eva wrinkled her nose. “Certainly not. The fairies are far too jealous of my good fortune. But Maudie and I did attend the assembly with Jesslyn and Lark.” She sobered. “How did it go in London, James? Did you get answers to your questions?”
“Some.” Arm around her waist, he led her back into the garden while Mr. Connors and Kip set about taking the carriage to the coaching house behind the manor. “I gave Mr. Carroll’s decoder to the War Office. As usual, they weren’t particularly excited about the matter.”
“They don’t want you to know you showed them up,” Eva told him.
“Neither did Julian Mayes. He came to see me when he heard I was in town. He wanted to apologize. It seems he mentioned our agreement to his superior, Alexander Prentice, and Prentice immediately told the earl. That’s how he was able to show up at our wedding.”
Eva shook her head. “So at least that mystery is solved. I’m glad it wasn’t Priestly who told on us. He’s been very helpful while you were gone. Either he or Captain St. Claire have checked the castle every day. No one has come for the note.”
James drew in a breath. “And I couldn’t find the key that was in the earl’s possession. So, someone still has access to the castle. We’ll have to find another way to make sure the French know they aren’t welcome in Grace-by-the-Sea. At least I am still magistrate and leader of the militia.”
“And what about the finances?” Eva asked. “Were you able to salvage the estates?”
“Not quite.” He paused to gaze out over the flowers as if taking comfort in the bright blooms. “Things were as bad as the earl intimated. He’d already sold everything we owned overseas. We’ll lose most of the property in England as well.”
“Oh, poor Thorgood,” Eva said.
“We’ll have to stop calling him that. The earl has passed. My cousin will shortly be confirmed as the sixth earl.”
“Oh.” Eva bit her lip a moment. “I should not be glad of his death, but I am relieved. James, we are truly free.”
He nodded slowly, as if he couldn’t quite believe it. “Thorgood intends to move himself, the countess, and Miranda to the castle to live. They will arrive next month, with my mother and your harp, Eva.”
Eva beamed at him. “Then you’ll finally have family in the area again.”
James looked down into Eva’s face. “I already have family. More than I ever believed possible.”
Eva gazed up at him, love and pride and joy mingling. Her convenient husband had become more than she could have dreamed, and she would always be grateful she had come to Grace-by-the-Sea.
Home.
~~~~~~
Dear Reader
Thank you for choosing James and Eva’s story. From the moment Eva walked onto the page, I knew she was just what James needed to become the hero he was meant to be. If you missed the first book in the series, about how Jesslyn Chance became betrothed to the dashing Larkin Denby, look for The Matchmaker’s Rogue.
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Turn the page for a peek of the third book in the Grace-by-the-Sea series, The Artist’s Healer. Spunky Abigail Archer is determined to see her friend, Jesslyn Denby, restored as hostess of the spa at Grace-by-the-Sea, even if that means ousting the new physician. Doctor Linus Bennett isn’t about to lose his post to some crusader, but the pretty painter awakens feelings he’d thought long buried. As the French edge ever closer to the little village, could Abigail be just the prescription for healing Linus’s wounded heart?
Blessings!
Regina Scott
Sneak Peek: The Artist’s Healer, Book 3 in the Grace-by-the-Sea Series by Regina Scott
Grace-by-the-Sea, Dorset, England, July 1804
She wasn’t made to lie abed all day.
Abigail Archer stared at the ceiling in her bedchamber. It wasn’t a grand ceiling like those in Castle How on the headland above her shop or Lord Peverell’s Lodge on the opposite headland across Grace Cove. The cream-colored plaster bore no coffering, no elaborate beams, no mosaic pattern or allegorical painting of mythical beings.
She could paint one. Perhaps Poseidon rising from the depths, waves crashing around him. But no, she didn’t need the reminder of the autocratic fellows in her life.
The biggest autocrat at the moment wouldn’t allow her to paint in any regard.
She carefully shrugged her right shoulder. Immediately, pain shot down her arm, causing her fingers to tighten. No, no painting. Not yet. But she would not be deterred.
Her mother bustled into the room. On the best of days, theirs was an uneasy truce. Now the carefully coiffed white curls around her mother’s face, her neat printed cotton gown partially covered by a frilly white apron, and her purposefulness only served to remind Abigail of all she could not be at the moment.
“Let me fix your hair,” her mother said, going to the walnut bureau on the opposite wall to fetch the tortoise shell brush. “And help you change into something prettier. Miss Pierce the elder sent over a lovely bed jacket—green quilted satin. Can you imagine?”
“That was very kind of her,” Abigail said as her mother came around the bed, brush in hand. “But I can’t move my arm enough to don it, and I doubt this bandage would fit inside even if I could.”
Her mother frowned at the swath of linen wrapped around Abigail’s upper arm. “That is a problem.”
It certainly was.
And it wasn’t something she’d ever prepared for. Bullet wounds were unheard of in the village of Grace-by-the-Sea. She ought to know; she’d lived here for all her six and twenty years. She’d made cherished friends like Jesslyn Chance and now Eva Howland. She’d learned to read and write, learned to sail, learned to paint. She’d grown her own enterprise, provided for herself and her widowed mother. Now all that was th
reatened because she had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Her mother had nearly collapsed when two of Abigail’s fellow shopkeepers, Mr. Carroll across the street and Mr. Lawrence the jeweler, had half carried her down from the headland two nights ago.
“But what happened?” she kept repeating as Abigail curled up on her bed, holding her arm while the men went for the local physician. “Why are you bleeding?”
“I was shot,” Abigail managed, pausing to clench her teeth against the pain. “I was helping the magistrate up at the castle. He suspects the French have been using it to pass messages.”
“Messages?” Even in Abigail’s fog of shock, she could see her mother’s face scrunching up. “But the French are still massing across the Channel. They haven’t invaded.”
Yet.
“There may be some in the area,” Abigail said.
“How?” her mother protested. “Why?”
She would not lose patience. She tried so hard. Abigail drew in a breath, mustered the last of her energy to explain. “Mr. Howland hoped to catch one of them, so he and the militia surrounded the castle, hiding among the trees. Jesslyn and I were inside with Eva and Mrs. Tully, keeping an eye on things, when one of Frenchmen slipped through their net and into the castle. I ran out to alert the magistrate, and a militiaman fired his musket, thinking me the enemy. Now, if you don’t mind, I think I shall faint.”
She’d woken in her nightgown, with her mother hovering over her. The bullet had carved a deep trough across her upper arm, and that doctor had insisted she must rest to heal. After all that, they had caught only one of the French agents thought to be haunting their village.
“It’s fine, Mother,” she said now. “I don’t need to dress. It wasn’t as if I had anywhere to go.”
Her mother bit her lip a moment, then set about running the brush through Abigail’s hair. Ginger-colored tendrils whipped past her eyes as if fleeing the vigorous strokes. She knew how they felt.
“Well, it’s always wise to look your best,” her mother said, avoiding her gaze. “You never know who might call.”
