The Matchmaker's Rogue Read online

  “Me?” Lark made himself smile. “I’m nothing remarkable.”

  “Yet everyone seems determined to remark on you.” She took a step closer, and he straightened to retreat.

  “You arrive with no notice after years away,” she said, ticking off her reasoning on her fingers. “You have family just over the hill, yet you are staying at an inn. You are obviously well. You haven’t taken a sip of the waters or asked to bathe. From your conversation, your mind is sound. You don’t seem to be searching for friendship. Why have you come to my spa?”

  There was nothing but air surrounding him, but he had the distinct impression he had been trapped. “I simply decided to take a holiday.”

  His answer, unfortunately, did not appear to satisfy. “I’m delighted to hear that you wished to return to Grace-by-the-Sea for your holiday,” she said. “I cannot help but feel compelled to make that holiday enjoyable.”

  All at once, he remembered another time, when being with her was all he had wanted. She had made his stay at the spa enjoyable at a time when he’d feared for his mother’s health and wasn’t sure about his own future. But now was no time to renew those feelings. If she knew the truth, she would only be in danger.

  As if she saw his thoughts dart like swallows through his mind, she took a step back. “Let’s start with reintroducing you to the village. I will be leading a walking tour at eleven. I’m certain you wouldn’t want to miss it.”

  A walking tour? More inanities. He started to demur, but she put her hand on his arm. “Do join us, Mr. Denby. I promise you will be entertained.”

  Her smile was so hopeful, her look so wistful, as if his attendance meant the very world to her. How did anyone refuse her?

  And why should he refuse? Going with her would further his charade, perhaps give him a better perspective of the village now. At the very least, he’d spend a relatively pleasant morning, which was more than he could say for his time at the spa so far.

  “Very well, Miss Chance,” he said. “I imagine I will find it vastly entertaining. If you’ll excuse me a moment, I have a call to pay before we go.”

  Chapter Three

  James Howland had no idea his orderly village was about to be upended. He’d been reviewing the returns compiled by the parish constable, Mr. Keene. By the king’s order, the lord-lieutenant for Dorset demanded each parish to record the number of horses, cattle, and sheep; the amount of grain stored; and the wagons, carts, boats, and barges available to transport them all inland in case of an invasion.

  He found it hard to believe Napoleon would truly attempt to land. Even the power-mad Corsican had to see that crossing the Channel with thousands of boats was a fool’s errand. Worse still was the requirement to raise a volunteer militia. The men of his village—fishermen, farmers, and shopkeepers mostly—were no trained fighters. If Napoleon landed, they might defend the coast for a time, but they would die in the process. He refused to aid in that. Indeed, he was under his own orders not to aid in that.

  At the sound of a cough, he looked up. His secretary smiled apologetically from the doorway.

  “A gentleman to see you, sir,” he said. “A Mr. Denby. He brought a letter of introduction.” Priestly ventured into the room, his coat as dark as the walnut bookcases around him, and handed James the sealed sheet across the polished desk before stepping back and awaiting a response.

  “Give me five minutes,” James said, “and send him in.”

  The secretary inclined his head and hurried out, shutting the door behind him as if fearing he’d interrupted something important. Some days, it seemed little James did held any importance. But then, his second cousins, the mighty Howlands, might disagree with him.

  Though he looked enough like them with his blond hair and strong features that he often passed for a closer member of the aristocratic family, he would never inherit the earldom. Because he managed the million petty details of their holdings, however, the lords and ladies of the Howland family could spend their time playing in London and never give a thought to their moldering castle.

  Very likely Denby was the latest in a long line of sycophants hoping to approach the Earl of Howland through James. He’d quashed the pretensions of any number of encroaching persons since becoming magistrate on reaching his majority five years ago. He knew how to smile while dealing their hopes a death blow. He leaned back in his padded leather chair, broke the seal on the letter, and scanned its contents.

  And his carefully worded set-down evaporated from his mind.

  They knew.

  He sucked in a breath and read the letter from the Customs Commissioner at Weymouth again. Slowly, his pulse calmed. No, they didn’t know. They only suspected. He still had time to keep things quiet. Thank the Lord for that.

  He rose and went to the window, turning his back on the volumes of correspondence, the ledger books related to the castle’s upkeep, the map over the hearth that laid out the holdings of his distant illustrious family. The window gave him a clearer view, showing him half of the crescent of the cove and the opposite headland where Castle How stood guard. Howlands had defended these shores since before the coming of the Conqueror. He would do his duty, if not the way the lord-lieutenant or this commissioner wanted.

  The sound of a door opening told him Denby had joined him. Turning, he eyed the man. He’d expected a fisherman, face grizzled, hands worn, coat no more than serviceable. That’s the sort of person who generally agreed to serve as a Riding Officer. Denby was dressed like a gentleman and seemed comfortable in the clothes. His walk as he approached across the Oriental carpet was confident. Formal naval man perhaps? That could mean trouble.

  James held out his hand. “Mr. Denby. I’m James Howland. How might I be of assistance?”

  Denby’s grip was swift and sure. “That seems a frequent question here in Grace-by-the-Sea.”

  “We aim to serve,” James assured him. Disengaging, he waved to the chair before his desk. “Will you have a seat?”

  “I won’t take up so much of your time,” Denby promised. “I trust you read the letter. I merely wanted you to know why I’m here and why I might have to come to you for help.”

  Help that would raise questions if it were refused. “Of course,” James said with a nod. “But should you come to me for a warrant, do not bring me supposition, Mr. Denby. If you intend to accuse one of my neighbors of a crime, I expect you to bring me proof.”

  “Understood,” he said. “For now, I’m merely asking questions, getting to know the area.” He took a step closer, his gaze as sharp as a lance. “Have you noticed anything unusual, suspicious?”

  James kept his face neutral. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  Denby nodded, stepping back. “Then I’ll just have a look around. It may be our intelligence was in error.” He grimaced. “So far, Grace-by-the-Sea seems remarkably peaceful.”

  And there was more truth than Denby could know in the old saying that still waters ran deep. “Keep me apprised of any developments, Mr. Denby.”

  He bowed. “I will, sir. Thank you.”

  James waited only until the door had closed before going for his coat. He had a more important matter to attend to than the one on his desk, and this matter must be discussed in person.

  ~~~

  Jess had wondered whether Lark’s visit to the magistrate was merely an excuse to escape her offer of a tour. She wasn’t sure why she’d insisted that he join her. Part of her was determined to keep her distance, even to build a wall between them. Still, it was her duty as hostess to see to his needs. Lark would likely be happier if he was kept busy.

  She’d arranged yesterday to take Mrs. and Miss Cole, the mother and daughter from London, to visit the village proper. The elderly Misses Montgomery had proclaimed a walk too fatiguing, and the general had been more amused by a game of chess with Mr. Crabapple. The others would not be interested. After all, the Regulars had no need for a tour; they were instantly recognized and welcomed in every shop in town. The Irregu
lars also received a ready ear. It was the Newcomers who needed the introductions.

  The Coles arrived at the spa at a quarter to eleven, but before Jess could collect them, Mr. Crabapple motioned her closer. His long nose was nearly buried in his crystal glass of spa water, but he managed to raise his head to blink bleary blue eyes at her. “What did Lord Featherstone have to say when you approached him?”

  Jess noticed the water trembling in his glass and led him to one of the padded wicker chairs along the wall. “He says you need have no concern. Mrs. Harding has refused his suit and is free to accept yours.”

  It had taken a hint from Jess, but the baron had agreed to cease his suit of the wealthy widow, knowing that his friend was keenly interested in the lady. That was another expectation of the hostess—to arrange romantic connections among the guests. Once she’d found it challenging, trying to match this fellow with that lady. Three couples this spring were being called in the banns because of her efforts.

  Against her will, her gaze was drawn to the door, where Lark had entered. He looked to her, a smile curving up, and something fluttered inside her. She made herself call the Coles and took them to meet him.

  “Mrs. Cole, Miss Cole, may I present Mr. Larkin Denby?” she asked.

  The mother and daughter curtsied, and Lark bowed. The daughter’s lashes fluttered like a sail in a strong wind. That would have to stop. Lark was at least a decade older and more interested in adventure than matrimony. At least, he had been. Her mind boggled trying to imagine him as a clerk. She truly hoped he hadn’t become a fortune hunter. Poor Lord Featherstone didn’t need the competition. He had yet to catch his heiress, for he was forever relinquishing his place for the good of the lady or another gentleman more enthralled by her company.

  “Thank you for joining me on our tour,” she said, leading them through the marble arch that separated the Grand Pump Room from the wide entry with its cluster of potted palms. “I believe you’ve had a chance to acquaint yourself with the spa. As you may have read in our pamphlet, the healing properties of our mineral waters were first discovered one hundred years ago by a prominent local physician.”

  “A Doctor Chance,” Lark put in. “Your great-great-grandfather, if I recall, Miss Chance.”

  She didn’t remember telling him that eight years ago, which must mean he had read the pamphlet. Mrs. Greer would be in alt! The Coles, however, were regarding her with open curiosity.

  “That is correct,” Jess admitted. “Many of the gentlemen in my family have been physicians and made use of the curative waters.”

  “Do you have a brother, then?” Miss Cole asked, eyes lighting.

  Jess kept her smile in place. “I do indeed. However, he has yet to choose his path.” And she wasn’t about to go into details before Newcomers. “This way, if you please.” She reached for the latch on the spa’s main door.

  “Allow me,” Lark said and pushed open the door to hold it for the women.

  Cheeks warming, Jess was the last to step through. Funny how the little courtesies moved her. Her father had always held the door for his patients, walked with them all the way from the door to the fountain and back again. Even after a year, memories bit hard.

  “Everything all right?” Lark murmured as she crossed in front of him.

  Those brown eyes were too knowing. “Fine, Mr. Denby. Do try to keep up.”

  ~~~

  There was nothing like a guide who knew and admired her subject. Lark found himself seeing the little village as if for the first time.

  Oh, he had his memories from eight years ago, and he’d thought he’d paid attention when he’d rode in yesterday. Attention to detail was a requirement for his job. A road, well maintained, cut through the chalk Downs and became the main street through the village. This High Street debouched on the shores of the cove, where boats bobbed at anchor. Church Street bisected the village into north and south and led first to the spa and assembly rooms and then past Mr. Howland’s home to the stone tower of St. Andrew’s. Castle Walk led in the opposite direction, and he could only conclude climbed the cliff to where Castle How had once defended the area from sea invaders.

  Invaders that even now waited across the Channel.

  He could not dwell on that. If he thought about the thousands of villagers huddling in little hamlets not unlike this one in Kent and Sussex, waiting for the fleet Napoleon was building to make landfall on their shores, he could not focus on his task.

  A task he more and more doubted would have any impact on the war effort.

  Despite his superior’s hopes, the men at the spa did not appear a likely bunch. Perhaps he needed someone who’d lived here for ages, who had acquaintances among all strata of society. That sort of fellow did not seem to frequent the spa. And all he could do at the moment was continue his charade as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

  Jess cared, about her village, about her purpose. Her pride trembled in her soft voice, glowed from her expressive eyes.

  “At Grace-by-the-Sea,” she said as she led them past white-washed cottages with thatched roofs and gardens overflowing with bright flowers, “the entire village has come together to anticipate your every need from the moment you arrive. I trust you’ve found suitable accommodations?”

  “The Swan is comfortable,” Mrs. Cole said, but the sniff that accompanied her words implied she’d stayed in better.

  “Have your maid open the window in the morning,” Jess advised. “There’s a row of lavender bushes across the back of the inn. The scent is heavenly.”

  Mrs. Cole stuck out her lower lip and nodded.

  “Are you at the Swan as well?” her daughter asked Lark.

  He resisted the urge to ruffle her brown curls as he would have done with his sisters once. Both had grown old enough that they no longer appreciated the gesture, and Miss Cole seemed of an age to be approaching her come out into Society. He knew she was attempting to flirt with him, but he could not take her seriously. It was a little hard to appreciate the bud that was Miss Cole when the blossoming rose that was Jess was standing next to her.

  Mrs. Cole spared him a response. “Penelope, really,” she scolded. “Such impertinence! You needn’t answer, Mr. Denby.”

  “Oh, I think Mr. Denby is no stranger to impertinence,” Jess said with an unmistakable twinkle in her blue eyes.

  Lark put his hand on his heart. “You wound me, Miss Chance. I assure you, I am a most studious fellow, intent on serious pursuits.”

  Her mouth twitched. “Then you’ll be delighted with our first stop.” She waved a hand at the shop they were approaching on High Street. “Mr. Carroll’s Curiosities.”

  Mrs. Cole and her daughter hurried through the door as if expecting to find an exotic bazaar inside. They were not too far wrong. Bookcases painted in bold colors eclipsed the walls and sagged with all manner of printed material, from clapboard books for children to leather-bound tomes with gilt lettering fit for the most learned of elders. Tables littered the center of the room and carried whimsical toys designed to impress children and adults alike. He spotted a mechanical parrot on a gilded perch, a telescope on a brass stand, and a miniature model of the solar system, planets slowly turning.

  “Oh look, Mama,” Miss Cole cried, “it’s a stuffed hippopotamus.” She grabbed her mother’s hand and tugged her across the room to where a large, charcoal-colored shape dominated the corner.

  “A very good likeness, I thought, based on a painting by Rubens,” said a gentleman who had come forward from the back of the shop. A slight fellow with a balding pate, his round face and gentle smile offered an instant welcome. The eyes peering at Lark behind his spectacles, however, could only be called knowing.

  The shopkeeper offered Jess a bow. “Miss Chance, how nice to see you again. And how kind of you to bring new friends.”

  “Newcomers,” she advised as if the man would have thought otherwise.

  But he nodded sagely, as if she’d given him insight into their characters. “I thought
as much. And the gentleman?”

  Jess glanced his way, and Lark found himself standing a little taller. “I’m not yet certain.”

  There was deeper meaning to their conversation. He was sure of it. Pulse quickening, he made a show of picking up a periodical and thumbing through the pages, head cocked to hear more.

  Mr. Carroll did not disappoint. He stepped closer to Jess and lowered his voice. “I’m afraid the latest shipment from France has been delayed. Please give your aunt my deepest apologies.”

  Lark’s muscles tensed. They were at war. Did Mr. Carroll count silk, lace, or even champagne among his curiosities?

  “When may I tell my aunt you expect the goods?” Jess whispered back.

  He nearly dropped the periodical. Jess could not be involved. People could change in eight years, but surely she would not cavort with the criminal element.

  Perhaps she did not understand the dangers of smuggling. That was it. Too many people failed to realize the ramifications of purchasing goods for which no tax was paid. Taxes fed the army, paved the roads. And tea wasn’t the only thing being carried on the waves. Some smugglers brought England’s secrets to France.

  Jess had to be an innocent. This shopkeeper was the villain. He obviously knew the people who frequented the spa, was a recognized member of the village. Everyone must come in the shop from time to time, if only to marvel at his latest offerings. And while a merchant would never be numbered among the ruling class, this fellow did have a way about him that could only be called noble. He could well be the Lord of the Smugglers Lark had been sent to find.

  “They should be here Monday,” Mr. Carroll said. “You can help me open them if you can slip away from the spa.”

  How easily the spider pulled her into his web. Lark would not stand for it. The shipment must arrive by water, very likely on Sunday night, if the shopkeeper hoped to open it on Monday. So, Lark would be at the shore Sunday night, to see who else the spider had trapped and bring them to justice.