Cloudy With a Chance of Marriage (6 page)

He might still have a way out of this quandary.

“Just this morning,” he said, “my bed fell through the ceiling. I can’t vouch for the safety of all the beams.”

Sir Ned and Lady Hartley exchanged glances.

“So much for your immediate sale.” Sir Ned chuckled. “No one will want to buy an unsafe house.”

Touché.

Stephen felt grimmer than he had in years. “But surely that’s enough to convince you to go to a hotel.”

Lady Hartley looked at him with something akin to pity. “Do you really think a man who’s prudent with his funds would be cowed by such a small crisis?”

“I suppose not,” Stephen said through gritted teeth just as Sir Ned forced himself between Stephen and the door.

Stephen was so stunned at the man’s loutish behavior that Lady Hartley pushed past him as well, her breasts shoving hard against his chest, a gleam of something quite recognizable—and unsavory—in her eye.

He was left alone with Miss Hartley.

“Where are the servants?” she asked in a meek voice, her
s’
s hissing.

Poor thing. She probably had no idea her mother was a lascivious creature.

“I’ve only Pratt, my cook,” Stephen replied. “And he’s inside, plucking chickens.”

She lofted her brows. “But who shall watch after us?”

“Captain Arrow does a splendid job of that,” came an amused feminine voice from across the way. “Why, he’s had many a guest over the past week, and not one of them appears unhappy in the least. He’s a fine host.”

Miss Jones
.

Stephen narrowed her eyes at her. “Thanks for the recommendation.”

“My pleasure,” she said with an angelic smile. She held another rag in her hand, and her jet-black hair fell in little tendrils about her face.

Miss Hartley squinted Miss Jones’s way. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” she said, not unkindly.

Miss Jones put a hand on her chest. “Why, I’m Miss Jones, the owner of Hodgepodge, which I hope will soon be the most visited bookstore in London. Do come by and take a look at our selection.”

“I’m Mith Hartley.” She blushed. “My father says books are for daydreamers.”

“Not to contradict your father, but is there something wrong with daydreaming?” Miss Jones asked with an annoying amount of spirit. “Whether you’re lost in a fairy tale or in a theory on chemistry, daydreaming about possibilities is rather enjoyable, in my view.”

Miss Hartley folded her hands. “Father says he prefer I gain wisdom and experience through life.”

“Then you’ve come to the right place,” replied Miss Jones with a cheerful grin. “You’ll get a lot of that sort of thing over there at Captain Arrow’s.”

“Is that so?” Miss Hartley asked excitedly, her
s’
s becoming even more pronounced.

“Most emphatically,” Miss Jones answered with a pert smile.

Stephen was feeling less cheerful by the second. “Shall we go in, Miss Hartley?” He held out his arm.

“Yeth,” she lisped. “It’s unfortunate Mith Jones thpeaks her own mind and doesn’t look fashionable in the least. I like her, but Mama wouldn’t approve.”

Stephen was tempted to laugh at the ridiculous nature of that comment, but he’d no one to appreciate his feeling, except Miss Jones, and she was in his bad books for interfering, wasn’t she?

He took a look back at her.

She winked.

Good God. He’d been winked at by women before, but it was because they’d wanted either him or the coins in his pocket. Sometimes both. But she was mocking him, wasn’t she?

It simply wasn’t done. He was either too commanding or too charming to be mocked except by his very closest friends, Lumley, Drummond (formerly Lord Maxwell), and Traemore.

Stephen’s spirits hit dead low, like the tide. But he couldn’t wait for time to restore them. He must take action.

First things first. He’d assess the situation with the Hartleys further. So without any sign of the reluctance he felt, he held the front door open for Miss Hartley and forced himself to follow her into the breakfast room. He entered just as Sir Ned held a jewel-encrusted quizzing glass to his bulbous eye and raked the company lounging about the table with a scornful glance.

“Begone with you, gentlemen,” the jowly baronet ordered in an ugly voice. “And don’t bother gathering up your things.”

“We’ve nothing to gather,” retorted one of the men with a chuckle, and looked down at his own rumpled shirt. “This is a party. We slept in the clothes we came in.”

“You’re disgraceful heathens, aren’t you?” Lady Hartley announced with keen interest.

Sir Ned lowered his quizzing glass and bestowed a fawning smile upon the party. “Demme. Didn’t notice you’re wearing boots by Hoby and coats by Weston. See here, lads, sorry about the rude send-off. Stay as long as you’d like. I’ve got a daughter here to marry off, and she has a large dowry. Most of you pups from good families waste all your blunt on extravagance and could use an infusion of wealth, couldn’t you? Miranda’s your girl.”

Miss Hartley blinked several times and went to the window to look out, but Stephen guessed she was really attempting to disguise her embarrassment.

He understood her angst very well. This couple was truly awful—

And both he and Miss Hartley were related to them.

The houseguests’ expressions, depending on the measure of alcohol still flowing through their veins, registered varying degrees of shock and disgust at Sir Ned’s vulgar speech and Lady Hartley’s indifference to her daughter’s comfort.

There was the quick pushing back of chairs by a few alert young men, followed by the slower rising from the table of the still impaired, and then the tromping of feet heading past Stephen toward the front door.

All his friends were leaving.

And as they streamed by him, he told himself,
There’s no such thing as bad luck.

No such thing
.

He trailed after the last man, the one limping in the mismatched boots, and wished he could leave, too.

On the front step, one of the more sober fellows slapped Stephen’s shoulder. “You poor sod. You’ll be married off to that Miranda in no time, eh?”

Stephen was too depressed to make a reply.

Another friend stopped and shook his hand for far too long. “This is a bad business, old chum,” he hiccuped.

“That it is,” Stephen said glumly, hardly noticing that his fingers were still caught in an enthusiastic pumping of hands.

“Down the steps now, Bertie.” Lumley shoved the man aside and turned to Stephen. “What’s the world coming to when anyone with a piece of paper from an attorney can simply walk into a house and take it over? I’ll send a message to the fancy girls—tell them not to bother coming this evening.”

Stephen watched his friends leave as fast as their pickled legs could carry them, some faster than others. But all slowed to an amble once they were far enough away from his house, away from the unwelcome houseguests.

He sighed. It was a damned shame his house party was to end well before its time.

And then he had another bad feeling, one that made him look to his right.

Miss Jilly Jones was now inside Hodgepodge, staring out the shop window, her mouth agape. When their gazes locked, she pressed her lips shut and looked boldly at him, then slowly lifted the rag she kept perpetually in her hands and rubbed a slow, triumphant circle around the panes of glass, blocking her face from his sight.

Good thing. He was in no mood to deal with the smug smile he could swear he saw curving her lips.

CHAPTER FIVE

Jilly stayed busy in the midst of having no customers by washing her windows, dusting her books, and baking scones for the neighbors. She left the scones on their doorsteps with a brief note of introduction and the announcement that complimentary tea and scones would be provided to anyone who entered Hodgepodge that week. After that, they’d be sold for next to nothing to discerning readers who should feel free to sip, eat, and read to their hearts’ content at the bookstore during business hours.

When she wasn’t attempting to drum up business, she was writing a novel. She’d only just begun, but it was going to have a dastardly captain in it who married the ignorant daughter of a mushroom—who wore a silk hat smashed upon his ears so that they stuck out—and a giant woman who spoke so loudly, windows rattled.

Quill to mouth, Jilly mused on what their dozen children would look like. She already knew how they’d behave: rudely. And they’d be cursed with seriously good looks so that no one ever felt sorry for them. And people
should
feel sorry for them, Jilly felt with all her heart, for these children would have sad excuses for parents.

Perhaps the woman who lived next door to the children would take them under her wing and teach them manners—she’d even take them to the seashore each year because she would be a very rich bookshop owner patronized by all the gentry and the Prince Regent himself.

Diligently, Jilly wrote a whole half page describing the scene in which the captain and his awful wife forgot Christmas Day. But when the cuckoo clock chimed two, she looked up from her scribbling. Otis was out, for far too long, looking for the perfect pair of secondhand shoes to go with his pink and white striped waistcoat, the one he’d found at Captain Arrow’s house the night of the theatrics. It had been adorning a bust of Admiral Lord Nelson on the stair landing, and when no gentleman there could claim the illustrious garment as his own, Otis had taken it with Captain Arrow’s blessing.

Poor Otis. Books weren’t his passion. Fashion was. But he was trying, and he was always so supportive of her.

Jilly heard the shop door open and wished she could be entirely excited at receiving a customer, but part of her was always prepared to see Hector. Yes, it was a shame, but it was the way things were. She knew as long as she lived, she’d never be completely free of him.

So when a breathtakingly lovely girl peeked in the door, she released a discreet sigh of relief. The girl had rich brown hair, the color of chocolate, pulled back in a luscious, loose knot, and a dimple on either side of her mouth. Her best asset was her eyes, which were large and sea green.

“Hello,” she said to Jilly with a shy smile. “I’m Susan Cook. I live down the street.”

Jilly put her quill down and stood. “It’s lovely to meet you, Miss Cook.” She smiled, too, excited that someone—especially someone other than Hector—had come into Hodgepodge! She was beginning to despair that anyone on the street was friendly.

A small boy, no more than four, popped out from behind Susan. He had her same button nose and a wide grin. “I’m Thomas,” he said in a robust manner, although Jilly couldn’t help noticing his legs were thin. “You make good scones. Could we have some more, please? And some butter and jam, too, if you don’t mind.”

Susan’s mouth became a round O. So did Jilly’s. And then they both burst into laughter. Thomas did, too, although Jilly could tell he had no idea what was so funny.

“Thomas!” Susan rubbed his head with a palm. Her tone was stern but fond. “We don’t go about begging. Be glad with what you got from Miss Jones. You don’t ask for
more
.”

“I don’t mind a bit,” said Jilly. “I promised them to anyone who walked in, didn’t I?” She couldn’t help wondering if the lad got enough to eat. In fact, she was so charmed by Thomas’s cheeks turning pink with embarrassment she said, “Wait here. I’ve not only got scones ready at the moment, I’ve got something else.”

She went to the rear of the store and opened a door between two bookshelves, which led onto a small corridor. On the right was her office and down from that, Otis’s bedchamber. To her left was the staircase leading to the living quarters above the shop: her bedchamber and a spacious front room she shared with Otis each evening.

Picking up an orange sitting next to a ledger in her office, she brought it out to Thomas. “Here,” she said. “My friend Otis got this for me as a special treat, but I’d much rather give it to you.”

Thomas’s eyes widened. “Thank you very much.”

“You don’t have to do that, Miss Jones,” said Susan warmly.

“Please call me Jilly.” She smiled again. “And it’s my pleasure. I hope Thomas and I will become fast friends.”

Thomas clutched the orange in both hands and beamed up at her.

“I can see you already are.” Susan sighed and looked shyly at Jilly. “I hope we can become friends, too. I’d love for you to call me Susan.”

“Oh!” Jilly’s heart swelled with happiness and she squeezed her new friend’s hand. “I hope we can, as well.”

Susan’s mouth thinned into almost a grimace. “I don’t know if you’ll want to, Miss Jones, once you realize”—she looked back at Thomas and then at her again—“Thomas doesn’t have a father. We’re alone in the world, you see. I never married.” She swallowed. “I would have if—”

She broke off and hung her head. “My family won’t talk to me. I—I’m trying to make it on my own as a seamstress. I tell everyone I’m widowed, but it’s not true.” When she looked back up, her eyes were glassy with unshed tears. “I don’t know why I told you the truth. Maybe it’s because you’re the first woman on the street to show me any kindness. Bringing us scones like that.”