The Artist's Healer - Regina Scott Page 0,63

any moment now.”

They all turned toward the water. The cove sat empty, quiet. Beyond the entrance, the Channel rippled in the sunlight.

Just as empty.

Howland stepped forward. “Where are they? If they intended to land, they’d have to come through the cove. There’s no other low bank for miles.”

Denby squared his shoulders. “You all canvas the village, get everyone out, just in case. I’ll head for the castle, see if I can find a better vantage point.”

“Go,” Howland said. “Jesslyn, divide your troops. Two to Church Street and Castle Walk, two to each side of High Street. You have a half hour, then I want you climbing for the Lodge.”

“The Lodge?” Owens asked Linus as Jesslyn began partnering the others.

“A property hidden on the west headland,” Linus explained. “The villagers and our guests are heading there rather than out on the Downs.”

“More strategic value,” he said with a nod. “Do you need my help?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Denby put in. “Take the west side of High Street with Doctor Bennett. It’s mostly shops, but some have flats above or behind, and it’s possible others took shelter there.”

“On our way,” Linus said.

It was a mad half hour. He and Owens knocked and shouted as Lord Featherstone and the Admiral canvassed the opposite side. In the distance, other voices shouted on Church Street and Castle Walk.

“Remarkably obedient, your villagers and guests,” Owens mused as they headed back up the street, having found no one.

“Remarkably fortunate,” Linus told him. “It was utter chaos for a time.”

“And so it might have remained,” Owens assured him, “but for you, the magistrate, and Mr. Denby.”

Linus wasn’t so sure about that. Abigail had been the one to think of the Lodge, Jesslyn to rally the Regulars. Eva and Mrs. Tully had proven more effective at leading the villagers and guests than he and the other men had been. Abigail had also rescued Ethan so he could help others.

He nearly stopped in his tracks as the realization hit. The very traits that had concerned him had proven their salvation—her quick action, her fearlessness, her willingness to take risks where others hesitated.

How could any man fail to admire such a woman?

They regrouped a few moments later at the crossroads between Castle Walk and Church Street.

“The French have vanished,” Denby reported, breathing hard from his run in both directions. “Most of the boats in the Regatta took sail too.”

“Perhaps they went to mount an attack,” Owens suggested. “You have such captains designated, do you not? Sea Fencibles, I believe they’re called.”

“We do,” the magistrate allowed. “But their purpose is to go out and meet the French in the middle of the Channel. Most of the ships in the Regatta wouldn’t have been carrying cannons. And there’s no time to mount a defense when the French arrive from nowhere.”

Linus cocked his head. “An excellent observation, Magistrate. How did a French sloop appear in the middle of the Regatta? One might think it designed to sow panic.”

Howland stared at him. “They were testing us!”

Denby glanced out over the water. “And I fear to think what they just learned.”

Chapter Nineteen

Lord Peverell’s Lodge was a sprawling place built of brick imported from outside Dorset. It boasted three withdrawing rooms and a dozen bedchambers, but it had not been designed to hold most of the inhabitants of Grace-by-the-Sea and all those who had come up for the Regatta.

“And the Spa Corporation will pay for any damage?” Mrs. Kirby had asked as she had unlocked the door for Abigail.

“Mr. Greer is aware of the change in plan,” Abigail had replied, hoping the Spa Corporation president would agree to supply whatever was needed in the end.

Now families and friends clustered in each bedchamber, the spa guests who were not still in the village were congregated in one of the withdrawing rooms, the other Regatta attendees made up the other two withdrawing rooms, and the shopkeepers and workers of Grace-by-the-Sea ranged from the kitchen to the dining room. Children huddled with their parents. Husbands and wives held hands. And everyone listened for the dull boom of cannon fire, the tramp of soldier’s feet.

Both Abigail and Mr. Wingate, the vicar, moved from room to room, checking on everyone.

“What are we to do, Miss Archer?” Mrs. Evans asked, holding her new baby close as her daughters clung to her skirts. They had come up the headland alone. Abigail assumed her husband was out on one of the boats.

“We’ll wait here for word from the magistrate,” Abigail told her, smiling at the baby, who