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but said nothing more as he went after the two British spies.
    Once the door shut behind him, Josie let her arms fall to her sides. “All right, then. They’re off, and now it’s just us girls again.”
    Scoop raised his eyebrows.
    Her strain was evident even as she smiled at him. “Sorry, Detective.”
    “Honestly, Scoop,” Keira said, attempting a laugh, “you look even more ferocious these days. Who’d ever know you adopted two stray cats?”
    “The cats know,” he said.
    Tears shone in her eyes. “They must miss you.”
    “They’re in good hands. Your cousins are taking care of them.” Not Fiona but her two younger sisters, who lived with their mother—Bob O’Reilly’s first wife. Scoop tried to keep his tone light. “Your uncle’s having fits. Now Maddie and Jayne want him to adopt cats.”
    “I’m just glad yours survived the fire,” Keira said quietly. “When are you going back to Boston?”
    “Tomorrow,” he said, deciding on the spot. First the mysterious archaeologist, now British spies and the FBI. Too much was going on for him to justify even one more day in Ireland. Answers weren’t here, in Keira’s idyllic cottage.
    Lizzie sank onto the sofa where, in his first days at the cottage, Scoop had lain on his stomach for hours at a stretch, easing himself off medication and trying to remember anything that could help with the investigations back in Boston. She kicked out her legs and propped her feet up on a small coffee table. Although she was a hotel heiress accustomed to five-star surroundings, she didn’t look out of place in the simple cottage. From what Scoop had seen of them, Lizzie Rush and Lord Davenport—who was accustomed to castles—were at home wherever they happened to find themselves.
    “I have a room all set for you at our hotel in Boston anytime you want it,” she told Scoop.
    “That’s very kind of you, Lizzie, but another detective’s offered me his sleeper sofa.”
    “Who?” Keira asked, skeptical.
    “Tom Yarborough.”
    She sputtered into incredulous laughter. “You two would kill each other.”
    Probably true. Yarborough was a homicide detective—Abigail’s partner—and not an easy person on a good day. He hadn’t had a good day in months.
    “My family would love to have you at the Whitcomb,” Lizzie said. “Consider it done, Scoop. I’ll text Jeremiah and let him know.”
    Jeremiah Rush was the third eldest of Lizzie’s four male Rush cousins. With her father frequently gone and her mother dead since she was an infant, she had practically grown up with them north of Boston.
    “What about you three?” Scoop asked, taking in all three women with one look.
    “We’ll keep ourselves busy,” Josie said. She opened up the refrigerator, giving an exaggerated shudder of disgust as she shut it again. “Rutabagas and beer do not a meal make.”
    “I’ve been eating mostly at the pub,” Scoop said.
    “Yes, well, one would hope.”
    He went over to the front window and looked out into the fading daylight. The weeks of healing—of being on medical leave, away from his job—finally were getting to him. He turned back to the women. “When did you all get here?”
    “Just now,” Keira said. “Lizzie and I came on our own.”
    “Chasing Will and Simon?”
    Her cheeks turned a deep shade of pink, but Lizzie was the one who spoke. “Not chasing. Following. They tried to divert us with a few days of shopping in Dublin.”
    “Guess they had to give it a shot,” Scoop said with a smile.
    “I flew from London,” Josie said. “I hired my own car at the airport.”
    “Were you following Will and Simon—or Myles?”
    She walked briskly to the table Fletcher had vacated and gazed down at his drawing. “I don’t know what you mean. I’m the trusted assistant of Will Davenport, the second son of a beloved marquess. Whatever else you’re thinking is pure fancy.”
    Scoop didn’t argue. What Josie Goodwin knew and how she knew it was a matter he