The Matchmaker's Rogue

by Regina Scott

  Alex shook his head. “Sorry. Busy. But you could take him out, Jess.”

  Had he forgotten she had a job now, responsibilities? And while many of the inhabitants of Grace-by-the-Sea might look the other way when their beloved physician instructed his young daughter in the fine points of sailing, they might not be so forgiving if their spa hostess took up the tiller. She hardly wanted to give the Spa Corporation another reason to replace her.

  “I stopped sailing ages ago,” she said.

  Alex turned to Lark. “You should have seen her, Mr. Denby. Father let her wear trousers under her skirts when she was young, but when she decided to play the lady all the time, she couldn’t sail as well.”

  “It isn’t easy tying off a sail in petticoats,” Jess retorted. “You try it.”

  “No, thank you,” Alex said, holding up his hands in surrender. “And I meant no disrespect. Petticoats must have their purpose.”

  “Easier to dance around toadstools,” Maudie said.

  Jess gave it up and laughed. Lark’s smile only made the moment sweeter.

  “And to show my respect,” Alex continued, “I will tell you that she’s being modest, Mr. Denby. She was good. She even sailed into the Dragon’s Maw. She was so determined to prove her skills that she nearly wrecked the ketch on the rocks.”

  Her brother would have to mention that. Jess busied herself with spooning out more broccoli, as if she had nothing more important to do.

  “I wasn’t the one guiding the ship,” she said. “And we both lived to tell the tale and no one the wiser.”

  “Your father didn’t know?” Lark asked.

  “No,” Jess admitted.

  “I knew,” Maudie put in. “I always know when Alex is lying. His ears twitch.”

  Alex dropped his fork and clapped a hand to each ear. “They do not!”

  “I certainly never noticed,” Jess assured him. Though she would be on the watch for it now. “And I don’t see how you could be too busy to take Lark out, Alex.”

  She eyed her brother, who looked to Lark as he dropped his hands. “Truly, Mr. Denby, you need someone else. I tend to stay on land these days.”

  Terribly wet land that appeared to grow seaweed. His ears twitched. Jess narrowed her eyes.

  “So, who would you suggest?” Lark asked, forking up the broccoli. “Henry Bascom, Quillan St. Claire?”

  “Not Captain St. Claire,” Maudie put in, pausing to suck her teeth. “He hides away in his cottage, only coming out on the dark of the moon. No, Alex is a far better choice.”

  “I say, dear sister,” Alex put in brightly, “was that trifle I saw you take down to the cellar to keep cool?”

  Dear sister. Oh, but he was putting it on thick. Twitching ears or no, he didn’t want to talk about sailing. Still, she could hardly deny the treat that was waiting.

  “Yes, dear brother. Why don’t you be a darling and fetch it for me?”

  He leaned back on the bench. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of depriving you of the honor.”

  Maudie popped up. “I’ll get it.” She slid off the bench and hustled for the door that led down to the cellar.

  Jess met her brother’s gaze. He smiled. She wanted to box his twitching ears.

  Maudie returned and set the trifle on the table. Jess set about spooning it out, still fuming. At least Lark’s eyes lit as he took a bite of the strawberries, cake, and cream mixture.

  “Is that lavender I taste?” he asked after swallowing. “I thought most of it came from France.”

  Oh, don’t let him take her for a smuggler now!

  Maudie sighed. “Lovely stuff too, such a pretty purple. Perfect for luring in fairies.”

  “This came from the Inchleys,” Jess told him. “Very likely they had it from a nearby farmer. France isn’t the only place to find lavender.”

  “Or lace,” her brother acknowledged. “Though the ladies seem to favor it.”

  And how would he know? She hadn’t seen him around a lot of ladies.

  Lark leaned toward him. “Hard to get French lace these days, unless you’re a smuggler. A shame there are none around Grace-by-the-Sea.”

  Alex shrugged. “There are Free Traders all along the Dorset coast.”

  Her heart sank, but she could not give up so easily. “But not here.”

  “Maybe,” he answered maddeningly. “But there might be one or two more in Upper Grace.”

  Jess opened her mouth, and she felt something press against her foot. Was that Lark’s boot?

  “Care to introduce me?” Lark asked her brother.

  Alex leaned back. “If they’re amendable.”

  She jerked her foot away from Lark’s. “Alexander Chance, if you know something about smuggling, you report it, right now.”

  Alex scowled. “I’m no telltale.”

  “Your sister is right, sir,” Lark informed him. “If there are smugglers in the area, you must report them. It’s the only way to keep the village safe.”

  “You’re both wrong,” Alex declared, slinging a leg off the bench. “There are many ways to keep the coast safe. Excuse me. I’ve lost my appetite.” He rose.

  “Alex,” Jess protested, but he snagged his coat off the hook beside the door and slammed out. A moment later, he loped past the window.

  “Forgive me,” Lark said, rising. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble between you.”

  Neither had she, but she’d been the one to press matters. Jess swung off the bench as well. “No, forgive us, Lark. We haven’t been the best hosts. I suppose we’re rusty.”

  “Even with feeding all those strays?” he teased.

  “They made excellent stew,” Maudie assured him.

  Jess could not recapture the laughter of earlier. “Aunt, may I ask you to start clearing? I’ll just walk Mr. Denby back to High Street.”

  Maudie didn’t protest, though Lark looked at Jess askance. She went around the table to lead him to the door. She waited only until they had passed the cottage window before stopping him.

  “I know how it sounded just now with my brother, but I can’t make myself believe him to be in league with smugglers.”

  His smile was grim. “And yet he meets the criteria. He is from a genteel family, he has an easy manner that might draw other men to him, he seems strong and healthy, and he can sail.”

  Each fact pounded a nail in her heart. “But he must know the dangers. He must know it’s wrong. No, there’s something else at play.”

  His face tightened. “I wish I could believe that, but I fear your brother is hiding the truth from you. Alex could well be the Lord of the Smugglers.”

  ~~~

  Her eyes were wide, and he longed to slip into the expanse of blue like a tern diving for a fish. Then they narrowed, shutting him out.

  “No,” she said. “Alex can’t be the Lord of the Smugglers. He may have an easy manner, but he’s two steps out of the schoolroom. Can you see men flocking to follow?”

  Men like Howland? Likely not. But that didn’t mean her brother lacked supporters.

  “There must be men his age,” Lark said. “Henry Bascom’s boy, for one.”

  “Boy,” she echoed. “Exactly. Boys out for a bit of fun, not criminals bent on avoiding capture.”

  “Sometimes,” Lark said, “they are one and the same.”

  “Not with Alex,” she insisted.

  He wanted to believe her, but loyalty might have made her blind. It had his father. Looking back, Lark could see that every bit of evidence his father had gathered had suggested the smugglers were among their neighbors, their friends. Like Mrs. Bascom, the ladies of his village always had lace, the public houses brandy. Tea canisters never seemed to run out, and even the poorest families could find gloves for their children in the winter, despite the high import duty on the things.

  But his father had ignored the warning signs, certain that no one he knew could be so greedy, so lawless. Lark had never known in the end which hand had plunged the dagger into his father’s gut. He�
��d seen guilt and hostility on every face at the funeral. It was just as well his mother had moved them all to Upper Grace. She and his sisters had tried hard to forget. He still remembered.

  “I understand your need to protect your brother,” he said, feeling his way. “We set out to learn the truth about smuggling in the area. If it turns out he’s involved…”

  “He won’t be,” she said.

  He inclined his head. “Perhaps not. I hope we can agree that whoever is involved must be stopped.”

  She nodded. “Yes. I have no argument with you there.”

  “Good. Then we have two more opportunities to pursue: questioning Jack Hornswag and Captain St. Claire. I’ll request a meeting with the latter. We can beard Hornswag in his den in the morning.”

  She drew in a breath. “Very well. I’ll see you at the spa, then.”

  That was his cue to leave her. He couldn’t make his feet move. Indeed, emotion swept over him, stronger than the waves on the cove beside them. She had been bequeathed nothing but burdens—the management of the spa, the care of her brother and aunt. She was carrying them all well, yet he longed to come along beside her, help her when she faltered, encourage her when she soared. He wanted to soar with her.

  Her eyes widened again, as if she could see the thoughts tumbling through his mind.

  “You want to kiss me,” she said.

  He did. The realization only made the urge stronger. But he had no more right to kiss her than Vincent had had to pursue her. He wasn’t ready to take a wife.

  Even if Jess would make the perfect wife.

  ~~~

  She knew that look. A groom’s face held the same tender wonder right before he kissed his bride at the altar. Why would Lark look at her that way now?

  She had watched him walk away before, but she’d been a green girl then, unsure of herself and her place in the world. Now she understood the give and take in a courtship, had watched it play out dozens of times over the last few years as she was called upon to play matchmaker. Several ladies in the village owed their weddings to her efforts. Other guests had left betrothed and written her of happy marriages afterward. She knew what to look for in a gentleman’s behavior to suggest he was interested in a lady. Lark’s actions held a spark of interest.

  He blinked at her question, and pink rushed to his cheeks. “I suppose I do want to kiss you.”

  She didn’t suppose. She didn’t think. She simply stepped forward and pressed her lips to his.

  And she was flying, like a cutter shooting through the waves, fearless, boundless. His arms came around her, cradled her against him. It was magnificent, thrilling.

  Terrifying.

  She drew back, trying to find breath. He seemed to be having equal trouble locating equilibrium.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  It was such a simple thing to say after such a kiss that she had to laugh.

  He joined her. “Sorry. You took me by surprise. And here I was, trying to convince myself I should not think of you as a bride.”

  Her heart slammed into her chest, as if it too wanted to go flying. “And what did you conclude?”

  “That you are impossibly precious to me.”

  Why did he sound saddened by the fact? “And this troubles you?”

  “It does, for there is only one outcome I know for such feelings, and I have never been in a position to marry.”

  His eyes dipped down at the corners. So did his lips. Lips that had felt so wondrous against hers. Lips she had heard speak of devotion.

  “Never is a very long time,” she allowed. She crossed her arms over her chest and looked him up and down. “You are healthy, established in your profession. You can make some claim to good character.”

  That won a smile from him. “Some.”

  “Then why can’t you marry?”

  He was quiet a moment, and she heard him draw in a breath. “I’m not sure you understand what it’s like to be a wife of a Riding Officer, never knowing when her husband will return, if he will return. Being shunned by friends and family who believe him a traitor to their way of life. I saw what my mother and sisters endured. I will not allow my wife and children to suffer.”

  Oh! Stubborn! She knew that look as well. He’d left her once, despite the feelings she’d had for him. It seemed he thought he might have feelings now, but not deep enough, not true enough, to matter against his determination. Would she have to bury her feelings yet again?

  Something pushed up inside her, like water rising on the incoming tide, demanding that she take a risk, show him what he was missing. Attempt to capture his heart and keep him at her side.

  Dangerous thought. She had little evidence to hope for success. Yet he had kissed her back. He had run with her. He had confided in her. He obviously enjoyed working beside her on a common goal.

  “I can see that your mind is made up,” she said. “So is mine. We finish this investigation together, sir, but I propose a change in plans.”

  He raised his brows. “Oh? Someone else we must interview?”

  She could feel her courage building. “No. You wanted to see the caves under Castle How. I’ve thought of someone who might take you into the Dragon’s Maw. Be on the shore at midnight tonight. Your captain will be waiting.”

  Even if she was shaking in her half-boots.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Lark had no idea who Jess had in mind to take him into the caves, but he wasn’t about to question her proposal. Getting a look under Castle How might provide any number of insights. Some smugglers had especially equipped hiding holes, complete with shelving to store supplies and goods, sleeping quarters, and even personal belongings. He might be able to discover the identity of the Lord of the Smugglers before morning.

  “I’ll be there,” he promised Jess. “And thank you.” The urge to kiss her was building again, so he made himself turn and head for the Mermaid.

  But thoughts of her followed him, and he knew why.

  For the first time, he questioned his beliefs. He had determined never to marry until he could assure the safety of his wife and family. He’d thought perhaps when the war ended, things would be different. Taxes could be lowered. The smugglers would have less incentive to ply their trade, and those selling secrets would find fewer buyers. But England had been at war for decades. Would there ever come a time he could convince himself it was safe enough to wed?

  The matter remained on his mind as he prepared for the night’s adventure. He might dress as a gentleman to interact with the denizens of Grace-by-the-Sea, but he knew how to blend in with the night as well as any smuggler did. His success and his life often depended on it. With his black wool sweater, black fitted jacket, black trousers tucked into his boots, and a dark cap pulled low over his forehead, he resembled nothing so much as a shadow. The few remaining patrons of the inn’s public room didn’t even remark when he slipped out before midnight.

  Moonlight made the cove a place of light and shadow. The waves brushed the shore quietly. Directly ahead, a small boat was beached, its end bobbing.

  Another shadow detached itself from the fishermen’s sheds. Lark stiffened, but the moonlight etched the silver hair and aristocratic features he had come to know.

  “Ready to embark, Mr. Denby?” Lord Featherstone asked.

  Lark shook his head. “So, you’re the one willing to sail into the Dragon’s Maw.”

  A ripple went through the fellow. A shudder? “You mistake me, sir. I am merely Charon, here to ferry you across the River Styx.” He gestured toward the boat. “Shall we?”

  The allusion to the passage to Hades held no comfort. Bemused, Lark held the stern steady as the baron climbed aboard. Then Lark shoved the boat off the beach and jumped in. Featherstone made no move to take up the oars, so Lark applied himself. The water splashed as he rowed out into the cove.

  “That’s our ketch, there,” the baron murmured.

  Lark angled his strokes to head in that direction. His lordship grasped the hul
l as they came alongside, and Lark helped him snug the boat against the wooden side.

  “Up you go, now,” Lord Featherstone said. “Your captain is waiting.”

  Lark stood and grasped the edge that lay almost even with the row boat’s. “How will you get back?”

  His lordship shifted to take up the oars, patrician nose in the air. “Just remember, my boy. We do mad things for love.”

  Love? Who was waiting for him on the ship? Lark swung himself aboard and leaned over to help the baron shove off.

  He straightened to eye the boat. The ketch was long and sleek, and likely had a shallow bottom and short keel to allow it to glide into the cove. That meant it was all too easy to keel over. Whoever sailed it must be skilled.

  He cocked his head to see around the mast, but his captain might as well have been a wraith for all he could see of the fellow. He was here, there, here again, checking ropes, tackle, the sails. He pointed to a thick rope stretching taut from the bow. Right. Best not to speak as little as possible, as Lord Featherstone had done. Voices carried over water. No need to wake the village.

  Lark went to the rope and tugged. The boat had moved enough on the tide that the anchor came free. He hauled it in and stowed it in the bow. Turning from the task, he found that his guide had unlashed the mainsail and had pulled it up and into place. He pointed toward the jib, and Lark went to draw the triangular front sail into place as well. As the captain passed him for the tiller, he caught a whiff of lavender.

  No! It couldn’t be.

  Before he could confirm his fears, the wind filled the sails, and the ketch shot forward. He clutched the mast to keep his footing. The breeze and tide pushing them, they darted across the cove and whipped through the opening between the headlands and out onto the open sea. The horizon disappeared in the moonlight, until there was nothing ahead but sea and stars.

  The captain adjusted the tiller, and the ketch tilted as it swung to the east. They skimmed along the shore, the cliffs ghostly white against the night sky. Lark made his way to the stern.

  “I thought you didn’t sail anymore,” he said.