The Artist's Healer

by Regina Scott

  “There’s nowhere you can go,” Ellison was saying. “especially if you take the daughter of an earl with you. Give up, and let her free.”

  The girl tilted back her head, curls swinging, as if to try to see how her captor was taking all this.

  Owens’ gaze went past the baker to Linus, then narrowed. “You? It seems you’re more clever than I thought to escape the press gang. But it matters not. I have my ticket out of this wretched little village. What Navy vessel will fire on me with the daughter of the mighty Earl of Howland at my side?”

  “I don’t want to go anywhere with you,” Lady Miranda said. Her voice was petulant, but it had a catch to it, as if she held back tears with difficulty.

  “Leave her,” Linus urged. “Take me instead. Even the French army needs another physician.”

  He hesitated, and Linus eased forward. Owens tightened his grip on the girl, and her face began to turn red.

  Linus held up his hands. “I am no threat to you. Let her go.”

  “You,” he said with a nod to Ellison. “Remove your boots.”

  Ellison stiffened. “My boots?”

  “Do it!” Owens shouted.

  The echo mocked them.

  Ellison glanced to Linus, who nodded. Very likely the Frenchman thought the baker wouldn’t be able to run after him over the rocks in his stocking feet. Ellison sat on one of the larger stones and began pulling off his boots. Owens was watching, so Linus inched another step closer, then another. He could not like the girl’s color.

  A clatter behind him spoke of someone else entering the cavern, but he didn’t dare turn his head to look. Every step closer was a step toward freeing Lady Miranda. Still, he wasn’t surprised when he heard Abigail’s voice not far behind him.

  “You’re choking your prize,” she warned the Frenchman. “She’s no good to you dead.”

  Owens glanced down.

  Lady Miranda reared back her head and struck him in the lips. As he staggered, Linus lunged.

  “Here, Lady Miranda!” Abigail shouted, and the cave cheered the girl on as she dashed out of reach. Linus bowled Owens over, grappling for purchase as the waves splashed against them, frigid. Owens hands reached for him now, struggled to clasp his neck. Even as he shook the fellow off, Owens fingers jabbed toward his eyes.

  Lady Miranda darted back in and dropped a stone on Owens’s head. His flinch was enough for Linus to gain the upper hand. He pressed the Frenchman’s shoulders down into the rocks and held him still.

  “Nicely done,” Abigail said, coming to put her arm around the girl. Lady Miranda hid her face against Abigail’s chest.

  Suddenly, the cavern boomed with noise as more people spilled from the stairway—Mr. Carroll, the staff of Castle How, and its earl. Lady Miranda broke from Abigail to run for her father.

  Linus hauled Owens to his feet.

  “Look, Father!” Lady Miranda declared, pointing back toward them. “I captured Napoleon.”

  Ellison moved to help Linus with their captive. Salt water dripped from his trousers, his fine coat was askew, and a lump the size of a goose egg was growing on his forehead. Abigail shook her head at him.

  “Not quite Napoleon,” Linus said as the others came to meet them. “But one of his agents. My lord, does your castle have a dungeon where we might house this villain until the magistrate takes charge of him?”

  “I’ll be happy to carry the word,” Ellison offered, giving Owens a nudge.

  “No dungeon,” the earl said, one arm about his daughter and blue gaze like steel. “But I have a storeroom with a stout lock on it. Tell my cousin I wish to be present when he questions the fellow. I would like to know what else the French have planned for my castle.”

  “Mr. Ellison, Mr. Carroll, if you would do the honors?” Linus handed the spy to them, and they led him toward the stairs.

  “It seems I owe you a great debt,” Lord Howland told Linus. “You saved my daughter’s life.”

  “Actually, my lord, Lady Miranda was beyond brave. She may well have saved my life.” He put his arm around Abigail. “But then, I have come to expect such valor of the women of Grace-by-the-Sea.”

  ~~~

  She ought to be dragging her feet with weariness, but Abigail marched with Linus back down to the village. James Howland had arrived shortly after they’d climbed out of the cavern. He’d begun questioning Owens immediately. While the fellow refused to tell the whereabouts of his cohorts or their number, he admitted to being an agent of France. He had stopped in the village after Harris had been captured to determine why Grace-by-the-Sea seemed to thwart their every move.

  “You must tell me,” he had urged Howland in the thick-walled storeroom, as Linus, Abigail, and the earl stood in the background. “I thought you, Bennett, and Denby were the leaders. If I removed you, I cleared the way. There must be another. St. Claire? Greer?”

  “My wife, Mrs. Denby, and Miss Archer have been one step ahead of you at every turn,” the magistrate answered with a grim smile. “You see, it isn’t just the men of England you should fear. Every man, woman, and child will come out to fight for our land. A shame you cannot tell your emperor that.”

  “I will tell the emperor everything,” he threatened. “My men will come for me.”

  “I don’t think they will,” Linus put in. “If I’m not mistaken, your men are on their way to France and have no idea you’ve even been captured.”

  “Indeed,” Mr. Howland said with a look to Linus. “Captain St. Claire returned this morning to tell me as much. He chased that French ship nearly to France. How did you know, Bennett?”

  “Ethan saw something the day of the Regatta the rest of us missed,” Linus explained. “He sketched the French vessel with only three men aboard, a precarious crew at best. Put the word out up and down the coast, and I think you’ll find someone’s pleasure sloop has been stolen.”

  “Lord Waverly’s,” Howland had agreed. “The word came through yesterday. He sent his regrets that he could not join the Regatta, which will run tomorrow without French interference.”

  And it did. Abigail, her mother, Ethan, and Linus joined the rest of the village and their guests to cheer for the Siren’s Call.

  “Second,” Ethan lamented as they walked home that evening. “I wanted him to win.”

  “I have a feeling he could have won,” Abigail told him. “Perhaps he doesn’t want the French to know how fast he can truly sail.”

  They returned to a fine fish stew courtesy of Jack Hornswag at the Mermaid. As her mother and Ethan finished clearing the table, Abigail led Linus down the corridor for her studio.

  “I want to show you something,” she said as she opened the door and let him in. “Something for our home. What do you think of this?” She stepped aside to let him view her seascape.

  Four figures—grandmother, father, mother, and son—stood with their backs to the viewer and their gazes trained out over the boundless waters. The sun broke through clouds to gleam about them, as if anointing them from above.

  He stared at it, and the wonder and awe on his face called to her more surely than the sea itself.

  “I love it,” he said. He turned to her. “And I love you, Abigail.”

  He gathered her close, her love, her healer, and she knew the future would be as bright and boundless as the waves she had painted.

  ~~~~~~

  Dear Reader

  Thank you for choosing Linus and Abigail’s story. I knew Abigail required the right man to heal her heart. And Linus needed a little healing himself. A special thank you to my Facebook fans, especially Karen Visnosky, who suggested the title for the book. One tiny confession: grand stand was two words in the Regency period, but I used one word here for clarity. If you missed how Jesslyn and Lark fell in love anew, see The Matchmaker’s Rogue. Eva and James found each other in The Heiress’s Convenient Husband.

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  Turn the page for a peek of the fourth book in the Grace-by-the-Sea series, The Governess’s Earl. Rejected by the man she loved, quick-witted bluestocking Rosemary Denby is determined to win the position of governess to the temperamental Lady Miranda, daughter of the Earl of Howland. But is it the widowed earl who truly needs a lesson, in love?

  Blessings!

  Regina Scott

  Sneak Peek: The Governess’s Earl, Book 4 in the Grace-by-the-Sea Series by Regina Scott

  Castle How, Grace-by-the-Sea, Dorset, England, August 1804

  He might be earl, but he would never be his father.

  Standing in a dressing room of the castle his father had used as a hunting lodge, Drake, Earl of Howland, pulled away from the well-meaning attentions of his new valet. Pierson had been, until recently, a moderately successful under-footman, but Drake’s former valet had refused to leave London for the wilds of Dorset, and promoting Pierson had meant one less servant he would have to discharge.

  If his cravat looked as if it had been trod upon by a herd of angry hippopotami, that was a small price to pay for household harmony.

  Somewhere a door slammed, and Drake flinched, imagining the fit Miranda was likely throwing with some unfortunate maid.

  “Too tight, my lord?” Pierson asked, pale blue eyes liquid with anxiety as he gazed at the ruined cravat.

  “It’s fine,” he assured the manservant yet again as he regarded himself in the standing mirror. Pierson had combed his blond hair back from his face and trimmed the ends to rest neatly above his ears on the sides and collar at the back. Likely few would notice that one sideburn was slightly shorter than the other. Then too, few here in the little spa village of Grace-by-the-Sea would notice that he was wearing the same waistcoat he’d worn the day before and the day before that. Did Pierson have some sort of affinity for the striped wine-colored silk? He would have to remind the fellow he possessed several waistcoats, in different colors and textures, as well as more than the brown breeches and coat he persisted in pairing it with. At least his wardrobe hadn’t had to be sold off at auction like their townhouse and country estate. Then again, what did it matter what he wore? It wasn’t as if he had anyone left to impress.

  A knock sounded at the dressing room door. Pierson froze, eyes wide in indecision. A footman answered doors. But a valet? “Should I…?” he started.

  “Please,” Drake said.

  As soon as the servant turned, he snatched a different coat off the hook and shrugged himself into it.

  Pierson opened the door, then scuttled back like a crab on the shore so that Jonas, the family butler, might enter. Now, there was a fellow any servant might wish to copy. Black hair pomaded in place around an impassive face, the butler advanced into the room with stately tread. He was the third fellow in the position that Drake remembered, the other two having been discharged by his father for not representing the House of Howland with sufficient aplomb. No one would ever level such an accusation at Jonas. He stood just behind Drake, his head only slightly higher, and kept his gaze respectfully in the middle distance until Drake recognized his presence.

  “What is it, Jonas?” he dutifully asked.

  “The next candidate has arrived for her interview, my lord.”

  Another one? Already he was regretting putting the advertisement in the local newspaper for a governess for Miranda. She had pouted for hours when she’d learned he intended to locate someone to care for her. And he’d sat through four interviews so far, finding any number of reasons why none of the women were clever enough, devoted enough, and kind enough to see to his daughter’s needs.

  He eyed the butler. “I don’t recall scheduling an interview for this morning.”

  Jonas kept his gaze over Drake’s left shoulder. Why did he still feel a touch of impatience? “Nevertheless, Miss Denby is waiting downstairs in the library.”

  “Perhaps a cravat pin, my lord?” Pierson fussed. “Or a different coat?”

  Drake waved him back. “I am sufficient, thank you. Jonas, you may tell Miss Denby I will be right down.”

  Now that regal face hinted of disapproval, dark brows gathering over his long nose. “I’m sure Miss Denby will be willing to wait until you are pleased to see her, my lord.” He paused; Drake nodded. He inclined his head and left.

  Very likely this Miss Denby would have had to wait on his father’s pleasure. How he had relished any display of power—making the staff wait, making callers wait. Making Drake wait. He would never be his father—the fact had been drummed into him since birth.

  And he couldn’t mind in the least.

  “Boots, perhaps?” he suggested to Pierson, who immediately went to fetch the shiny black pair.

  He found Miss Denby seated in one of the heavy-armed chairs in the library. Felicity had laughed at the pretentious red and black dragons entwined on the satin seat, but then again, his late wife had had a way of making the darkest day seem bright. Would there ever come a time he didn’t yearn to have her at his side again?

  He made himself smile at the waiting lady. “Miss Denby. Forgive me for keeping you.”

  “Punctuality is a prize few capture,” she replied, and he had to stop himself from apologizing yet again. Odd. She wasn’t particularly large or stern-faced. Indeed, her gown of sea-green wool was tailored to a neat figure, and the patterned shawl over her shoulders might have graced any young miss in London. The only things about her that were the least intimidating was the way her warm brown hair was pulled back into a severe bun behind her head and how her clear blue eyes narrowed as if trying to determine his character.

  But he was the master here, the one intent on hiring a governess. He would be the one asking the questions.

  “Indeed,” he said, taking the seat opposite her. “Is punctuality a lesson you generally impart to your charges?”

  She regarded him. “I have no need to impart it, my lord. My charges are seldom late.”

  Slippery. He kept the smile on his face. He’d learned a few tricks from his father, after all. Never let your guard down. Never let them see your deliberation unless it puts you at an advantage. “I see. I assume you brought references from your previous employers.”

  She clucked her tongue. “I would never advise making assumptions on such short acquaintance.”

  Drake opened his mouth, then shut it again. What was it about this woman that put him in so defensive a position?

  He gathered his dignity with difficulty, raising his chin and squaring his shoulders. “Exactly how much experience do you have as a governess?”

  She glanced up at the ceiling as if calculating the beams that crossed it. “Six years, three months, and eighteen days.”

  Well, that was something, both the amount and the precision. Though she must have started rather young. She could not be much beyond six and twenty. “And how many charges have you schooled during that time?”

  “One.”

  Drake raised his brows. “One?”

  She cocked her head. “Yes. I distinctly said as much. Have you a difficulty with hearing or recall?”

  Neither, but he somehow thought she would turn aside any response he tried. “One child is not sufficient experience for this position.”

  Her eyes widened. “But you only have one child. Why would you need a governess with experience schooling more? Besides, I started the dame school in Upper Grace and developed its curriculum before leaving it in my older sister’s good hands.”

  So she hadn’t actually taught there either? He felt as if the bookshelf-lined walls were closing in around him. “Miss Denby, I do not wish to appear rude, but you do seem unsuited for the rol
e of caring for my daughter. She has been through a great deal for having only attained nine years. She requires encouragement, nurturing.”

  “Precisely why I applied,” she insisted. “Lady Miranda and I have much in common. She lost her dear mother a year ago, I understand. I lost my father when I was eight.”

  The memory of his own loss was still too sharp. He would not have wished the pain on any child. “My condolences.”

  She did not pause to acknowledge his comment. “Furthermore, through a change in circumstances, Lady Miranda finds herself in a new home in a new location. I too had to leave Kent for Dorset to live with my uncle after my father’s death.”

  Perhaps she had something to teach after all. He leaned forward. “How did you manage?”

  She spread her hands. “As you can see, I grew into an educated woman capable of securing her own future. I would like to help Lady Miranda reach a similar happy state.”

  Felicity would like that. She had refused to hire a nanny or governess, preferring to care for Miranda herself. He had never seen such love and devotion. He had been desperately trying to mimic it for the last year. Now that he was earl, he no longer had the luxury of spending all his time with his daughter. He must find a way out of the financial chasm his father had dug for them all, support his mother in her grieving, do his duty in Parliament when it started up again in the fall, and help his cousin James safeguard the village from the impending French invasion. Why, a French ship rested in the caverns below the castle even now, waiting for someone. Therefore, he needed another to step in and care for Miranda.

  Could Miss Denby be exactly what he needed?