Cloudy With a Chance of Marriage (38 page)

With a sigh, he mounted again. Slowly, he walked his horse down the street. He was reluctant to leave, knowing his quarry was there uncaught.

He must be patient.

And sensible. He wanted to get back to Dreare Street as soon as possible. But he’d had a long journey and another one still ahead of him. He’d make a quick stop at an inn one street over for some portable sustenance, some bread and cheese perhaps.

While the barkeep went back to the kitchen to get his order ready, Stephen nodded his head at a middle-aged gentleman sitting next to him with a pint of ale.

“You could use one of these,” the man said to him, raising his glass. “You look much disappointed in something. Let me buy you one, stranger. My name’s Mac McIver, at your service.”

“Thank you, no,” Stephen said, barely managing a polite response. “I need to get back to London.”

Mr. McIver gave him a sideways look. “Why the long face, then? London is a fine place.”

In a moment of weakness, and against all his good judgment as a gentleman—a military man, at that—Stephen gave in to impulse. “I’m in love,” he confessed.

“Well,” the man replied, “that usually induces more feelings of happiness than gloom.”

“Yes, sir,” Stephen said with a sigh, “normally you’d be correct. But she’s married. She doesn’t love her cad of a husband, nor he her. She loves me. But as a gentleman, I can’t do anything without compromising her honor, or mine.”

Thankfully, the barkeep returned then with Stephen’s food, wrapped in paper. He paid for it and put the package under his arm. “Good day,” he said to Mr. McIver.

He was rather embarrassed and anxious to be gone.

The stranger touched his arm. “Your dilemma isn’t unique,” he said low, “but it’s unsalvageable in most cases, no?”

Stephen nodded. “Right.”

“If I may be so bold, might I know the names of this man and woman?”

Stephen shook his head. “I’d rather not say.” It still stung deeply to recollect that awful moment in Hodgepodge when he’d first realized Jilly and Hector were married. “They’re not from here anyway.”

Mr. McIver grinned. “I envision him as a Ferdinand. Or Brutus. The villain always has such a name in the Gothic novels my wife is fond of.” He chuckled. “If he doesn’t live here, then tell me, lad. Just the first name will do.”

Stephen shrugged. “It’s Hector. The lady’s name I’ll keep to myself.”

Mr. McIver drew in his chin. “My goodness,” he said. “I know a Hector. Are you sure they’re not from around here?”

“No, they’re not, I assure you.”

Mr. McIver looked at Stephen with a great deal of pity, almost as if he thought he were lying.

“What is it?” Stephen couldn’t help feeling a bit defensive.

The old man twisted his mouth in a faint grimace and patted his hand. “I feel for you, lad.”

“Yes, I know you do.” Bitterness crept into Stephen’s voice. “Thank very much. But I’ll survive.”

Just barely.

Mr. McIver leaned close to him. “You came to see Bessie Brompton, didn’t you, and you found Hector there,” he whispered knowingly, and looked up to make sure the barkeep wasn’t listening. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”

The hairs on the back of Stephen’s neck stood up. “What do you mean?”

Mr. McIver shook his head. “You’re not the first to fall in love with Bessie. Hector comes and goes, sometimes for months at a time. They’ve been married at least ten years, but”—he paused—“everyone knows Bessie has her occasional suitor.” And then he winked.

Married
.

For ten years?

“The Hector you refer to … his surname is Brompton?” Stephen could barely get the words out.

“Why, yes,” said Mr. McIver. “Of course. Hector and Bessie Brompton.”

Brompton.

Broadmoor.

The names were very close.

“Got married in our village church.” Mr. McIver cocked his head at some unknown point. “Everyone from here gets married there.”

Stephen forced himself to regain his outward composure, although inside he was still reeling. “I’m sure you have the wrong Hector. What does he look like?”

“Why, he’s got an ugly scar right by his mouth.”

It
was
the same Hector!

“I really must go,” Stephen managed to say. “But thanks for the kind ear.”

The man nudged him. “Forget about Bessie,” he said with sympathy. “Surely there are other women who’ll capture your heart. Go find one in Town, eh?”

He slapped Stephen on the back once and went back to his ale.

Stephen walked out of the pub with a smooth brow and calm manner, but his heart beat a wild tattoo against his ribs. When he mounted his horse, he wheeled it around and cantered in the direction of the small spire down the street. Hector’s doom would be found right here—in Kensington, where he kept his real wife.

It would be the same place that Stephen would confront him with the truth—and here that Jilly, the woman both he and Hector had wronged, would find her freedom.

*   *   *

“No, you may
not
come in,” Otis said loudly to Lady Duchamp, who’d arrived at the door of Hodgepodge while everyone who’d attended the emergency meeting was discussing the new plan to bring prosperity to Dreare Street. “Not if you plan to make trouble.”

Lady Duchamp arched one eyebrow. “Are you afraid of me, you sartorial disaster?” She eyed his tricorne hat and scarlet coat with scorn.

Jilly and everyone else froze at the overheard conversation.

“I’m most certainly
not
afraid of you,” Otis said with dignity. “So do come in and make your standard dramatic entrance—it’s getting to be quite boring, by the way—and fire your best volley. We shall
sink
you, my lady, if you dare! That I promise you.”

He leaned toward her, his voice trembling with emotion.

“You’ve been consorting with that ridiculous sea captain too long.” She pushed Otis aside with her cane and entered the shop. “Stop your eating and drinking. The news I have shall make you all sick to your stomachs.”

Everyone stared, but then a young man next to her bit into his scone and stared fixedly at her. He swallowed loudly and took another bite.

Her eyes narrowed. “That’s at your peril.”

“I’ll take my chances,” he said low, and kept chewing, like a cow at its cud.

“How can I help you, my lady?” Jilly’s tone was businesslike.

Lady Duchamp stuck her withered chin in the air. “As some of you know, I own several buildings on this street. But until now, none of you have guessed that
I
own the ground beneath your feet. You pay your leases to
me
. Mr. Redmond is my accountant.”

There was a stunned silence.

Then Mr. Hobbs stood. “What of it? We don’t care who owns the land beneath our feet. We’ll pay you and be done with it. And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

There were murmurs of assent from all around.

“Oh, yes there is.” Lady Duchamp smiled, and it was an awful smile, to say the least. “As of yesterday, I’ve changed the terms of the lease.”

Jilly felt her stomach sink. “What are the new terms?” she called out, refusing to let any fear enter her voice.

The old woman’s smiling face suddenly went stony. “The money is due in three days.”

“No, it’s not, my lady.” The young man with the scone wiped his mouth. “We have a whole week.”

Lady Duchamp poked him in the chest with her cane. “Not any longer. Of course, I wanted the money due today. But the attorneys said it would take three days for the paperwork to go through. Good-bye, all of you, for good. Might as well pack and leave.”

The whole room fell deathly silent as Lady Duchamp walked out the front door again. Everyone turned around and looked at Jilly as if she’d know what to do.

The old bat had been right. Jilly
did
feel like throwing up. But she wouldn’t let any of her friends know.

“So we have three days now instead of seven,” she said briskly.

“But we
need
seven,” Nathaniel said.

“We don’t have them. “ What else could she say? “We’ll simply have to adjust to the new schedule.”

Everyone but Otis—how good a friend he was!—looked rather doubtful.

“Right.” Jilly blew a tendril of hair off her face. “This is only a temporary setback. Let’s disband for the moment and regroup here at two this afternoon.”

The group stood and moved to the door, quiet again.

Deflated.

Like her. But she remained stalwart until the last of them left. And then she sank onto a stool.

For the first time, she truly felt defeated. “What are we to do?” she asked Otis. “Nathaniel is right. We really
do
need a week.”

Otis stared at her a moment. On his face, she read worry. But there was something else, something that buoyed her.

“Follow me,” he said, and stuck out his arm. “I told you once I’d save you at your darkest hour, and I will. I know
exactly
what to do.”

And he marched her over to Lady Duchamp’s house and knocked on the door.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Jilly was surprised to see that Lady Duchamp answered Otis’s knock herself. “It didn’t take you long to come begging, did it?” The old lady smirked. “This should be quite diverting.”

“We’re not begging.” Jilly stepped into the entryway. “We’re confronting. And if you call confronting your foe diverting, then I suppose it is.”

Once inside, Otis stared at Lady Duchamp’s feet. “Those are
my
shoes,” he said flatly.

Jilly saw she was wearing a pair of aquamarine-colored slippers with golden ribbons.

“Yes,” the old woman said. “What of it?”

“Give them back.” Otis spoke sternly, and Jilly was surprised at his vehemence.

“Absolutely not,” said Lady Duchamp. “They’re mine, fair and square.”

“You threatened them out of me at the beginning of the street fair,” Otis said. “You said you’d find a way to shut it down. I capitulated then, but I’m here to tell you we won’t be threatened by you anymore.”

Lady Duchamp huffed. “Come to my drawing room. I don’t endure fools in my entryway.”

They followed behind her at a snail’s pace, which frustrated Otis no end, Jilly could tell. He’d been so full of fire at the door, and now … now the tension was seriously dissipated. No doubt Lady Duchamp was aware of that fact as she shuffled along.

“She’s the only person I know,” Otis whispered to Jilly, “who can make frailty a devastating weapon.”

Jilly squeezed his arm. “Your time for speaking will come soon enough,” she whispered back.

He bit his lip and endured, but once in the drawing room, Lady Duchamp rang for tea and proclaimed that no one was allowed to speak until the niceties were observed.

So Otis must tap his feet another five minutes.

Finally, both he and Jilly held a brimming cup in their hands.

“Now I shall proceed,” Otis said.

Lady Duchamp glowered. “Not until you take a sip and offer your compliments.”

Otis made a face. But he did as he was told and set the cup down. “Lovely blend,” he said to his hostess with feeling.

“Why, thank you,” she began, then stopped herself.

Otis also looked mortified at his sincere compliment.

“Speak your foolishness now, so I can return to being alone,” Lady Duchamp muttered around her own teacup.

Jilly was eager to hear what Otis had to say.

He looked first at her—with a mixture of pride and affection—then at Lady Duchamp. “Your power over the street has ceased as of today,” he proclaimed in a pleased yet defiant manner.

“Is that so?” offered Lady Duchamp.

Otis nodded, and picked up a biscuit from a plate. “I followed you this morning.”

She sucked in her cheeks. “How rude of you!”

“As if
you
are not the same?” He huffed, then put his hand on his breast. “Now that I know your tragic history, you’ll not only quit your stranglehold on the neighborhood, you’ll return my shoes.”

“Never!” she cried.

Otis pointed the biscuit at her. “You’re just the same as the rest of us sad sacks on Dreare Street, my lady. You can deny it no longer.”

Lady Duchamp’s white-powdered cheeks paled even further.

“Do explain, Otis,” Jilly said softly. “And gently, please, if it involves tragedy.”

Otis sent a dark look at Lady Duchamp. “Oh, she can bear it. She’s a stalwart old thing.”

Lady Duchamp tried to look insulted, but she had a difficult time maintaining her pique, particularly when Otis let down his own defenses and bestowed a pitying look on her.