by Regina Scott
Or he may well know how it had come about, but Lark couldn’t share his thoughts aloud, not until he had some sort of proof.
“We can accompany him on his inspection,” she continued, tapping her chin with one finger. “He can let us into the castle. That way, we are not at the mercy of the tides and can go whenever it is convenient for him.”
What was convenient for Magistrate Howland could well be convenient for the smugglers too. But then, it was doubtful they could erase all evidence of their passage. What Lark needed was sufficient proof to bring to Commissioner Franklin in Weymouth. With his approval, dragoons would ride, and ships would sail. This Lord of the Smugglers could find a revenue cutter waiting off the headland on his next trip.
“Very well,” Lark said. “Ask Mr. Howland. If he agrees, we can join him on a tour of the castle and see what we can discover.” And if he refused, that alone might be telling.
Chapter Ten
Jess was more than a little surprised when her politely worded note to Mr. Howland was met with an equally polite response agreeing to take her and Lark up to the castle that very afternoon. That gave Jess just enough time to slip down to the village and speak with Mr. Greer. Having made sure all her guests—Regulars, Irregulars, and Newcomers—were safely busy, she put on her bonnet and hurried down the street for the apothecary’s shop.
Mr. Greer was tall and gaunt. His hair had slowly receded, like an outgoing tide, until only sandy fringes remained hugging his ears. He walked with his head thrust forward, his hands clasped behind his back, as if he were pondering weighty matters. Perhaps that was the reason he’d been elected president of the Spa Corporation five years running. Every family in the village had a share in the profits from the spa, and any person above the age of five and twenty who had paid his or her tithes to St. Andrew’s and taxes to the Crown was eligible to be nominated for the board. Board members were elected yearly, at harvest time. Her father had attended each meeting, advised and recommended each action. Now she attended the meetings, though her recommendations were not always heeded.
Mr. Greer was just handing Mrs. Bent a cone of brown paper as Jess entered the shop.
“One a day, no more,” he told the wife of the employment agent. “And no sharing with others.”
“But kitty is so fond of it,” she protested.
He looked down his long nose at her, and she sighed, clutching the paper closer. “Oh, very well.” Turning, she sighted Jess and smiled. “Good afternoon, Miss Chance. I trust everything is going splendidly at the spa.”
“As usual,” Jess assured her. “And how is kitty getting along?”
She shot the apothecary a look. “She has aches and pains, as would anyone her age. Not everyone understands.” With a nod to Jess, she sailed from the shop.
“Are you unwell, Miss Chance?” Mr. Greer asked, long face settling into concern.
Jess stepped up to the tall wooden counter. His lean body was framed by the blue and green bottles on the shelves behind him. “I am physically sound,” she told him, “but a bit distressed by a rumor that came my way. Have I failed to give good service as hostess?”
He busied himself with wiping out a clear glass jar, long fingers flexing on the rag. “I have never had any complaints about your service, Miss Chance. Yet the spa continues to lose patronage since your father passed.”
“We have had fewer visitors this year than last,” Jess acknowledged, trying to see up under his gaze. “But that could be the fault of this war and the stories of invasion.”
He pulled out the rag and squinted into the jar, as if he could spot the last trace of a stain. “We on the Spa Corporation Council believe it has more to do with our lack of a physician. We have sent out a request to the College of Surgeons in London to see if anyone might want to relocate to Grace-by-the-Sea.”
Jess hid her shudder. “A surgeon? An anatomist? Why would the spa need one of those?”
“We need a gentleman of learning,” Mr. Greer insisted. “We have had no luck with the medical college in Edinburgh or with writing to physicians elsewhere in Dorset. No one wants to move closer to the coast right now, particularly when they might be conscripted into the army.”
“But whoever you attract will not wish to manage the day-to-day operations of the spa,” Jess protested. “Can you see a surgeon filling cups from the fountain?”
“Perhaps our guests can fill their own cups,” Mr. Greer hedged. “The fact of the matter is that the spa is losing money, and we must find some way to staunch the bleeding. For now, carry on as you have. We can discuss your position further when we know a physician is coming.”
And what could she say to that? She thanked him for his time, trudged back up the hill, and put on her smile for her guests.
“May I have your attention?” she called. Though her voice had never been strident, it nonetheless had the effect of halting every conversation as all gazes swung her way. “We have been granted a rare privilege—a tour of Castle How by the magistrate himself. The party leaves at a quarter past, and the spa will close to allow all to take part. Please gather your things and join us.”
Lark regarded her. “We’re taking all of them? Magistrate Howland may not be willing to allow so many in the house.”
“I did not specify a number,” she replied, smiling as Mrs. Cole and her daughter came up to them.
“Will the Howland family be in residence?” the mother asked hopefully.
“Is it true the castle is haunted?” the daughter asked with equal anticipation.
“Mr. James Howland will be leading the tour,” Jess answered. “And I do not recall any stories of hauntings.”
“I do,” Maudie said, wandering closer. “The Hound of the Headland—great white beast with glowing red eyes. And who can forget the Lady of the Tower, wailing on stormy nights for her love lost at sea.”
Miss Cole sighed happily. Lark’s sigh sounded of something else.
Mr. Howland raised his brow when he found them all assembled a short time later. Besides Lark, the Coles, and most of the Regulars, Miss Barlow had decided to join them. Her mother, the Admiral, and the general had chosen to retire to their rooms at the Swan. The Misses Montgomery had left for home that morning. Such was the way of the spa—some came for a few days, others a week or two, still others the entire summer. A rare few, like Lord Featherstone, remained the entire year. Economizing, in his case. Residing in Grace-by-the-Sea was far less expensive than living in London.
“I should have brought a carriage or three,” the magistrate said now, glancing around as if counting heads.
“There was considerable interest in acquainting ourselves with the home of your illustrious family,” Jess explained.
“Hound and all,” Maudie agreed.
“I am honored,” Mr. Howland said, though he looked more bemused to Jess.
It was a short walk from the spa across High Street and up Castle Walk onto the headland. Deer-cropped grass, emerald green on the sunny day, lay on either side of the white-graveled drive, with wildflowers clustered beyond. Ahead, Castle How stood erect and proud, a square block of lichen-darkened stone four stories high, with a rounded turret at each corner another story taller. If that had not been enough to make the Howland’s hunting lodge appear a true castle, the narrow windows and crenelated roofline completed the picture. Easy to imagine gentlemen on fiery chargers jousting on the lawns to the cheers of their ladies.
Lord Featherstone seemed equally at home. He walked with Mrs. Cole and Miss Barlow, nodding to the castle and pontificating on its provenance. His voice trickled back to Jess. “A fine example of gothic architecture.”
Just behind him, Miss Cole was listening with wide eyes to Maudie’s fancies.
“And then the hound pounced!” her aunt proclaimed.
Miss Cole would likely need a cup of warm milk to soothe her to sleep tonight.
Mr. Crabapple did not appear concerned. He had Mrs. Harding on his arm and a strut to his step, like a peac
ock who had discovered his tail.
That left Jess to walk with Lark. His head was also high, his gaze swinging over the landscape as they approached the castle.
“Perhaps you could show our guests around,” he ventured, “while Howland and I look for the source of the light.”
Was he still trying to deter her? “Oh, I’m sure my aunt would be delighted to do the honors,” Jess told him. “She visited the house many times when she was young and remembers a number of tales.”
“Of that, I’m sure,” he muttered.
Jess patted his arm. “My aunt takes some getting used to. But she means no harm. I think sometimes she’s simply trying to find an excuse to converse. It can be lonely at the spa in the winter months when few come to visit. Not everyone attends to the spa hostesses.”
His gaze was thoughtful. “It must be lonely for you as well, then.”
“On occasion,” she admitted. “Oh, Mr. Carroll will always welcome me with a cup of tea and scones. And Miss Archer can be persuaded to stop her painting and visit. But everything changed when Father died, and I don’t feel as if it’s settled yet.”
“Worried about the Corporation?” he asked, kicking a stone off the drive.
She should not confide in him, yet the urge was so strong she allowed herself the luxury. “Yes. We are dependent on my position at the spa for our income, the use of the cottage. I’m not sure what we’d do if all that went away.”
He nodded, sunlight reflected in his tall black hat. “I remember what it was like when my father died. My mother moved us all to Upper Grace, and my uncle did his best to support us. Still, it was some years before I felt we were on stable ground.”
“You should bring your mother and sisters to the spa,” Jess suggested. “I’d be delighted to show them around again, introduce them to some charming gentlemen.”
His smile inched up. “You’re very good at that.”
Her face felt warm, and she knew it wasn’t the sun slipping under her bonnet. But she’d believed fine words and tender looks before, and she’d lived to regret it. “I greatly enjoy my position. There is something satisfying about making sure people have what they need to be healthy and happy. And what of you? Working all this time in Kent, I believe?”
“Yes,” he said as the main entrance to the castle loomed up. Stone steps led to an arched entry surmounted by a circular window. “Though I come home from time to time to visit my mother and sisters, make sure their investments are providing for them.”
And never once had come to see her. She shook off the disappointment. “Did you leave a wife waiting for your return?”
My, how polite she sounded, as if she didn’t tremble to hear the answer.
He shook his head. “Alas, no. I have been too busy working to consider taking a bride.”
First adventure, now work. Was he the sort of man who could not give his heart?
And why, oh why, was her heart still so eager to offer itself to him?
~~~
She was a wonder. He had never met a woman so poised, so self-assured. Jesslyn knew what mattered to her—helping others. He could only commend that.
In front of them, James Howland climbed to the wide stone veranda that spanned the front of the house. Everyone gathered around, crowded close.
“Castle How,” he said, glancing from face to face, “was built in 1610 and remodeled several times over the centuries.”
“In 1698 and 1795,” Mrs. Tully supplied, as if she’d seen both occasions.
He inclined his head in her direction. “Just so. Most of the furnishings are covered for protection against dust, but you will note the various architectural features as we go inside. I regret I cannot accompany you through every room, but Miss Chance—”
“Mrs. Tully,” Jess corrected him sweetly.
He frowned and glanced at her aunt before continuing, “Mrs. Tully will lead you.”
Her aunt stepped up beside him. Her head came only to his shoulder, but she somehow managed to loom over him, even in her black dress and bonnet.
“That’s right,” she declared. “And I cannot abide stragglers, so keep up. I should not want the Castle to take another life.”
“It is quite safe, I assure you,” Howland insisted.
“If you discount the moldering ramparts and the vermin-ridden moat,” she agreed.
“There’s a moat?” Miss Cole asked, glancing over the stone balustrade toward the clipped lawns they had crossed.
“If there was a moat, it has long since been filled in,” Howland assured her.
“With the bones of their enemies,” Mrs. Tully added.
“With good English soil,” Howland snapped.
Jess took pity on him and stepped forward. “Mrs. Cole, Miss Cole, Mr. Crabapple, Mrs. Harding, and Miss Barlow, please follow my aunt. Lord Featherstone, I will count on your good escort.”
The baron inclined his head graciously as Howland busied himself with unlocking the massive wood door.
“You rely on Lord Featherstone,” Lark said to Jess as they followed Howland into the house. The fact should not bother him as much as it did. He certainly wasn’t in a position to allow her to rely on him.
“He has proven a good friend over the years,” she acknowledged, gaze going heavenward.
He looked up as well. They had entered the Great Hall, which stretched from the front door to the back of the castle. The ceiling was delicately veined in white, the walls carved with hunting scenes. Antlers stuck out here and there from wood mounts. Mounds of white cloth likely hid a long table and chairs. The white marble hearth, big enough to roast an ox, stood empty and bare.
“This must have been quite the place,” he murmured, but his voice still echoed.
Howland arched a brow.
Mrs. Tully drew the others deeper into the Great Hall, already spinning tales of the wonders that had unfolded here. Howland started for the broad stairs on one side. Lark moved to intercept him.
“You must want to determine the source of the light the night of the assembly,” he said.
Howland pulled up short. “What light?”
“I asked the same question,” Jess said, joining them. “I did not see it, but both my aunt and Mr. Denby assure me a light was shining in the window of the castle last night.”
From the other side of the hall, Mrs. Tully’s voice rose.
“And then the trolls besieged the castle.”
Howland cocked his head and eyed Lark.
He would not allow the fellow to rattle him. “I know what I saw, Magistrate. Someone is using your castle.”
Howland straightened. “I highly doubt it, but I would like to confirm the matter.”
“So would we,” Jess said with a polite smile. “For the good of the village and the spa, of course.”
Left with little choice, the magistrate inclined his head and led them up the sweeping stairs for the chamber story. The upstairs corridor was marked by suits of armor dulled by dust. More dust puffed out to sparkle in the air as they walked along the thick blue carpet. Howland did not appear to notice. The windows were few enough that it wasn’t easy for Lark to get his bearings. But the view out of the bedchamber to which the magistrate led them clearly showed the village, including the assembly rooms and the Mermaid. It could easily have been the source of the light. Yet, nothing seemed out of place. The big bed was draped in white cloth, speckled by grey dots of dust. No lamp stood on the side table or the tall dresser against one wall.
Howland frowned down at the windowsill, where drops of white marred the wood. Jess removed her glove to fleck off a piece with her finger and brought it to her nose for a sniff.
“Beeswax,” she said. “Most families in the village use tallow, I imagine.”
Howland nodded. “Most likely.”
“A candle from the castle, then,” Lark surmised.
“We had them all removed some time ago,” Howland said. “Less opportunity of attracting mice. Whoever used that candle brough
t it in himself.”
“Or herself,” Jess replied. “Who cleans the castle quarterly for you?”
“I asked Mr. Bent’s employment agency to supply the help,” he allowed. “But whoever he assigns would generally come in during the day, with no need for a candle.”
“True, but the person would also have a key that could allow access at other times,” she said with a look to Lark.
Clever. She was right. But then, she often was.
Howland turned from the window. “Regardless, it appears you are correct, Mr. Denby. Someone unauthorized has been using Castle How. I will see to the matter.”
And he was clearly supposed to be satisfied with that.
Jess appeared to be. “Thank you, Magistrate,” she said, turning for the door. “I’m sure it’s nothing but youthful high spirits, someone’s idea of a prank. I appreciate you allowing Mr. Denby and me to have a look with you.”
Lark put himself in Howland’s path. “I cannot believe this is merely the work of pranksters.”
Howland’s mouth quirked. “If you have something to say about the matter, Mr. Denby, I suggest you consider what brought you to Grace-by-the-Sea.”
Was that a warning not to give himself away? Jess was already glancing at him with a frown.
Lark squared his shoulders. In for a penny, in for a pound. “Forgive me, Magistrate, Miss Chance, but this could well be the work of someone in league with smugglers, lighting the way to a safe harbor. There’s been word of a noted villain in this area—calling himself the Lord of the Smugglers. What better place for a lord to land than a castle?”
Jess’s smile returned to its usual pleasant state. “Oh, if that’s all, then we have nothing to worry about.”
Chapter Eleven
Lark was staring at her. He couldn’t know her relief to hear there was a recognized band of smugglers in the area. Surely Alex would never align himself with people like that. This could have nothing to do with her brother. All they need do was locate the villain, and everything would return to normal.