Mr. Guthrie’s smile was strained, and red stained his cheeks. “Why, how thoughtful of you to bring in some of my books. They aren’t written for adults, of course. Entirely whimsy, intended for children.”

  Maudie had picked up a copy and was thumbing through it. Face paling, she slammed shut the cover and thrust it at him. “You, sir, are a charlatan, and I never want to speak to you again.” She turned and stormed out of the spa.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It seemed only one person in Grace-by-the-Sea had taken Mr. Guthrie’s measure. Ree hurried out the door after Maudie.

  The older lady was already striding down High Street for the cove, black skirts snapping. Ree lifted her skirts with one hand, clung to the jug with the other, and ran to catch up. “Maudie, wait!”

  Maudie obliged, chest rising and falling in her black bombazine gown. “He’s a liar,” she fumed as Ree reached her. “A scoundrel. A…a…” She huffed. “I can’t think of anything bad enough to call him.”

  Ree put a hand on her arm, more to catch her own breath than to hold the lady in place. They had stopped just short of the shops, at one of the last cottages on the street. The curtains were closed, and no face peered out the door, but she couldn’t be sure who was watching.

  “What do you know, Maudie?” she murmured. “Why is Mr. Guthrie so bad?”

  She wiped at her eye with her free hand. “He’s lied, to all of us.”

  “Yes,” Ree agreed. “But I’m not sure we know the extent of it.”

  Maudie nodded. “You see it too, don’t you. His perfidy.”

  “He hides it well,” she ventured.

  “He does.” She sighed, and Ree felt a tremor go through her. “Oh, I so wanted to like him. He listens. He appreciates.” Her face turned hard. “But it wasn’t the truth.”

  “And what is the truth?” Ree pressed.

  Maudie leaned closer, grey eyes narrowed to quicksilver. “He’s never seen a fairy in his life.”

  Ree blinked. “A fairy?”

  Maudie broke away to wave a hand. “A fairy or a mermaid. Did you see his drawings? He has the hair too curly, the tail too stiff. And what a disservice to the pixies. I’m sure their noses were never so large.”

  Ree sagged. “It was the book that offended you.”

  Maudie frowned. “Isn’t that bad enough? Pretending to be an expert, parading around asking questions. He’s nothing but a humbug.”

  From up the street came a call, and they both turned to find the gentleman hurrying toward them, coattails bouncing in his agitation. Maudie started to back away, but Ree caught her again. They both needed to hear his excuses.

  “Mrs. Tully, Mademoiselle Fortier,” he puffed, coming to a stop beside them and pressing one hand to his paisley waistcoat. “Please, you must forgive me. I have no idea how I incurred your wrath.”

  Maudie shook her finger at him. “Liar! Your book is drivel!”

  He turned white. “My book? How could it have so upset you?”

  “Mrs. Tully believes that you have not depicted your subjects correctly,” Ree tried, shifting the jug of spa water. “She has a different view of fairies and pixies.”

  “Ah.” He visibly swallowed. “Well, I can only say that if I had known you sooner, I might have been more precise in my approach.”

  “Bah!” Maudie pulled out of Ree’s grip again and stalked across the street to mount the steps to the house with the shell-shaped window over the door.

  Mr. Guthrie watched her go, crestfallen.

  “A shame you were not at the spa when the books arrived,” Ree ventured. “You might have explained your pictures.”

  He sighed. “Perhaps, but I could not have anticipated such a reaction from her. I only stepped out for a short time, to watch the militia practice. It was said to be a rousing spectacle. I found it noisy in the extreme.”

  “Odd that I did not see you when I went up to seek help from the physician after Captain St. Claire was shot,” Ree said, watching him.

  He took a step back, grey brows winging up. “Captain St. Claire was shot? But I didn’t see him anywhere near the militia practice.”

  He had made the same assumption as Jesslyn. “He was not at the practice. And neither, I begin to think, were you.”

  “But I was,” he protested. “I watched for some time, but the smell of the gunpowder overpowered me, and I had to seek a momentary respite in my room at the Swan.”

  Mr. Truant would be able to confirm that. “And you heard nothing when we carried Captain St. Claire past?”

  He shook his head. “No, not a bit of it. My word, that brief nap cost me.” His gaze wandered toward the house across from them again. “Do you think she will ever forgive me?”

  Ree frowned at him. Would an assassin show such regard for one of the most whimsical inhabitants of Grace-by-the-Sea? Surely the longing in his voice was not manufactured.

  “Do you truly care about Mrs. Tully, sir?” she asked.

  He met her gaze, face lined and mouth tight, as if he suffered some inner pain. “A very great deal, Mademoiselle Fortier. I have never met anyone like her. You would not know it to look at me, but I have always felt a little odd, out of place. Some take exception to a gentleman who collects myths and legends much less draws renditions of them for public consumption. She makes me feel valued, welcome. Her visions, her insights hold me enthralled. We are favored to be in her presence.” Once more his gaze veered across the street.

  Not even Jesslyn could have conceived such a match. “Then you must speak to her,” Ree told him. “Determine why your drawings do not meet her visions and promise her you will do better.”

  He nodded so fast his head might have been on a string. “Yes, yes, of course. Thank you, mademoiselle. I will find a way back into her good graces.” He hurried down the street for the shops.

  Ree hefted her jug of water and turned for the top of the hill, mind churning.

  Hugh answered her knock, lower lip thrust out and cutlass in one hand.

  “Oh,” he said, lowering the blade. “It’s only you.”

  “Did you think the assassin would knock?” Ree asked, pushing past him into the entryway.

  “He might,” Hugh argued, but he shut the door behind her.

  She handed him the jug. “Spa water, for the captain.”

  Hugh shuddered. “What do you want me to do with it?”

  “Keep it handy,” she said, lifting her skirts to start up the stairs. “It might be needed.”

  She found Quill in his room, Mr. Archer on a stiff-backed chair across from the bed, near the window. The War Office agent rose at the sight of her, but she waved him back into his seat and approached the bed.

  Quill lay atop the covers. Mr. Archer must have helped him into a fresh shirt, for the one he wore had no bloodstains on it. She could see his pulse beating in the hollow of his throat. His dark hair had fallen over his forehead, and his eyes glittered.

  She rested her hand on his face. “Are you feverish?”

  His mouth curled up. “Would you like me to be?”

  Ree pulled back her hand. “No, not for any reason.” Her gaze moved to his arm. “Does it hurt?”

  “Not as bad as the bullet I took for England in Egypt,” he allowed.

  “Ah, but I thought there was a spar and a cutlass involved with that one,” she said with a grin.

  “And a cannonball. A large one.”

  She tsked. “Such a difficult life you have, Captain St. Claire.”

  He caught her hand. “What did you learn at the spa?”

  Mr. Archer rose again before she could speak. “Please, mademoiselle, take my seat. You have had a difficult day. I’m sure you’d like to sit.”

  “I am fine,” Ree assured him.

  Quill shifted on the bed. “Sit beside me.”

  Always the command with this one. She suffered herself to perch beside him on the bed. Oh, but Mrs. Greer would be scandalized if she could see her now.

  “I found nothing of import,” she confessed, giving in to her heart’s demand and smoothing his silky black hair off his forehead. “I thought perhaps Mr. Guthrie, one of the Newcomers, might be involved, but he seems an innocent.”

  “The grey-haired fellow hanging about after Maudie?” Quill asked. “That certainly would be hiding in plain sight.”

  “He is, alas, harmless,” Ree said. “Which means our shooter remains at large. The only success in my trip was to bring you back some spa water. Would you like a glass?”

  He shook his head, and the hair fell back onto his forehead. “No, thank you. I’ve never been fond of the stuff.” He sighed as if much put upon. “I could do with more chocolate.”

  Ree laughed. “Any more chocolate and you will burst.”

  The tremble in his lower lip only made her laugh harder.

  “Oh, you are a scoundrel, Quillan St. Claire. I will make you chocolate.”

  “You are an angel,” he said, catching her hand and pressing a kiss against her knuckles.

  She fought the tingle that went through her. “What else do you need? Shall I alert Alex, Mr. Catchpole, Mr. Williams?”

  “No,” he said, refusing to relinquish her hand. “As a wise woman once told me, I need only you.”

  Oh, but she could slip into those arms, know herself cherished. But would she know? Was he still playing the game, even though he had told Mr. Archer the truth of their so-called engagement?

  She pulled out of his grip. “I think you were right, earlier. I will spend the night at the Swan. That way, I will be where I can keep an eye on things. Mr. Archer?”

  He sat straighter. “Yes, mademoiselle?”

  “You will take care of him?”

  He put his hand on his heart. “I promise.”

  “Behave,” she ordered Quill.

  He leaned back against the pillow, as docile as a kitten. “Once I have my chocolate.”

  With a shake of her head, Ree went to make him a cup.

  It was hard not rounding on Hugh as she worked, but she managed to slip from the house without questioning him. She could only hope Quill would keep his word and discover where his bosun stood when it came to loyalty.

  In the meantime, she stopped by the Swan to change her clothes and repair her hair. While she was there, she questioned the proprietor. Mr. Truant confirmed that Mr. Guthrie had come into the inn that afternoon, looking fatigued and smelling of gunpowder. He had apparently remained in his room for more than an hour. The maid was willing to tell her which room he had been assigned. It did not face the Castle headland, so the fellow could not have taken a shot from it, even if he had been able to keep anyone from noticing the noise.

  It was a little before six when she returned to the spa. Jesslyn let her in. Eva Howland; Rosemary, Countess of Howland; and Abigail Bennett were waiting as well, all gathered around the table that usually held the chess set the gentlemen so enjoyed playing. Now paper and pencils covered the surface instead.

  “I’ve told them what I know,” Jesslyn said, taking the last chair nearest the fountain, which had been turned off for the evening. “Perhaps you could fill in the gaps.”

  They all looked to her. Eva’s eyes were bright, her unruly hair springing about her face as if even it was eager to help. Rosemary’s gaze was more focused, keener, as she leaned forward. Abigail Bennett’s green eyes narrowed, and she crossed her arms over her slender chest.

  A dozen stories flitted through Ree’s mind, but each of these ladies had befriended her in one way or another. Like Maudie, they would not take well to lies.

  “I occasionally do favors for the War Office,” she said. “I came to Grace-by-the-Sea to protect Captain St. Claire from an agent sent by Napoleon to stop him.”

  Jesslyn slapped her hands down on her skirts. “I knew there must be a reason we were able to book you for the Autumn Serenade.”

  “And your engagement to the captain?” Rosemary asked, head cocked.

  “A fiction to allow me to stay close to his side,” Ree told her. Funny how that truth felt the most wrong.

  Jesslyn smiled. “A convenient fiction indeed.”

  “But this French agent,” Abigail said, arms falling. “You haven’t been able to find him.”

  Ree shook her head. “And we have tried. We had begun to believe he had moved on when the shot came.”

  “He knew you’d been at the Castle,” Rosemary surmised. “He’s watching you.”

  “At least part of the time,” Ree agreed. “We decided to pretend he had hit his target. That might give us a greater opportunity to find and capture him before he finishes his work.”

  “We don’t have much time,” Abigail told them all. “Pirate’s Plunder starts Friday. We’ll have too many people in the village, and many of us will be expected to take part.”

  “Which is why we must do all we can to catch the culprit before then,” Jesslyn said.

  Rosemary leaned back. “I cannot like the idea that he’s armed.”

  “He isn’t,” Eva put in. “At least not with the rifle he used to shoot Captain St. Claire.”

  Ree frowned. “How do you know this?”

  “I heard James talking with the militiamen who reported. One of them found a long gun in the bushes behind Beautiful Bonnets. Gladys had her shop closed today, or I’m sure she’d have heard the sound of the shot.”

  Ree nodded. “You said it was a rifle. Did they mention whether it was French?”

  “It was British, I believe,” Eva said. “They called it a Baker rifle.” She glanced around. “That’s new, isn’t it?”

  “The last two years,” Ree confirmed. “The Army has only begun to hand them out, and some of the wealthy have purchased copies. I cannot see how a Frenchman brought one with him. He must have stolen it. Who would have them here?”

  “Not Drake,” Rosemary said. “He doesn’t hunt, and the weapons in the armory are rather ancient.”

  “So we learned when the Women’s Militia borrowed a few,” Abigail agreed.

  “Then there’s only one person who might have purchased such a gun,” Jesslyn said. “Lord Peverell.”

  “Who is conveniently out of town,” Eva said, pouting.

  “I will speak to Miss Peverell, tomorrow if possible,” Ree promised.

  “In the meantime,” Jesslyn said. “Let us put our heads together, ladies. There must be a way to encourage this shadow to step into the sunlight, so he can be stopped.”

  ~~~

  Quill had an uneasy night. It wasn’t just the ache in his arm that kept him awake. His mind dwelled on the scene on the cliff, the moment when he feared Ree might be hit, how she’d leaped to her feet and brandished that hairpin as if she would take on the entire French army alone.

  He had never had a protector. None of the staff at the foundling home had shown him any preference. At times, he’d thought they’d be just as happy if he had succeeded in running away. One less mouth to feed, one more available bed to fill. At Eton, only his swagger and the rumor of a mighty father had kept the older boys from making him a victim of their pranks. In the Navy, he’d been the one to watch out for the other middies until each had risen in the ranks as officers. As Lord of the Smugglers, he’d done what he could to protect Grace-by-the-Sea and England from the tyrant across the Channel.

  Even when Ree had come bearing news of this assassin, he’d been determined to protect himself. She had been ready to lay down her life to save his.

  Would he do the same for her?

  Within a single heartbeat.

  The answer was firm and unyielding, yet still he struggled to trust it. He finally fell asleep and didn’t wake until Hugh brought up Doctor Bennett the next morning.

  The spa physician examined the wound, frowning down at the gash until Quill felt compelled to look at it as well. He couldn’t like the angry red color.

  “Coming along nicely,” Bennett proclaimed, bending to pull a fresh bandage from his bag. “But I wouldn’t move it much for the next few days.”

  “Impossible,” Quill said, returning his gaze to the ceiling. “We have to catch the man who did this.”

  “As to that, I believe plans are in place,” he said, beginning to wind the material around Quill’s arm.

  Quill frowned. “What plans? Has Mr. Howland been to see you?”

  “Not our good magistrate,” he said, keeping his gaze on his work. “His wife and mine, as well as the Countess of Howland, Jesslyn Denby, and Mademoiselle Fortier.”

  “Indeed,” Quill drawled. He could hardly wait to hear what Ree had to say about the matter.

  Alex arrived first and set about helping Hugh while keeping an eye on Quill. James arrived next and gave him an update on the militia’s search of the village. By that point, Quill was sitting up in bed, back against the headboard.

  “So, they found the rifle but not the man who shot it,” he said as James finished.

  His friend nodded. “I’m afraid so. But we’ll keep looking. He has only so many places he can hide.”

  “Too many places,” Quill countered. “Or we would have discovered him long since.” He eyed James. “And what’s this I hear about your wife having plans to join the fray?”

  James smiled. “I take it there was quite a council called last night. If I were your assassin, I’d be afraid.”

  He couldn’t argue with that. Any of those ladies was formidable in her own right. Combined, there was little they could not accomplish.

  But was he willing to step aside, and let them save his life, especially if that meant putting them, and Ree, in danger?

  Chapter Nineteen

  She hurried up to Dove Cottage the next morning, ridiculously early for a morning call, but Ree doubted anyone would care. Everyone in Grace-by-the-Sea would have heard by now that their captain had been attacked. They would expect her to be at his side.

  She was a little surprised how many wanted to share that duty.

  Hugh was out on the stoop when she arrived. He had his arms wrapped around a massive hunk of ham.

  “Third one,” he confided as he lugged it into the house. “And we have more chicken soup, apple preserves, and various kinds of vegetables than we could eat in a month.”