Cloudy With a Chance of Marriage (5 page)

And then she’d run away—in the middle of the night.

She’d been terrified, but the closer she’d come to London, the more exhilarated she’d become.

It was a new life for her. A new life for Otis, too.

Now she yawned and crawled into bed, comforted by the thought that someday she’d be able to go long lengths of time without thinking of her husband.

But she found she couldn’t sleep, and not because she was thinking of Hector. She was thinking about Captain Arrow again. They’d never gotten around to making those toasts to Dreare Street, had they?

“And we probably never will,” she whispered softly to herself. “Not if his aim is to ply me with punch.”

Even as she said it, she felt regrets about what couldn’t be. Because the evening had been unlike any she’d ever known. Diverting, joyful.

With many
plops
.

She thought back to the sheer exuberance she’d felt dropping those bags of water. And before that, the dancing between the flaming candelabra, surrounded by men in grass skirts.

Hector would have hated every minute of it.

But thinking of him again made Jilly’s chest tighten with fear and loathing, so she closed her eyes and clutched her coverlet close, only to slip into a dream about coconuts and drums.

CHAPTER FOUR

The next morning, a slant of sun—real sun—peeked through Stephen’s window. He felt as comfortable and lazy as the ship’s cat that used to sleep on top of his charts on his desk in his cabin.

“Late to bed, late to rise,” he said out loud, his humor fully restored in spite of his rejection by Miss Jones the evening previous, “makes a man—”

Makes a man what?

Happy?

Relaxed?

He threw off his quilt, and—

The bed promptly collapsed on the floor.

What the devil?

Thoroughly jolted, he was now at a ridiculous angle, his head down, and his feet up. Gingerly, he rolled off the side of the mattress. He’d just bought the frame from a well-respected furniture dealer. It was sturdy and new, of the finest maple.

He leaned over to examine the legs at the top of the bed. Good God, they’d fallen through the floor! Two floor planks had given way. No doubt the gaping hole accounted for the shouts coming from below in the breakfast room, where Pratt, his former ship’s cook, had been charged with the daily morning chore of frying up a rasher of bacon and several dozen eggs, as well as toasting a loaf of bread and making a pot of tea.

Stephen froze, wondering if his legs were to go through the ceiling next. Carefully, he walked over the seemingly sturdy planks to the door of his bedchamber and looked back at the slanted bed.

Odd, that. Very odd.

He shrugged. Nothing he could do about it at the moment. Might as well have breakfast, if there was any left that didn’t have plaster in it.

“You’ve got woodworm in a beam.” One of his friends winced as he looked up at the hole in the ceiling through pince-nez missing a lens; it had been lost last night in a playful brawl on the roof. “One rubbery creature fell on my toast.”

Gad.

The other men looked near to being sick.

“I’m sure it’s only in that portion of the beam,” Lumley added, his face rather green and his eyes a bloodshot red. “Otherwise, we’d be seeing it everywhere. And we haven’t.”

Stephen eyed the row of beams above his head. The others, if in good condition, would support the ceiling very well, but his chest tightened, nevertheless. “The executor of my cousin’s will told me the house was worn in places, but one doesn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. I’d planned to have it inspected at my leisure.”

Another friend added a few dollops of brandy to his empty teacup and drained it. “I’m sure it’s fine. Except for that one beam, it appears in excellent shape.”

Frying pan in hand, Pratt was none the worse for wear. Always impeccably groomed, this morning he wore one of his more intricately embroidered waistcoats when he slid three eggs and a side of bacon onto Stephen’s plate. “No house is, what you call,
perfetto,
” he said, kissing the fingertips of his right hand, where several large golden rings sparkled.

The whole table seemed soothed by his smooth Italian accent.

“It’s nothing I can’t take care of.” Stephen picked up his fork and looked round the company as if daring anyone to disagree.

“Aye,” whispered one dapper fellow who’d had both eyebrows shaved off but didn’t know it yet. “If I were you, Arrow, I’d hire a reputable carpenter, the best in London.”

There was a low, miserable chorus of assents.

Stephen was aware none of the men at the table had done an ounce of hard labor in their lives. They were all sons of noblemen, accustomed to having everything done for them by servants and skilled laborers—especially Lumley, who was so rich, if a coin fell out of his pocket he could hire someone to pick it up for him if he wanted.

Stephen poured himself a glass of beer and gulped it down. “I can take care of my own house. Besides, I’ve nothing else to do while I wait to sell it.”

Except win over a certain bookshop owner.

Not that
that
was going well.

“Did you happen to notice this street is unlucky, Arrow?” one of the men said in a wary voice. “A chimney sweep told me so last night when he directed me here. I was on Curzon and actually passed by Dreare Street without seeing the entrance. Someone needs to cut back those large holly bushes out there.”

Stephen gave a short laugh. “Yes, I heard only yesterday the street’s unlucky. But we’ve seen no evidence of it, have we?”

Everyone looked up at the hole in the ceiling.

“Forget that,” Stephen said with disgust. “We’re men of action, not puppets of Fate. One small rotten beam doesn’t make a place unlucky.”

The other bleary-eyed men of action agreed that this was so, but not until Stephen swept his intimidating captain’s gaze over them.

“Speaking of action,” said a freshly wakened gentleman limping through the breakfast room door with nothing on but breeches and mismatched boots, one a tasseled gray leather and the other a deep black. “Who’s driving up this early in the day? I thought the next carriageload of lightskirts wasn’t arriving until after sundown.”

Stephen went to the window and peered out. A respectably dressed young woman was getting out of a coach, and she was followed by an older man and woman.

Who were they?

The young lady wore a cape over a fussy white gown with bold green braid and too many matching plumes atop her bonnet. She looked up at the house, and Stephen saw she had a sweet face but an unfortunate squint. A square-faced older woman with broad shoulders spoke crossly to her, which no doubt was why the girl’s smile instantly disappeared.

The man had three chins, an overdone waistcoat, and a silk hat squashed so hard on his head, his ears stuck out. He looked about him with an air of superiority that made Stephen dislike him on sight.

Stephen strode to the front door. “How may I help you?” he called out to them, rather dreading their answer. All three had a determined look about them.

He was in no mood to deal with house buyers today, not with that wormy beam and the chunks of plaster on the dining room table. And it didn’t sit well with him that Miss Jones was outside her store, no doubt pretending to wash her windows in order to spy on the goings-on at his house.

The girl smiled broadly. “We’re your family, Th-tephen Arrow.” She spoke with a great lisp. “Dith-tant, of course, on your father’s th-ide. But family nonetheless.”

His heart clenched. The only person he considered real family was dead. Mama had been gone several years now, and there was no one else save that cousin who’d left him the house, and he was on his father’s side of the family. If these people were, too, they weren’t family by his definition of
family
.

He prepared himself to dismiss the trio, but as he’d learned the value of diplomacy in the navy, he’d do his best to be halfway charming about it.

Now the gentleman looked at Stephen with a haughty eye. “I am Sir Ned Hartley. This is my wife, Lady Hartley, and our daughter, Miss Hartley. My third cousin is the late Earl of Stanhope.”

Stephen, at very guarded attention, knew very well who the Earl of Stanhope was. “Your point is?”

Sir Ned’s lips thinned. “My point is we’re staying here with you while we’re in Town.”

Stephen scoffed. “Hardly.”

So much for diplomacy.

Lady Hartley gasped, and Sir Ned narrowed his eyes. “You’ve received notice from your attorney. He assured us you signed for the letter.”

Stephen blinked, but just once.

He
had
signed for a letter. It had come the day he’d arrived at the house, but he’d forgotten all about it as he’d been working hard at opening a stubborn cask of Highland whisky with a very dull blade. He did remember inviting the courier in for some drinks. The man had obliged and stayed half the evening.

Stephen had no idea where the letter was at the moment.

“The letter stated that we plan to stay at 34 Dreare Street for the length of the Season,” boomed Lady Hartley.

Stephen clenched his jaw to keep from wincing. Surely he could find something to like about the woman. Her thunderous voice certainly complemented her broad-beamed physique and thrusting bosoms the size of world globes, the kind found in schools around the country. And education was a good thing, wasn’t it?

He knew he was grasping at straws, but it was the kindest observation he could produce about her.

“You can’t, I’m afraid,” Stephen explained. “I plan to sell the house immediately.”

“Immediately?” asked Sir Ned. “You have a buyer?”

“Not yet, but I soon will.” It was his latest mission, to find that buyer. “There will be people traipsing in and out all day, no doubt, kicking the corners of the fireplaces, peering into all the rooms. We’re in Mayfair, so I expect someone will come along and purchase the place within the week.”

“But Cousin,” Miss Hartley lisped, her voice tinged with disappointment, “it’s our opportunity to get to know each other.”

Stephen’s heart sank like an anchor disappearing into the briny deep. Miss Hartley had that look in her eye—the one that suggested she might already be halfway in love with him. He called it the Bedazzled Virgin look. He was old enough now to be quite tired of it. It was the reason he avoided Almack’s and other places where sweet young girls gathered.

Sir Ned yawned. “As for the sale,” he drawled, “I don’t anticipate a buyer any time soon. Everyone knows Dreare Street is unlucky.”

“If you know that,” Stephen asked testily, “then why would you stay here?”

Lady Hartley laughed. “My husband doesn’t protect his inheritance by being careless with his money. If he can save a tuppence, he will.”

Sir Ned beamed as if he’d been highly complimented. “Yes, well, there’s plenty of room here for all of us. We hardly have to encounter each other. No doubt we keep different company.” He looked Stephen up and down as if he were riffraff. “You can take your meals at your club.”

“I prefer to eat at home,” Stephen said. “Not that it matters to you. We’ve had an enlightening conversation, but I’ll have to ask you to be on your way. I’m expecting a houseful of guests later today.”

Feminine houseguests who enjoyed making merry at all hours and for no reason at all, unlike his staid neighbor, Miss Jones.

“I brought another copy of the letter in the event you’d make trouble.” Sir Ned pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Stephen.

It hurt his eyes to read the lines, but he scanned it and saw that it was authentic. In it, the attorney declared that the baronet, his wife, and daughter were permitted by a codicil in the will of Stephen’s deceased cousin to stay at the house during the Season.

His chest tightened with resentment.

Lady Hartley tossed her head. “We hear you’ve been named one of Prinny’s Impossible Bachelors.” A flock of birds flew out of a tree at her earsplitting pronouncement. “But I’m warning you, Cousin”—she pointed a finger at him—“all manner of merrymaking must cease immediately. Miranda will be sheltered from wayward behavior. In fact, shame on you for not wearing a cravat.”

Stephen looked down. Yes, he was only in a shirt and breeches, but dammit all, it was only noon.

“Although I’m sure you mean well, madam,” he said evenly, “what I wear is none of your business. And I’ve no intention of letting you stay, even if we are”—he swallowed—“very distantly related.”

Sir Ned stuck out his lower lip. “Well, we’ve no intention of leaving.” He held out both arms, and his wife and daughter took them. Together, all three began walking up the stairs toward the front door.

“We’ve rights, and we know the law,” sniffed Lady Hartley.

Miss Hartley—Miranda—looked down at the ground, her cheeks pink. Perhaps she was embarrassed by her parents’ effrontery.

Stephen sighed. And here he thought being given a house as a gift was a lucky thing! Which reminded him—