by Regina Scott
It had been that way the first time too. Her father had overseen the spa for some years, but she generally did not attend, not until she was considered out in Society. It had been rather daunting to walk into the august company, her hair done up, her body swathed in fine wool. What was she to say to them? How was she to respond if they spoke to her? She’d glanced around, meeting curious gazes everywhere. One man had gone so far as to raise his quizzing glass and squint at her through it.
And Lark had materialized out of the crowd, her father at his side.
“Jesslyn,” her father had said in the voice he reserved for frightened clients, “may I present Mr. Larkin Denby of Upper Grace? Mr. Denby, this is my daughter.”
Lark had bowed over her hand as if she were a member of the royal family. “Miss Chance, a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Here she was, in her father’s sphere at last, and Lark had been the one to make her feel as if she belonged. The spa had been her retreat after he’d left. She’d started a Newcomer, for all her father led the assemblage, and worked her way to Regular and now hostess. Yet one look from him still made everything seem in its proper place.
Her memories followed her from the church and up to the door of the spa. Lord Featherstone was waiting for her, and she swallowed her disappointment that it wasn’t Lark. The other Regulars trickled in as well. Mrs. Harding went to take her place beside the windows. Maudie went to take her place at the harpsichord. The music seemed unnecessarily somber. Somehow, it fit Jess’s mood.
Oh, no! She was not about to become her aunt, pining away for a lost love and prosing on about trolls and mermaids as a way to fill the hole in her heart. She had work before her. She had to confer with the innkeepers and Mrs. Kirby, the leasing agent, to determine who was coming to the spa and when; confirm the subscriptions they paid for access to the spa with Mr. Lawrence. She had to manage the staff who cleaned the spa in the evenings and the caterers who provided food, dishes, and cutlery each day. She planned entertainments, amusements. She ought to see if she could find a young man for Miss Cole.
A noise caught her attention, and she focused on Mr. Crabapple, who was in close consultation with Lord Featherstone and Admiral Walsey. The Admiral thrust out his barrel chest, lined cheeks inflating. Oh, what now?
Jess joined them in a flurry of pink. “Gentlemen, might I interest you in a drink from the fountain?”
The Admiral’s hard face softened. “You are only too kind, Miss Chance. I wish you would speak to Crabapple here.” He turned to the scholar. “Grow a backbone, man!”
Instead, Mr. Crabapple folded in on himself further. “You would not understand, a man of your physique, your prowess, your fame. We lesser mortals are doomed.”
“Nonsense!” The Admiral stumped off, cane smacking the tiled floors so hard she wondered they did not chip.
She put her hand on Mr. Crabapple’s thin arm. “You mustn’t let him fluster you, sir. I’m sure you can accomplish whatever you set out to do.”
Mr. Crabapple’s lower lip trembled. “No, I fear he has the right of it, Miss Chance. Despite your help, and the assistance of Featherstone, here, I cannot make any headway with Mrs. Harding. I am simply not the man for her.”
“Nonsense,” Jess said. “You haven’t even applied yourself yet.”
“She’s right,” Lord Featherstone said, voice kind. “You have much to offer the lady, Warfield. You are well established, respected, and you have a remarkably kind heart. She would be fortunate to attract a fellow of your standing.”
Mr. Crabapple goggled. “Truly?”
“Truly,” Jess agreed. She glanced to where the Winsome Widow was gazing out the window. Her court had forsaken her for the moment, and her gaze was pensive, almost lonely.
Jess turned back to the men. “I have an idea. But I must know—what is it you want from the lady?”
Mr. Crabapple blinked. “Oh, nothing more than a dance at the next assembly. I would never presume to ask for more. Indeed, that is likely too much to hope.”
Jess nodded. “A dance. That can be arranged. But you must be prepared to show your devotion, sir. Allow me to guide you. We will put our plan in place this very night.”
~~~
Lark had joined the other occupants of Grace-by-the-Sea at St. Andrew’s that morning. Since he had to wait until evening to catch Carroll or Featherstone or whoever was bringing in that illegal shipment from France, he should probably have ridden up onto the hill to attend services at St. Mary’s in Upper Grace with his mother and sisters. But he had a job to do, and he couldn’t feel comfortable breaking free until it was done.
First, he studied the vicar, a slight fellow who tended to bob his head when making a point, as if agreeing with his sentiments. He seemed a poor choice for Lord of the Smugglers. Wouldn’t his countenance, his movements bear some evidence if he were routinely out all night? But his movements were sure, his voice commanding, and his look imploring as he read the sermon.
Perhaps he might learn more about the area. He retrieved his horse, Valkyrie, from the stable at the Mermaid and crossed from one headland around the cove to the other, looking for any signs of a landing—wagon tracks, bushes burned to light a beacon, an easy path up from the shore. He found none.
So, he returned to his room at the Mermaid and kept an eye on the harbor. Noises rose from the public room, friends meeting. Admiral Walsey passed on his way from the spa. They all seemed miles away.
How many times had he sat in a room—here, at another inn along the coast, at the small house he rented in Kent—alone. He didn’t remember it bothering him before. He had a job to do, a job that didn’t admit friendships well. A Riding Officer was in the saddle for hours on end, covering four or more miles of coast as far inland as five miles. He was to note any disturbances, any suspicious activities, reporting them to his Surveyor. When matters warranted, he applied to use dragoons, who rode in, lances flashing, to stop the smugglers.
Each arrest brought a certain satisfaction. The smugglers were wily, clever. They had any number of tricks to prevent discovery. Why, one enterprising fellow had rubbed chalk on his face and played dead so that his cohorts might carry his casket, and the ill-gotten goods it held, past Lark’s watchful eye. Besides, every smuggler caught made other families safer and England less vulnerable.
So why was he feeling the vulnerable one today?
As twilight wrapped the village, he slipped from the inn and edged his way toward the shore. All the shops were shuttered and dark, but light glowed from the cottages on either side. Voices tumbled out as someone opened a door. Lark stayed in the shadows.
Water splashed the pebbles, a sound soft and cool, as he stepped down onto the shore. The breeze carried the scent of brine. The creak and rattle directly ahead came from the boats riding at anchor, rocking on the incoming tide. To his right, squat shapes marked the sheds used by fishermen and the racks holding drying nets. No one was about.
Except there, where a stone cottage clung to the bank, vines growing down to frame the window overlooking the cove. In the light from that window, three people stood in a tight knot on the path. Lark’s heart started pounding harder.
He crept closer, watching, listening. Two men and a woman—he could see the swish of her skirts when she turned. And there! Light catching on silver hair. Surely the tallest was Lord Featherstone.
The woman pulled back, and Lark flattened himself against one of the sheds. As he watched, Jesslyn Chance ran up the steps and entered the cottage.
“No!” The word flew out of him, and Lord Featherstone and the other man glanced in his direction. He recognized Mr. Crabapple’s long nose. Were they all in on it, then?
Lark squared his shoulders. Like it or not, he was here for a purpose. Stopping the Lord of the Smugglers was all that mattered. He must catch them now, before the rest of their gang arrived. He drew himself up to his full height, pushed off the shed, and strode down the shingle, reaching into his jacket for the pistol he had
placed there.
“Stop!” he shouted, “in the name of the king.”
Mr. Crabapple threw up his hands and burst into tears.
Chapter Six
The commanding voice echoed across the cove, piercing even the stone walls of the cottage. Jess started, glancing toward the window.
Sitting in Maudie’s rocking chair by the hearth, Mrs. Harding pressed her fingers to her generous chest. “What was that?”
“Banshees,” Maudie muttered from the bench of the table.
Jess put a hand on her guest’s arm. “Nothing to upset our chat, Mrs. Harding, I’m sure. You are kindness itself to wait on us here. Maudie and I don’t get many visitors.”
Mrs. Harding dropped her hand. “I was delighted to accept your invitation this evening and to offer my advice about the upcoming masquerade. I was a little surprised to find your home so far out of the way.” She glanced around at the two-room cottage again. “A shame your brother is out. Are you certain all is safe?”
“I’ll just check,” Jess said with a look to her aunt. She closed the curtain before peeking out the door. She had worked for days to help Mr. Crabapple screw his courage to the sticking point. No one had better have convinced him otherwise.
The light spilled past her to illuminate the scene. Mr. Crabapple was collapsed against Lord Featherstone, while Lark stood nearby, face set, feet planted, and one fist holding a pistol, the very picture of a determined highwayman. What was this? Jess stepped out and closed the door behind her.
“Gentlemen,” she scolded. “What’s happened? I thought everything was arranged.”
“So did I,” Lark said, but his voice held doubt, and he lowered his weapon. She heard the click as he uncocked it.
Jess frowned at him. “I was not told you were to join us tonight, sir.”
Mr. Crabapple wailed and buried his face in Lord Featherstone’s waistcoat.
“His presence took us all by surprise,” Lord Featherstone admitted.
Jess came down the steps to the path that ran above the shore and patted her Regular on the back. “There, there, Mr. Crabapple. Compose yourself. All is not lost.”
Lark’s face bunched, his confusion obvious. Mr. Crabapple raised his head and sniffed bravely, one arm waving about. “No, no, it was an impossible dream.”
“Nonsense,” Lord Featherstone averred. “Why, young Denby here could be just the man we need. Baritone, I believe?”
Lark glanced between them. “Baritone?”
“Your voice,” Jess said. “And I believe you are correct, my lord. But I have no idea of his abilities. Not all men can manage it, particularly unaided.”
Lark’s chin came up. “I assure you, Miss Chance, I have never been found lacking.”
Now, that she could believe.
Lord Featherstone clapped him on the shoulder with his free hand. “Good man. Do you know Burns?”
He blinked. “Burns?”
“My love is like a red, red, rose?” Jess prompted. When he still looked blank, she sighed. “Well, hum if you must. Mr. Crabapple, have you recovered sufficiently?”
He pulled away from Lord Featherstone and rubbed the back of his hand under his long nose. “Yes, Miss Chance. Thank you.”
“Then I’ll fetch Mrs. Harding to the window. When you see us, commence.”
She looked to Lark, who nodded as if promising his utmost. At least he remembered to tuck the pistol away. It would hardly help Mr. Crabapple’s cause. Whyever had Lark drawn it? By the moonlight, she could see nothing dangerous along the shore.
She slipped back into the house, shutting the door carefully.
“Mermaids in the cove, were there?” Maudie demanded. “I knew it.”
“No mermaids and no banshees,” she said. She turned to her guest. “But I believe you will want to see this, my dear.” Taking the widow’s hands and tugging her up, Jess led her to the window, then released her to draw back the curtains.
Like actors at a London theatre, Lord Featherstone, Mr. Crabapple, and Lark stood outlined by the light. The baron smiled, Mr. Crabapple fidgeted, and Lark glanced from them to the window, eyes narrowed, as if suspecting her of harboring French spies.
“What is this?” Mrs. Harding asked as Maudie tilted her head to see around her.
As if in answer, Lord Featherstone began in his warm bass.
“O my love is like a red, red rose
That’s newly sprung in June;
O my love is like the melody
That’s sweetly played in tune.”
Mrs. Harding caught her breath as Mr. Crabapple stepped forward and took up the tune in his tenor.
“So fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in love am I;
And I will love thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry.”
Jess knew she should be watching the effect of their efforts on the Winsome Widow, but she couldn’t take her eyes off Lark. She knew the moment he realized what was happening, for his brow cleared, his smile widened, and he sang with enthusiasm while making sure to give Mr. Crabapple pride of place. He was certainly well named, for he sang like a lark.
“Oh, how marvelous,” Mrs. Harding breathed as the last echo faded across the water. Her hands fluttered as she applauded with gusto. Jess and Maudie joined in. Lord Featherstone bowed, then nudged his friend. Mr. Crabapple stumbled forward.
“Such praise is only your due, my dear Mrs. Harding,” he called, voice catching. “All I ask is that you consider allowing me the honor of your hand in a dance at the assembly this Wednesday.”
“Two dances,” she called down. “And I will expect your escort, sir.”
Even in the dim light, Jess could see her Regular turning as rosy as his namesake. “Delighted. Overjoyed. Such kindness, such condescension, such magnificence…”
“Perhaps the lady requires an escort back to her accommodations now,” Lord Featherstone suggested, eyeing his friend.
Mr. Crabapple shook his head so hard his nose bounced. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of imposing. To have such a responsibility, no, no, it is too much to ask.”
“A shame,” the widow called, humor dancing in her voice. “I suspect I must then rely on Lord Featherstone or perhaps the handsome Mr. Denby.”
Mr. Crabapple looked daggers at Jess’s Newcomer, who spread his hands as if well used to the attentions of the ladies.
And that was quite enough of that. “We’ll all go,” Jess said. “I believe Lord Featherstone and Mr. Denby have rooms along the way. Allow my aunt and me to gather our shawls, and we’ll join you.”
A few minutes later, they were strolling along the shore path toward High Street and Shell Cottage, which Mrs. Harding had rented for the summer. The widow walked with one arm linked in Lord Featherstone’s and the other in Mr. Crabapple’s, head turned first to the right and then to the left as she conversed with both. Maudie scurried just behind as if determined to overhear every bit of it.
“Two strings to her bow,” Jess murmured with a shake of her head.
“Indeed,” Lark said, walking beside her. “I regret that I blundered in.”
She glanced at him. With the pistol safely out of sight, he no longer looked so dangerous. Indeed, he seemed the young man she had met at the spa eight years ago. She could not trust his thoughtful look.
“What were you doing down at the shore this evening?” she asked.
“Merely taking a walk,” he assured her. “I thought the exercise might be healthful.”
As if he could be any healthier. Even Lord Featherstone’s shoulders were not so broad, his stride so firm.
“My father always considered exercise healthful,” she allowed. “Though he favored walking along the cliffs when he could and in daylight.”
“Yet he decided to take a house right at the shore,” Lark mused, taking her arm as they stepped off the shore path and onto High Street. The touch sent a tingle up her arm, as if she had put a hand in the cool of the sea on a hot day. “
That wasn’t where you lived eight years ago.”
“No,” Jess said. “The cottage used to house the constable. The Spa Corporation decided it was better for lodging the staff. I was raised in Shell Cottage, the house Mrs. Harding is now renting. I could not keep it after Father died.” There, she sounded regretful, not bitter. Lark wasn’t the only one who could hide his feelings under polite conversation.
“I’m sorry you lost your father,” he murmured, “and your home. That had to be a double blow.”
It had been, but she was thankful she had a place to live. “The cottage suffices for me, my aunt, and my brother.”
“Ah, yes, your brother,” he said. “He was only a lad when I was here before, and I don’t believe I’ve met him yet this time. What does he do?”
“Alex has yet to decide on his vocation,” Jess said, and left it at that.
The slope of the street was gentle as they passed through the shuttered shops. There was no reason for him to be holding her hand, but he didn’t pull away.
Neither did she.
But she paused as they reached Shell Cottage. Though Mrs. Harding’s servants had left the lamps burning, Jess did not need the light to see it. Her memories provided too many visions. The welcoming smile on her father’s face as he came in the front door with its fan light shaped like a cockle shell. The laughter around the damask-draped dining table that could seat twelve comfortably yet never felt too large for the four of them bunched on one end. The warmth of the fire in the white marble hearth of the parlor on a night when the wind rattled the panes and her father teased Maudie about her ghost stories.
Now Mrs. Harding stood on the porch, wiggled her fingers in farewell, and glided inside, where her maid and footman were waiting. Jess bit back a sigh.
Mr. Crabapple’s sigh sounded far happier as the door closed. Then he whirled so fast, Maudie scrambled back with a shriek.
“Oh, Miss Chance!” he cried, eyes wide and hands once more gesticulating. “You must help me. I’m to take Mrs. Harding to the assembly. What should I wear? What shall I say?”
