by Regina Scott
Lord Featherstone laid a hand on his shoulder. “All matters for another day, my good man. Bid your hostess good night and thank her for her help.”
“Oh, yes, yes, of course.” He dropped his hands and blinked owlishly. “Thank you so much for your assistance, Miss Chance, and you as well, Mr. Denby.” A smile spread. “I’m to escort Mrs. Harding.”
“Good for you,” Maudie encouraged him.
Lord Featherstone stepped away and nodded to Lark. “Be a good chap, Denby, and see him home. I must have a word with Miss Chance and Mrs. Tully.”
She felt the shift in Lark’s body, closer to hers, protective. What did he think Lord Featherstone meant to ask her?
“It’s quite all right, Mr. Denby,” she said. “Lord Featherstone has known me since I was a child.”
“Well, perhaps a young lady,” Lord Featherstone demurred.
“Me too,” Maudie said, and the older lord looked hard-pressed to maintain his smile.
Left with no other choice if he wanted to keep the appellation of gentleman, Lark inclined his head and went to walk with Mr. Crabapple. Lord Featherstone waited only until they passed the next house before bending his head to look Jess in the eyes.
“There is something decidedly odd about Mr. Denby,” he pronounced. “Nothing but questions, and then he barges in on Crabapple’s assignation.”
“Hardly an assignation,” Jess protested. “You and I and Maudie were there.”
Maudie nodded agreement.
“We were invited,” Lord Featherstone reminded her. “He was not. Be very careful, Miss Chance. I begin to believe he has designs on you.”
Jess reared back. “Me?”
“Indeed,” Lord Featherstone said, straightening. “Though I would not admit it before the Widow, I have on occasion considered myself as acting in loco parentis, Miss Chance. Your father was alive when previous gentlemen attempted closer acquaintance with you. I’m sure he gave you wise counsel. I only hope to do the same now.”
Her father had had both a discerning and a protective nature. He had eased her sorrows when Lark had departed the first time and confirmed her concerns about the next fellow she had thought she might come to love. But he had missed the last dastard entirely.
“Thank you for your concern, my lord,” Jess told Lord Featherstone. “But never fear. I know exactly how to deal with a gentleman who finds himself in over his head.”
~~~
“Dunked in the sea?” Lark stared at Mrs. Tully the next morning. It had not been a good night. First, he had learned nothing about the shipment supposedly coming in, then he had nearly given himself away at the shore, and finally there had been so much celebration in the public room of the Mermaid that he hadn’t been able to fall asleep until nearly dawn. The final nail had been pounded into his coffin when he had encountered Mr. Carroll on the way through town to the spa.
“Please let Miss Chance know the shipment has arrived,” he had told Lark with a pleasant smile.
Lark had stopped in his tracks, shocked by the brazen statement. “Shipment, sir?”
“Fashion magazines,” he’d explained. “Monthly. Late, of course, because of the war and duties, but so popular at the spa, particularly with Mrs. Tully.”
French fashion magazines, duty paid. Perfectly legal. Another day wasted.
And now Mrs. Tully expected him to go dunk his head.
“It’s part of the spa’s treatments,” she said, stabbing a boney finger at the pamphlet. “Very efficacious for puss-filled protrusions.” She peered closer. “Have you any puss-filled protrusions, Mr. Denby?”
“None whatsoever,” Lark informed her. “So I see no reason to avail myself of a cure.”
“But being dunked would allow you to keep an eye on the cove,” she pointed out, straightening.
Lark made himself shrug. “And why would a gentleman like me have any reason to watch the cove?”
Mrs. Tully slapped a hand against her black bombazine dress. “I wish I knew! Lord Featherstone seems to think you have nefarious designs on my niece.”
Nefarious? He met her gaze. “I would never do anything to harm your niece.”
She nodded. “I’m more inclined to believe you’re in league with Napoleon.”
Lark eyed her. He’d spent all this time considering Lord Featherstone, Mr. Carroll, and even Jess, and the leader might have been right in front of him all along. Did Mrs. Tully just play at being mad?
“Have you met many people in league with Napoleon?” he asked cautiously.
“Dozens,” she declared, disgust lacing her voice.
He edged closer. “Oh? Who?”
She leaned toward him and lowered her voice. “The ones on the cove.” She nodded sagely.
“The fishermen?” he pressed.
She straightened and gave him a pitying look. “Of course not the fishermen. Some of them haven’t the sense God gave a goose. Why else would they keep dropping their nets overboard?”
Why else indeed, if they weren’t actually fishing? “Then one of the Spa Corporation leaders,” he guessed. “Someone with a fast ship at his disposal.”
She tapped her nose with one finger. “Now you’re thinking. Have to be fast to keep up with them.”
“Who?” Lark nearly winced at the begging tone.
“The French, of course,” she said, clearly exasperated with him. “I saw Old Boney himself, on the headland by Castle How, only last month.”
And wouldn’t the commissioner sit up and take notice at that report? Lark puffed out a sigh, straightening. A shame he couldn’t believe her story. Napoleon wouldn’t set foot in England without his elite guard at his back and a thousand ships behind them, ships Lark was thankful were still on the other side of the Channel. For now.
“Perhaps you should have threatened to dunk him,” Lark said. “That would have frightened him back to France.”
Mrs. Tully laughed, just as her niece wandered closer. Today, Jess’s curls had been confined in a severe bun at the back of her head, and he had to tighten his fingers to keep from reaching out to tug one free. The lack of frills on her dove grey gown only added to the feeling that she was being strict with him.
“Dunking isn’t a threat, Mr. Denby,” she said with that pleasant smile she reserved for difficult answers. “It’s a special treat. We only do it a few times each summer now that we have no physician to oversee the process.”
He seized on the excuse. “I would certainly want a physician on hand before trying it.”
“Why?” Mrs. Cole asked as she and her daughter joined them. “Is it dangerous?”
“Not in the slightest,” Jess assured them. “The water is bracing.”
“Freezing,” Lark amended.
She did not so much as spare him a frown. “And every bather is attended by two strong assistants.”
Her aunt raised her hand. “I volunteer to assist Mr. Denby.”
“Of the same gender,” Jess hurriedly added.
Mrs. Tully dropped her hand.
“And can we see the other bathers?” Miss Cole asked with a glance to Lark through her lashes.
“No,” Jess said with rather more vehemence than might have been warranted. “Men bathe on one side of the cove, women on the other, and the bathing huts prevent any sightings.”
Miss Cole sighed.
Lark stepped back. “I wish you all great fortune. I’ll be at the spa when you return.”
“Nonsense, Mr. Denby,” Lord Featherstone said, coming up and pressing a hand against his back as if to prevent Lark from fleeing. “You must have come to Grace-by-the-Sea hoping for a diversion. Saltwater bathing is highly diverting. Even our noble king and his family avail themselves of the opportunity when it is offered.”
Mrs. Tully’s eyes narrowed. “Have you something against the king, Mr. Denby?”
They were all watching him. Jess was the only one who looked amused, the light sparkling in her blue eyes.
He forced a smile. “Not at all, Mrs
. Tully. Since he approves of it, who am I to disapprove? As Lord Featherstone reminded me, I came to experience the spa, even if that means jumping into the sea.”
Chapter Seven
Lark’s dunking did not have the effect Jess had hoped, at least on him. After his initial hesitation, he went willingly enough, attended by Mr. Inchley, the grocer, and Mr. Josephs, the blacksmith and owner of the livery stable near the Swan.
“A good sport, he was,” the burly blacksmith assured her when she accepted the invoice for his time. “Smiling all the while.”
That she did not have to imagine. She’d been overseeing the ladies’ bathing when she’d caught her aunt up on the bank above the shore with her father’s spyglass pressed to her eye.
“Stop that at once,” Jess ordered.
When Maudie paid her no heed, she lifted her skirts and clambered up the chalky bank herself. “Maudlyn Tully, lower that glass.”
Maudie let the spyglass fall into the lap of her black bombazine gown. “Someone must oversee the gentlemen’s bathing.”
“Mr. Josephs and Mr. Inchley have helped us before. I see no need to interfere. Besides, I promised our guests they would have privacy.”
And privacy was not too difficult. Grace Cove was cupped by grass-topped headlands, like arms embracing the clear waters. A narrow opening was all that gave access to the Channel. Mr. Josephs lent her his horses, which he hitched to the six bathing huts. He knew exactly how to position them so that the ten-foot-square boxes blocked the views from each other. The attendants walked the horses out into the water to the ordained spots, until the waves lapped at the second step, then unhitched the horses and returned the beasts to shore.
Inside the huts, her guests changed into muslin smocks that covered them from shoulders to knees. When they were ready, they stepped out, and their attendants helped them down into the cool waters, dunking them in the waves. Lark was right—the waters were generally as crisp as an autumn morning, but the treatment only lasted a few minutes. Then the attendants helped the bathers back into the huts, and the entire process was reversed. It was all very civilized.
Well, except for the fact that her aunt was intent on spying!
“Protecting the village is more important than privacy,” Maudie insisted, fingers turning the spyglass in her lap as if she just couldn’t wait to put it to her eye again. “I want to know what Mr. Denby is doing.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake.” Jess snatched up the glass and put it to her eye. “Mr. Denby is just coming up from the sea. He isn’t doing anything the least…”
He stood in the water, waves up to his waist, the bathing smock clinging to his arms, his chest. He shook drops off his handsome face and gazed directly at her, smile lifting.
Jess whipped down the glass. “Help me with the ladies,” she told her aunt, starting down the bank. And if she slipped twice on the way, it was only because of the soil.
All her guests retired to their lodging after the dunking, but it was still hard for Jess to meet Lark’s gaze the next day. She knew he couldn’t have seen her across the cove while he had been bathing, but she could not shake the feeling they had shared something personal. She was simply glad Lord Featherstone monopolized his time with helping Mr. Crabapple prepare for the assembly on Wednesday.
Jess had convinced the would-be Romeo that the baron would be a far better guide than she would in matters of dress and etiquette when it came to impressing the ladies. Lord Featherstone, in turn, enlisted the aid of the Admiral (“that military bearing is always impressive”) and Lark (“a younger man quite obviously in the know about these things”). The four spent most of Tuesday strolling about the spa pontificating with Mr. Crabapple, who carried a small notebook and pencil and kept nodding and writing, nose nearly pressed to the page.
The spa closed just after tea on Wednesday so that her guests could dress for the event and she could prepare the assembly rooms at the top of the hill behind the spa. Designed in the Palladian style, with tall columns at the front, the solid, square building held an elegant hall for dancing, a narrower room for a supper served at midnight, and several retiring rooms and a kitchen at the back. The blue of the walls inside recalled the sea at sunrise, and the cornices above had been carved to resemble whitecaps.
Mr. Inchley and his family served as caterer and cleaning crew. He and his wife were waiting at the rear door when Jess opened the rooms. While she consulted with them, their son lowered the massive, multi-tiered crystal chandelier in the center of the high plastered ceiling of the main hall so Maudie could replace the candles.
“Still beeswax,” Mrs. Inchley said with a nod of her dark head as she eyed the pair through the doorway to the kitchen. “I expect I’ll hear from Mrs. Greer about the cost.”
“Very likely,” Jess commiserated. “But we’d both hear of it if tallow dripped on any of our distinguished guests.”
“Or her,” Mrs. Inchley agreed.
And their guests did look distinguished. Jess smiled in greeting as she stood by the doors to receive them that evening. Lord Featherstone was splendid in a dark blue cutaway coat, wine-colored waistcoat, and buff breeches. The pristine white cravat in a complicated fold drew attention to the silver of his artfully waved hair. Only he and Jess knew the diamond winking in the folds of that cravat was paste.
Mr. Crabapple looked nearly as impressive. Somehow Lord Featherstone, Lark, and the Admiral had convinced him to wear a wasp-waisted bottle-green coat that made his narrow shoulders look broader. She only hoped that wasn’t padding under his white stockings. The things were notorious for moving during activity. Mrs. Harding would scarcely thank him for his escort if his manly calves ended up on his knees.
The widow herself was in carmine, with rubies at her ears and throat and ostrich plumes in her piled-up hair. Jess had a few fashionable gowns from when she was younger, but styles had changed. She was thankful the Corporation had decided its hostess must do the spa credit, for the Misses Pierce at the linens and trimmings shop had been given leave to construct three ballgowns for her, which she rotated wearing at the assemblies and major events.
Tonight, it was the lilac-figured muslin with an overskirt of embroidered tulle. She’d embroidered the stars and flowers herself in white, cerulean blue, and silver, and they caught the light as she moved. Would Lark like it?
That didn’t matter. Of course that didn’t matter. Still, she found herself glancing around for him as the rest of her guests streamed into the hall.
“No sign of Mr. Denby,” Maudie reported, as if she had read Jess’s thoughts. “Or Alex, for that matter. How does that boy expect to continue the line if he refuses to do the pretty?”
“Perhaps because he is still more boy than man,” Jess reminded her. “Nineteen is young to be setting up a nursery.”
Maudie sniffed. “What about thirty?”
Jess followed her gaze to where James Howland was approaching. His coat and breeches were an unrelenting black, his waistcoat a silvery grey. Even his evening pumps were unadorned. The look on his face was nearly as severe. Had she done something to offend?
Jess dropped a curtsey and lowered her gaze. “Magistrate.”
“Miss Chance, Mrs. Tully,” he acknowledged as she rose. “A good turnout tonight.”
Jess glanced around the room. The assemblies generally attracted those who did not sully their hands to make a living, but the village had decreed that the members of the Spa Corporation Council and their families, no matter their background, should be included. The five current members of the council—Mr. Greer, Abigail, Mr. Lawrence, Mrs. Kirby, and Mr. Bent—had arrived and stood clustered at one end of the room. Mr. Wingate was in attendance, although he seldom danced. All their spa guests were accounted for as well, except one. She tried not to sigh.
“Yes,” she said brightly, “a fine showing indeed. I’m glad you could join us.”
His gaze was also sweeping the room. Who could he be searching for? “I believe the dancing will commence
shortly. I was hoping you’d favor me.”
Despite her training, she stepped back, brows up in surprise. He never danced, and certainly not with the spa hostess.
“I don’t dance,” Maudie informed him, nose in the air. “It will have to be you, Jesslyn.”
His mouth quirked, but he did not go so far as to laugh at her aunt’s assumption. “Miss Chance?”
Impossibly rude to refuse him. And she would be expected to start the dancing in any event. At private balls, the highest-ranking lady led the dancing. At Grace-by-the-Sea, the spa hostess ranked highest, if only on assembly night.
“I’d be delighted,” she assured him.
The string quartet began playing exactly as she had requested, and she took his arm to join the others for the first dance. It was the same set of dances each time; she merely had the quartet vary the order. She’d had complaints from time to time that she was no innovator, but it was easier for their guests to join in when they knew what to expect.
Mr. Howland surely knew what to expect, yet he danced stiffly, head up, shoulders back, as if marching to the beat of a military tattoo. She wasn’t sure what to say to him when it came time for them to stand out at the bottom of the set.
“And how are your latest Newcomers faring?” he asked. “Any particularly challenging?”
Lark came immediately to mine, but she hardly wanted to confide her conflicting feelings to the magistrate. “They all seem to be finding friends among our Regulars.”
“And what of this Denby fellow?” he pressed. “Miss Archer and Mr. Carroll have remarked that he asks a great number of questions. What is he trying to accomplish? Who is he trying to implicate?”
“Implicate?” She stared at him. “Do you suspect one of my guests of a crime, Magistrate?”
“Not your guests,” he hedged, but he took her arm to lead her back into the dance.
The figures required their attention, and she did not have an opportunity to question him further before the set ended. Then she latched her arm onto his.