Cloudy With a Chance of Marriage (29 page)

She
would
be back.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

A few moments earlier, Stephen stood at a bedchamber window at 34 Dreare Street and looked out at Hodgepodge. It was the same window Jilly had leaned out when he’d first met her, the one where she’d dropped bags of water on the bull’s-eye he’d painted on the street below.

Impulsively, he looked out and down, as if somehow he could recapture that special day, the first day he’d met Miss Jones. The bull’s-eye was still there but fading now. Good thing. He’d have had trouble selling a house with a silly bull’s-eye painted in front of it.

Dropping bags of water had been a foolish thing to do. So was hosting a night of theatrics. So was being a drunken idiot with his friends.

But none of that compared with the stupidity of falling in love with a woman who was married.

Yes, he’d fallen in love—real love—for the first time in his life. He’d been infatuated too many times to count, but love?

Never.

Not until Miss Jones had come along, with her notes of protestation about the noise he was creating and her earnest knocks on his door, pleading for peace.

Hah.

She’d gotten her revenge, hadn’t she?

He’d never have peace again.

Now he looked at Hodgepodge, at the fine carriage and two matched bays standing in front of it. Mr. Broadmoor—and Jilly—were obviously wealthy.

Stephen should have known.

He’d no idea why he felt compelled to watch, but he did.

She walked out of the bookshop.

She.

It was the only way he could refer to her without feeling as if his heart were being ripped out of his chest.

Her face appeared serene if serious, her chin was up (no surprise there), and her back was straight. It was only a moment between the shop door and the carriage, but would she look over at him?

Surely she knew he was watching.

No. She kept her eye on the carriage door, and moments later the vehicle was rolling away.

He turned from the window and ran both hands over his face, then stood silent, looking at nothing.

All he could see was her face when she nodded, admitting it was true—

She was that man’s wife.

“Damn you, Jilly Jones!” Stephen cried into the empty bedchamber, then swiftly punched a hole in the wall.

Relishing the pain, he staggered from the room.

What else could he destroy?

“Captain Arrow!” It was Lady Hartley coming up the stairs. She froze in place, her hand on her skirt. “What has happened to your hand?”

Miss Hartley peered over her shoulder.

He looked down at his hand. It was mainly chalky white, but there was a streak of red on the knuckles.

Blood, of course.

When he looked up again, he’d tucked all traces of emotion away. “A small accident while I was working. Nothing to be concerned about.” He certainly didn’t want
them
to know what had happened to Miss Jones. He forced himself to smile politely. “Where’s Sir Ned?”

“At the club.” Lady Hartley gave a careless arch to one brow. She sounded bored and resentful. “Miranda is about to go out with that cook of yours to purchase more paint. But I believe I’ll stay here.”

“Am I?” Miss Hartley asked brightly. “I thought you and Papa said I couldn’t—”

“Yes, well, I’ve changed my mind,” Lady Hartley replied.

“Thank you, Mother!” Miss Hartley turned right back around and ran out the front door.

When the door slammed behind the daughter, the mother threw Stephen a meaningful look, which he completely ignored.

“Yes, well, I’m going out, too,” he said to her.

“Have you finished all the house repairs?” Lady Hartley leaned back dangerously over the stair banister, her arms extended to either side, her bosom shoved forward, and her head thrown back, presumably to show herself to advantage.

“No.” He was terribly far behind.

And he was also trapped on the stair landing.

She sniffed and ran her hand up and down the railing. “What a shame. Sir Ned has met someone who might be interested in purchasing the house if you can restore it to excellent condition.”

She sent him a coy look.

Stephen was becoming rapidly bored with her infatuation. “Does this person know about Dreare Street’s reputation?”

“His name is Lord Smelling. He’d like to come by soon to discuss the matter.”

“Well, Lord Smelling will have to wait.” Stephen couldn’t care less that he sounded terse.

Lady Hartley laid a hand over her heart. “My goodness. You’re certainly prickly today. Shall we tell him you’re busy with the fair?”

“No. The fair’s the last thing on my mind at the moment. Good day, Lady Hartley.” Stephen escaped past her down the stairs.

“Captain!” Lady Hartley’s voice was shrill. “What
is
on your mind? Could it be
me
?”

He flung open the front door only to see Otis already there, with his hand raised as if to knock. “Captain!” he cried. “I must talk to you! It’s an emergency.”

“I know about Miss Jones.” Stephen could barely eke out the name.

He navigated around Otis with little more care than he had shown Lady Hartley and sprinted down the front steps.

“Where are you off to?” Otis cried.

Stephen shrugged and kept walking. All he could see was red. Covered by black. Smothered by red.

And the blasted wisps of fog still hanging on the shrubs and branches of Dreare Street.

He had no idea where he was going. This was new terrain for him, loving a woman—

And then losing her in the bargain.

“Wait for me! I beg of you!” Otis called after him.

He kept going.

“If you have any decency in you at all, you’ll stop right there, Captain!”

Stephen stopped. He’d never heard Otis sound so commanding.

When he turned around, the ex-valet was striding toward him with his fists clenched and his face determined.

He looked a bit like Admiral Lord Nelson.

“I’ll have you know something,” Otis said in a trembling voice. “There is no finer woman on earth than Lady Jilly—”

“
Lady
Jilly?” Stephen gave a short bark of laughter. “What other revelations will there be today?”

Otis narrowed his eyes at him. “Stop being an ass.”

Stephen shook his head in wonder. “Did you just call me an ass?”

Otis raised his chin. “I most certainly did. If you’re the man I think you are, you’ll cease your judgment of Lady Jilly until you have all the facts.”

Stephen’s jaw worked back and forth as he tried to contain his anger. “I don’t need the facts,” he said low. “I know them.”

“Not all of them,” Otis said, unperturbed.

Stephen could feel his face become a mask. “Tell me, then.”

He didn’t want to know.

He didn’t
need
to know.

In the navy, they called it making excuses. Excuses were for the cowardly.

Stephen didn’t like cowards.

“If you knew her husband, you’d understand,” Otis said.

They were walking toward the top of Dreare Street. To their left, Miss Hartley and Pratt were talking and laughing and walking toward Curzon, as well. The paint could be found a few blocks over, and Stephen had arranged that they’d receive a tremendous discount for buying so much. Up ahead, several children were already practicing the street parade. And to their right, an older man was walking his dog.

“I already suspect he’s an ass.” Stephen swung his arms with more than his usual vigor. “But it doesn’t excuse—”

“What do you know of it?” Otis interrupted him. “You’re not a woman. You’re not at someone’s beck and call. You command your own destiny.”

His voice was bitter.

“Perhaps I do,” Stephen replied just as bitterly. “And what I’d like right now is to leave Dreare Street. I’ve someplace to be.”

“Mr. Broadmoor”—Otis ignored him and went on—“was thrust upon Lady Jilly as a mate. Her father decided on his deathbed he wanted to see her well placed before he died. Mr. Broadmoor’s a very distant cousin. The viscount sent for him, but Lady Jilly refused the man. Not many women would do that, but Lady Jilly knows her own mind.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“She explained clearly to her father that the man was a scoundrel, that he’d tried to ravish her the minute her father’s back was turned. And then her father confessed that all the property was entailed to Mr. Broadmoor and that if Lady Jilly didn’t marry him, she would be thrown out along with all us servants. Jilly thinks her father was hastened to his death by her revelation about the man’s character. So she felt both guilt about his decline and worry about the servants—both of which compelled her to meet Mr. Broadmoor at the altar.”

Stephen released a sigh. “It’s a sad story, I’ll grant you that. But it doesn’t excuse the fact that she pretended to be unmarried and—”

He wouldn’t say any more.

Otis threw out an arm in front of him, and Stephen was forced to stop. He gave the man a sideways look. “You’re playing with fire, you do know that, Shrimpshire?”

“I don’t care.” Otis frowned. “
You,
sir, are the one who pursued Lady Jilly, who told the Hartleys she was your intended. Have you conveniently forgotten that fact?”

“No, I haven’t.” His voice was clipped. “But I’d like to.”

“You’re no innocent, Captain.” Otis’s tone was tart. “
You
were playing with fire. You’ve made that your favorite pastime, haven’t you? And now it’s come to burn you.”

Stephen sighed again. “I’m well aware of that fact. Perhaps it’s why I’m so—”

He groped for words.

“Angry,”
Otis supplied for him.

“To put it mildly.”

They walked in semicompanionable silence another ten seconds before Otis spoke again. “Lady Jilly had time to tell me only a few things before she was taken away. The first is that she intends to be back here for the fair. She told me to seek your help meanwhile, and to tell you”—he hesitated—“that she’s sorry.”

Oh, how those words fell like cold pebbles on the hardness of Stephen’s heart.

Sorry
.

What good was that?

It was all very nice to be sorry, but it didn’t change the fact that she was married, he was not, and she’d never bothered to tell him, even though she should have. They’d been friends—
more
than friends.

He had no idea what to do with a
sorry
.

“Right,” he murmured, and looked anywhere but at Otis.

“I hope you plan to continue leading us with the fair, Captain,” the bookstore clerk said quietly.

Blast it all. Stephen felt like taking a swing at a wall again. Why did he always feel compelled to do his duty? “I told you. I was about to go somewhere else.” The words came out softer than he’d have liked. He felt completely dispirited, worse than he’d ever felt in his life.

“I don’t believe you,” said Otis.

Stephen glared at him.

Otis raised his hands. “All right, I believe you. But after an hour or two, you’ll come back.”

Stephen couldn’t disagree. He knew he wouldn’t abandon the street. It wasn’t in his nature to quit before a job was done. Nor was it in his nature to be a scoundrel.

He was tempted to throw his head back and groan aloud. Couldn’t a broken man take time out to feel
any
self-pity?

Otis smiled and looked hopeful, damn him.

“You’re right,” Stephen muttered. “I’ll be back.”

Otis slapped him on the back. “I knew you’d not disappoint us.”

Stephen almost rolled his eyes, but two small children were staring at them, their brightly painted whirligigs temporarily forgotten.

“Are you ill, Captain Arrow?” asked one small girl.

He forced himself to shake his head and appear … bright.

Yes, bright.

He could do that.

“No, Rebecca, I’m not ill,” he said.

She gave him a grin that lit up the whole street. “Good, Captain. We can’t have you ill before Wednesday.”

“That’s right.” He winced and hoped she took it as a smile.

She and her companion ran off with their whirligigs spinning madly.

“Their mothers are making those for the fair,” said Otis. “The children must be testing them.”

Stephen looked after them. Every family on the street was involved, weren’t they?

Everyone but Lady Duchamp and Mr. Hobbs.