Cloudy With a Chance of Marriage (31 page)

He’d put it off long enough. He had to find out where Miss Jones was.

Now.

*   *   *

“Fifty-four Grosvenor Square,” Otis said a few minutes later, still in his nightcap. “But Captain, you can’t see her. Her wretch of a husband won’t allow it, I’m sure.”

“I know he won’t.” Stephen turned on his heel to go then looked back. “Thanks, Otis.”

“You’re welcome.” The unlikeliest of bookstore clerks had a fresh wrinkle on his brow.

Stephen grinned. “Don’t worry about me.” But then he grew serious. “It’s Miss Jones we need to be concerned about.”

“And I am!” Otis cried. “I didn’t want her to go. I hit that blackguard in the eye with my shoe, but”—he hesitated—“I didn’t know what else to do. I’ve been up all night thinking about it.”

His expression, already heavy with lack of sleep, drooped even further.

“You did the best you could,” said Stephen. “I’ll let you know what I find out when I return.”

Otis smiled. “Very well. Godspeed.”

When Stephen arrived at the town home on Grosvenor Square in a hired hackney, all was quiet. He instructed the driver to wait on the corner. He sat in silence for an entire hour. In that time, the street lightened substantially. Another quarter of an hour went by before he saw any activity on the premises.

Someone flicked aside a curtain in a front window. A minute later, Broadmoor exited the front door on foot. Other pedestrians were out, not many, but a few. There was a chimney sweep, two young bucks who appeared to be headed home after an evening out on the town, and a nurse with three young children heading in the direction of the park.

Stephen was sorely tempted to knock on the door and demand to see Miss Jones, but he suppressed that temptation, slipped out of the hackney, and began following his quarry at a safe distance.

A little while later, Broadmoor entered the Pantheon Bazaar, lingering over a stall featuring men’s silk hats and another that boasted cures for all men’s ailments. After wandering for another ten minutes, he raised his cane in greeting to someone in the crowd.

Stephen’s heart beat faster. Who was he meeting?

A woman emerged from the milling shoppers, and Stephen’s first thought was that the two were a well-matched pair. Broadmoor was decked out in the fine garb of a gentleman, but he came across as low class. The woman wore an elegant gown and was quite beautiful—but in a hard way.

They appeared to be in intent conversation. The woman nodded repeatedly. Broadmoor gestured with his cane, as if he were giving her directions to another place.

After a few minutes, they went their separate ways.

Stephen continued following Broadmoor out onto the street. The man approached a line of hackneys and spoke to one driver, then moved down the line to another. He entered that vehicle, and it rolled away.

Stephen ran to the first hackney driver. “Could you follow the one that just left?”

The driver shook his head. “Only if you pay me more than that cheapskate was willing to. I’ve got a toll to cover, you know.”

“Of course,” said Stephen and named a fair price, which the driver accepted. “Can you catch up with them?”

The driver shrugged. “I’m sure I can, although I know where he’s going.”

“Where?”

“To a cottage in Kensington. He wanted me to wait there a few hours, but he wasn’t willing to pay the extra money for that, neither. What does he think I am? Desperate?”

Stephen warred between the desire to know exactly what cottage Broadmoor was heading to and why—and an overwhelming need to see Miss Jones.

The need won.

“Keep the money,” Stephen said to the man, “and I’ll pay you triple that if you can tell me what the other driver says when he gets back. I’d like to know the address of that cottage.”

“Fine by me,” said the driver. “I’m here every day at this time. Ask for Jack.” He tipped his hat.

“Thank you, Jack.”

Stephen felt a sense of satisfaction that he’d soon learn more about Mr. Broadmoor. But it was nothing compared to the surge of happiness that overwhelmed him.

He was happy because he was going to see Miss Jones.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

When Jilly woke up that morning, her first thought was of Stephen. Did he miss her at all? Or did he hate her so much for her deception that he’d already put her out of his mind?

She was entirely miserable recalling the events of the day previous. There was no denying she’d hurt him—badly. She felt guilt, but even more she felt overwhelming sadness.

They could never be together.

Why couldn’t she accept that fact and move on?

With a sigh of despair, she swung her legs out of bed. She had no choice but to endure.

Yes, she was miserable and lonely, but on the bright side—if she could call it a bright side—at least she wasn’t afraid of Hector anymore. She’d lost too much already to be afraid of a paltry man like him.

As she dressed, she wondered what Otis might be doing at the moment, not only Otis but the rest of Dreare Street.

A thought which reminded her of Stephen.

Everything always came back to him.

She felt a hitch in her throat, the kind that signified imminent tears, but she choked them back. A moment later, she was thrilled to descend the stairs to the breakfast room to find Hector gone already.

“Did he say where he was going?” she asked the butler, who’d turned out to be a kindly old gentleman.

“No, madam, he didn’t.”

She bit into a piece of toast, surprised that she felt any appetite. But she did, a slight one. Her heart felt a tiny bit lighter without Hector near.

She took a sip of good, strong tea. “Did he say when he’d come home?”

The butler shook his head. “Sorry, madam.”

“Thank you.” She smiled at him, but her heart sank just a little. It was awful to be trapped here in the house, unsure of her husband’s whereabouts. She felt a bit like a bird in a cage, which is exactly what he’d hoped she’d feel like, she remembered now.

The butler cleared his throat. “Mr. Broadmoor said you’re to receive no visitors. But a man came by a few moments ago while you were still upstairs.”

Jilly put down her cup. “A man?” Her heart beat hard. “To see me in particular?”

The butler nodded. “He was very angry when I told him no.”

“What did he look like?” She could barely breathe.

Had it been Otis?

Or Stephen?

“He was distinguished,” said the butler. “Quite handsome.”

“Young handsome or older handsome?” she blurted out.

“Young. But he was covered in plaster and sweat. I told him to leave the premises immediately, or I’d pull out my master’s pistol.”

He lifted his coat to show Jilly he meant what he’d said.

She gasped. “Why would you threaten anyone with a pistol? That’s ridiculous!”

The butler appeared rather uncertain. “I don’t like it myself. But Mr. Broadmoor demanded I be armed at the door. I must admit being required to wield a loaded pistol on Grosvenor Square doesn’t sit well with me.”

“Nor with me!” Jilly stood. “Is he still … around? This man you speak of?”

The butler shook his head. “No, he’s not. He made sure to tell me that he could easily have removed the pistol from my hand as he’d done so from many a pirate, but that he doesn’t like to break the arms of old men.”

Stephen
. It had to have been he!

“He also told me not to worry, that he wouldn’t be back,” said the butler. “And he insisted that I not admit anyone else, either. He recommended, in fact, that the mistress of the house stay in her bedchamber and lock the door if a threat looms so large that I’m required to wield a pistol.”

“Oh.” Jilly could barely speak above a whisper. Slowly, she moved past the butler into the corridor, past a coat of arms hanging on the wall, then past a large mirror in the entryway which reminded her of the one in Hodgepodge, and to the right, into the drawing room. She pulled back the heavy red velvet curtains and saw what she dreaded—

Nothing.

The square looked completely empty, save for a bird which sat on a bush nearby.

She’d missed him.

It felt the veriest tragedy to be so close yet not see each other.

She had the overwhelming urge to run out the front door and go back to Dreare Street. Perhaps Stephen would be there.

But would he even speak to her?

And what would Hector do when he found her gone?

Both of those were questions she didn’t like to contemplate.

And then there was the matter of her excuse for not being on Dreare Street. Otis would have told her neighbors by now that she was attending to someone in the family who’d fallen ill.

She couldn’t afford for anyone to find out the truth.

She bit her lip. For now, she was stuck here on Grosvenor Square. She must resign herself.

The butler hovered at the door. “Madam? Perhaps the man was right. An aged man such as myself has no place protecting the house in the master’s absence. I think it would be prudent for you to retire to your room until he returns.”

Jilly blinked. “I—I’ll consider it. Thank you.”

“Perhaps a book from the library to take with you?” A worried frown creased his brow. He certainly was insistent, poor man.

Well, what did it matter where she went in the house? She had nothing to do. And if it made the butler feel more at ease, she would relieve his mind and go upstairs.

“Very well,” she said. “I’ll find a book and retire to my room.”

The elderly servant moved back a discreet distance and let her pass. In the library, she spent a few listless moments searching the shelves then, with little conviction, pulled out an old history of London. As she flipped through its pages, she had another wistful thought about Alicia Fotherington and that missing diary.

She’d so wanted to finish it.

If she couldn’t be happy in her own life, she might as well seek out stories of people who had been.

Holding the chosen book close to her chest, she passed the butler again.

“Don’t forget to lock the door, madam.”

“I promise,” she assured him, a heavy ennui settling over her.

The air was stale as she ascended the stairs and walked down the plushly carpeted hallway to her bedchamber.

Boring
was the word that came to mind as she passed silent, shut-off rooms. Her life was going to be very, very boring.

When she arrived at her bedchamber door, she sighed. The room was nothing special, although it did overlook a small garden. She opened the door and pulled it shut.

“Don’t forget to lock it,” a familiar voice said behind her.

Jilly froze.

Good heavens. She let the book fall from her fingers to the carpet. Stephen stood there—sweaty and dirty and the most glorious sight she’d ever seen.

She most certainly wasn’t bored anymore.

*   *   *

Stephen didn’t know what to think when Jilly turned to face him and let the book she held fall to the floor. Her mouth fell open and her brows arched high, but then her shock dissolved and her eyes filled with tears. Big, fat tears.

She put a trembling hand to her mouth and smiled.

“Stephen,” she whispered.

“Jilly.”

A beat passed.

Did she know? Did she know how his heart had been cut to pieces by her deception? Did she know that he loved her in spite of it? That he had to be near her—with her—even though …

Even though they could never be together.

She took a halting step toward him.

It was enough for him. He took three steps forward and pulled her into his arms. When she looked up into his eyes with such utter trust, such pleasure at his mere existence, he allowed himself the luxury of staring into her own violet-blue depths for no reason other than that she was his.

Whatever the world thought, she was his.

His alone.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said.

“I know,” he said low.

There were so many reasons he shouldn’t be there. Yet he couldn’t resist pulling a tendril of hair off her face and wrapping it around his finger.

“I bribed a stable boy to point out your window. Thankfully, the trellis held.”

She smiled. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“I had to be,” he said simply.

“Will you let me explain?” She laid a palm on his cheek.

“No. I already understand. I knew as soon as I saw him.”

Her face softened even more then, and she let her hand slide down his cheek and fall useless to her side.

There was another silence.

And then he bent low—