She had not had a chance to see the Grace-by-the-Sea Men’s Militia in action, but she wasn’t surprised to find them a motley group. Only a few had uniforms, the scarlet bright against the worn wool coats of the others. Some carried muskets, some pistols.

  Doctor Bennett was talking with James Howland as the other men began making their way toward the village. The troop stopped and stared as Ree and her group pushed through to the physician’s side.

  “Oh, Doctor,” she said breathlessly, clutching his arm as if to keep from falling over, “you must come at once. Captain St. Claire has been shot.”

  “Shot!” The word ricocheted faster than a bullet through the troop.

  The magistrate reacted first. “Where? When?”

  “A few moments ago,” she assured him. “We were coming down the path from tea with the dear countesses. A kind Newcomer came to our assistance. Captain St. Claire is at that man’s house. Please, you must come with me!”

  “Of course,” Doctor Bennett assured her, stepping forward. Like the magistrate, he was tall and well-built, with wavy brown hair, wise grey eyes, and a confident manner that tended to both calm and charm his patients.

  “And the shooter?” Howland called as they turned for the village. “Has he been caught?”

  Ree didn’t need to pretend her shiver. “No. I thought only of saving my love.”

  The magistrate looked to his troop. “Ellison, Greer, divide the men among you and search the village. No stone left unturned.”

  “Aye!” the baker and the apothecary chorused. Ree hid her smile as the magistrate left them organizing to accompany her.

  “I have some supplies in my medical bag,” Doctor Bennett said, lifting the black leather bag and moving swiftly beside her as she and her collection of supporters started back for Lavender Lane. “I can stop by the spa for more.”

  “No time,” Ree said. “We must reach him!” She picked up her skirts and ran.

  The physician and the magistrate had the stamina to pace her, though they left many of Mr. Archer’s neighbors behind. That was only to the good. Ree certainly didn’t want them attempting to follow her into the house. They needed to talk to the physician alone.

  The magistrate must have thought so as well, for he sent Charlie back outside once the young boy had assured them all was well. Doctor Bennett, on the other hand, took one look at Quill’s wound and immediately saw through the pretense.

  “A nasty scratch,” he pronounced, rocking back on his heels where he’d crouched beside Quill. “Painful, but hardly life-threatening. Abigail was hurt worse when she was caught in the crossfire at Castle How a few months ago.”

  Mr. Archer, who Ree had not taken the time to introduce, nearly fell off the chair he’d pulled up across from them. “Abigail was shot?”

  Doctor Bennett frowned at him, as if he couldn’t like a stranger using his wife’s first name. “My wife is the adventurous sort, sir, something I have come to value a great deal. But she recovered well and has seen no long-term effects.”

  Mr. Archer’s smile looked more strained than usual. “I’m sure you’ll take just as good a care of the captain.”

  “Indeed he will,” the magistrate said.

  The doctor looked from Quill to Ree and back. “Captain St. Claire, you are not dying. Why would you frighten your betrothed and half the village into thinking otherwise?”

  Quill quickly explained what had happened and their reasoning. In the end, the doctor nodded as he snapped shut his bag. “I understand, but I think you’ve misjudged your neighbors. If they know you’re in danger, they’ll be all the more likely to want to help.”

  “The militia is already searching the village,” Mr. Howland put in, arms crossed over the chest of his scarlet jacket.

  “Which only puts them in danger,” Quill protested. “You know they are still far from being ready to take on the French.”

  “We are not asking them to take on a regiment,” the magistrate pointed out. “Only one man.”

  “Nevertheless,” Ree said, “we must ask you to keep it quiet, Doctor. This may be the only way we find the villain.”

  “The care I give my patients is between me and them,” he told them all. “Do you intend to recuperate here or at Dove Cottage, Captain?”

  “The cottage,” Quill said. “James and my new friend here can help me.”

  Doctor Bennett frowned. “I cannot like you walking that distance. You’ve lost blood.”

  Quill grinned at Ree. “Oh, I don’t intend to walk. I intend to be carried, in style.”

  ~~~

  Quill had never minded a spectacle. The little spa village seemed made as much for cozy conversation as grand gestures. His return to Dove Cottage was far more the latter.

  Mrs. Rollens had returned home across the street, and Ree sent Charlie to request the use of her sedan chair. Quill bundled his bloody shirt and coat and stuffed them behind him on the padded leather seat. With a burly footman front and back on the long poles extending from the frame of the enclosed seat, they set out from Lavender Lane. Archer hid among the crowd, James walked on one side, and Ree drifted on the other, handkerchief dabbing at her eyes.

  “Whatever has happened!”

  Quill recognized the voice of the jeweler’s wife a moment before the dark-haired Mrs. Lawrence peered into the little lacquered box that surrounded the chair. He gave her a game smile, making his breath stutter as he drew it in. She widened her eyes.

  “A terrible tragedy,” James told her as she straightened out of Quill’s sight. “Someone shot Captain St. Claire. Doctor Bennett advises we bring him home immediately.”

  “Oh, how terrible! Dear Mademoiselle Fortier, how worried you must be! I will be praying for you.”

  Guilt nipped at him.

  “I’m sure I will recover,” he called as they passed her.

  “Only if you avoid a fever,” Ree cautioned. “Rest, my love. Conserve your energy.” Her tearful look to him had a hint of steel beneath it.

  By the time they shuffled onto High Street, the crowd had swelled. It continued to grow as they came past the spa. Doctor Bennett must have alerted them or perhaps one of James’s militiamen had searched the spa and explained the situation, for Quill caught sight of Jesslyn, Maudie, Mrs. Harding, Mr. Crabapple, the Admiral, Lord Featherstone, Mrs. Greer, and dozens of Newcomers lining the pavement. Voices carried.

  “Be strong!”

  “Take care, Captain!”

  “We’re praying for you.”

  Ree leaned closer to murmur to him. “We have worried them.”

  “Humbling,” he murmured back.

  She raised a brow as if she didn’t believe him.

  He rapped on the wood of the box to get the footmen’s attention. “Ho! Stop if you will.”

  They stopped, James looking on with a frown. Quill struggled to lean his head out the open window. Several gasped as his bandaged chest came into view, but he wasn’t sure whether from offended sensibilities or the sight of the wound. He was more surprised to find that the scene swam before his eyes even as the autumn breeze chilled him. Perhaps he had lost more blood than he’d thought. He didn’t have to work to sound feeble.

  “Friends,” he said, “you honor me. I promise you I will do all I can to heal quickly and repay your kindness.”

  “Three cheers for the captain!” someone called, and huzzahs rang out as James nodded to the footman to continue carrying him up the hill. Between Ree’s tearful comments and James’s stern look, they managed to convince the crowd to leave them at the top.

  The footmen let the chair down at the door of Dove Cottage, and James and Ree helped Quill alight. Hugh must have heard something, for he opened the door.

  He gaped a moment before rushing forward. “What happened? Captain, can you speak?”

  “As well as ever,” he told his bosun, waving with his good hand to thank the footmen. “But I will be going up to bed for the time being. Mademoiselle Fortier will explain.”

  Behind him, he heard James dismiss the footmen with another word of thanks.

  Quill started up the stairs, James following as if he expected Quill to keel over at any moment.

  “You will not rid yourself of me so easily!” Ree called from the entryway.

  He made it to his bedchamber with some semblance of dignity. If he had to stare at four walls for a day or two, these weren’t so bad. They were as blue as the waves on a summer’s day, and the window looked down toward the cove.

  “That parade ought to have furthered the ruse,” James said. “You’ll be all right here?”

  “I’ll be fine,” Quill assured him. “Keep me apprised of what you learn from your militia.”

  James nodded. “Count on it.” He strode from the room.

  Quill had just eased himself down onto the four-poster bed when more footsteps thudded on the stair. He tensed, then relaxed as Gideon Archer moved into the room.

  “I took the back way, behind the spa,” he said, going to the window and closing the shutters as if even the ravens might have gossiped about them. “No one saw me.”

  Quill sighed. “Your sister would be happy to see you. Your mother would be overjoyed. She still talks of you to any who will listen.”

  “My mother has the ability to overlook unpleasantness,” he said, turning as the light dimmed. “It stood her in good stead with my father. He liked to use his fists to make a point. I had a harder time overlooking the matter. I protected Abigail for years, but when I had a chance to escape with the Army, I took it. You can’t know how many times I’ve regretted leaving them behind. I should have been here for my sister, and I’m sure she knows it.”

  “You might be surprised,” Quill said. “Your sister is a remarkable woman. She fostered her gift for painting into a vocation that sustained her and your mother. She started a shop where families in the village can sell their handiworks to help make ends meet. She chartered the Women’s Militia.”

  He took a step closer. “Grace-by-the-Sea has a Women’s Militia?”

  “A good one. I’d be worried if I were a French soldier attempting to land. Abigail’s troop subdued the last group of smugglers who tried to make their home here.”

  He shook his head. “Are you certain we’re talking about my little sister?”

  “I would never, under any circumstances, call Abigail Bennett little,” Quill said. “Especially to her face.”

  Ree bustled in then. “Hugh knows most of what we know, but I refrained from mentioning Mr. Archer thinks he may have started the fire on the ship. Are you certain you are safe with him, Quill?”

  He wanted to be. He had learned to trust the men on his ship, whether in the Navy or now in his smuggling runs. His work would not survive a traitor.

  “I’ll speak to him,” he promised.

  She made a face. “Alone, to guard his consequence and give him the perfect opportunity to finish you off.”

  He snorted. “If Hugh had wanted to finish me off, he’d have had a hundred opportunities to do so in the last week alone.”

  “Perhaps he was only looking for a way that would not implicate him,” she countered, hands on her hips.

  “And killing a wounded man he’s alone with wouldn’t raise questions?” Quill challenged.

  She sighed, arms falling. “Very well. I will not badger him. But I am staying here until we know all is settled.”

  “Mademoiselle, think of your reputation, even with your supposed betrothal,” Archer protested. “Mr. Baffin and I can guard the captain.”

  She clasped both hands to her impressive chest. “Oh, but how could I ever leave my dearest love in jeopardy? I must be at his side to nurse him.”

  Quill rolled his eyes. “Do you intend to enact a Cheltenham tragedy every time someone asks you about me?”

  To his surprise, rather convincing tears gathered in her deep blue eyes. “Oh, yes. I am so worried about you. I will not be able to budge from your side except to visit the spa for water that will heal you.”

  “So you can question everyone in attendance,” he surmised.

  Her sorrow vanished to be replaced by a mischievous grin. “Of course.”

  “I’ll see what I can learn as well,” Archer said. “When Mr. Chance arrives, I’ll return to the village for a short time. I’ve made a few friends in the public room at the Swan. That’s one place I can be certain Abigail will never visit.”

  “Your sister is a member of the Spa Corporation Council,” Quill told him. “They hold their monthly meetings in the private parlor at the Swan. So, you see, you can escape her nowhere.”

  “So it seems,” he muttered.

  Ree started for the door. “I will return shortly.”

  Quill levered himself up. “Ree, wait. Archer is right. You shouldn’t spend the night.”

  She sent him a saucy look over her shoulder. “You are in no position to protest, mon cher capitaine. You are at death’s door, remember?” She blew him a kiss and disappeared.

  ~~~

  Ree went straight to the spa. She didn’t need to posture to catch anyone’s attention. She knew she looked a sight. Her eyes would be puffy from crying; even more of her hair was coming free of its pins and tickling her neck; and her gown was wrinkled and dusty from her travels. Besides, they had all watched her and Quill pass. They knew trouble had come to their village.

  As it was, every gaze veered in her direction the moment she entered. Jesslyn and Maudie hurried up to her, faces puckered, and Ree felt another pang for deceiving these good people.

  “Are you all right?” the spa hostess asked, taking Ree’s arm as if to steady her.

  Ree drew on the memory of the sound of the gunshot and the way Quill’s body had jerked before he’d protected her. “It was horrible! We were coming back from the Castle. I heard the roar of a rifle. Then Captain St. Claire collapsed.”

  Maudie frowned at her. “Odd. I don’t recall the trolls having firearms.”

  “May I have some of your water to take to him?” Ree asked. “I have heard so much about its healing power.”

  “Of course,” Jesslyn said with a nod to her aunt. Still frowning, Maudie dashed off toward the fountain.

  Others came up to Ree then, expressing condolences, offering support. Mrs. Harding volunteered to send Mr. Crabapple for the minister to comfort the captain in this time. The Admiral vowed to compel every former naval man in the area to pray for him. Lord Featherstone offered to escort Ree back to Dove Cottage when she was ready.

  “How kind you all are,” she said, glancing around as the guilt grew. “I need only a moment with our dear hostess to calm myself.”

  With commiserating looks and kind smiles, they wandered off. She turned to Jesslyn.

  “I cannot continue lying,” she murmured. “Things are not as dire as we made out, but the only way to keep Captain St. Claire safe for now is to let the shooter think he succeeded.”

  Her big blue eyes widened. “Then it wasn’t an accident? I thought surely a stray bullet from the militia practice…”

  “No,” Ree told her. “Someone has been trying to kill Captain St. Claire for some time now, but we have had no luck in determining the culprit.”

  “The fire, of course,” Jesslyn realized. “Who else knows?”

  “Mr. Howland, the earl, and the members of the captain’s crew, including your brother,” Ree said.

  “A valiant group,” she allowed. “But not perhaps as well connected with the village as some others.”

  Ree frowned. “Who?”

  That charming smile returned. “Why, our equally valiant ladies, of course. Abigail, certainly, and Eva and Rosemary. A shame Hester is on her honeymoon. She’s very good in a pinch. Can you slip away this evening and meet us here after the spa closes? We should have a plan to propose by then.”

  Ree felt as if the floor of the spa had tilted. “You can do this?”

  Her smile only grew. “Certainly we can do this. We’ve done it before. Come back at six, and we’ll talk further.”

  Maudie hurried back then with a ceramic jug, which she handed to Ree. “Keep it out of reach of the pixies,” she advised. “They’re mean when they’ve been drinking.”

  “No more than two glasses a day,” Jesslyn added, all business, “unless Doctor Bennett prescribes otherwise.”

  Ree nodded, tucking the jug close.

  Just then, the little bespeckled gentleman who owned Mr. Carroll’s Curiosities squeezed through the door, balancing a crate that nearly overtopped him. He set it down on the Welcome Desk with a thud, then drew out a handkerchief to mop his reddening face.

  “Mademoiselle Fortier,” he heralded. “I heard about the captain. Please send him my condolences and wishes for a speedy recovery. Perhaps you’d like to take him one of these books. They were authored by Mr. Guthrie. I ordered them when he first arrived, and they finally came in. I had to bring them straight up.”

  Others moved closer to the crate, which he pried open as if assuming Ree would come for a book. Instead, she looked about the room. “Where is Mr. Guthrie?”

  “He expressed interest in watching the militia practice,” Jesslyn said. “Odd that he hasn’t returned, especially with all the hullabaloo in the village.”

  Odd indeed.

  As if conjured by their thoughts, the man in question came into the spa and blinked as if he hadn’t been expecting the crowd near the Welcome Desk. Ree wandered closer as if curious about the books as well. In truth, she was more curious about the grey-haired Newcomer. She’d been certain he was no more than what he seemed, a gentleman enamored of legends and one Maudlyn Tully. But his clothes were rumpled, as if he’d been running or tumbling, and his neckcloth was askew. As she came up next to him, she was certain she caught the scent of gunpowder.

  Mr. Carroll was happily handing out the surprisingly thick leather volumes.

  “And here is our talented author and artist himself,” the shopkeeper declared.