“I’d like that.” Miss Hartley smiled.
Stephen strode past them down the stairs, pulled on his coat, hat, and Hessian boots, and went out into a dense fog. Even though the daughter was all right in her own way, he hated living at 34 Dreare Street with the reprehensible Hartley parents.
And he hated the fog.
He was off to the attorney’s office to see what could be done about the Hartleys and the house, which obviously hadn’t been inspected recently.
There was nothing he could do about the fog.
He could kick himself for signing for the house without checking its sturdiness himself, but who was he to say no to an inheritance? Particularly when the pirate loot he’d been relying on to finance his new life had been unfairly taken from him mere days before he’d learned of the house?
He’d gone only a few steps onto the street when he smelled a delicious odor—frying bacon. And it was coming from the first floor of Hodgepodge.
He saw the vague shape of Otis leaning out the window. “Come up for breakfast, Captain! London isn’t even awake yet. Where could you be off to so early?”
“I’ve got business at my attorney’s office,” he said. “But you’re right. I’m too hasty. No doubt he’s not there yet.”
Otis chuckled. “So wait here with us. The shop won’t open for another hour and a half. We’ve got tremendous news to tell you anyway.”
Otis did sound rather lively for so early in the morning.
“I’d enjoy that,” said Stephen, “if it’s all right with Miss Jones.”
“It should be all right with Miss Jones,” a whiny masculine voice called out from a window at his own house, “since you’re courting her. But what kind of food shall I break my fast with here?”
Stephen gritted his teeth.
Sir Ned.
He was, sadly, awake.
Stephen turned toward the large shadow hanging out one of his windows. “Pratt will take care of you.”
“Bah!” called another voice through the fog.
This voice came from in front of Lady Duchamp’s house, and it was the old crone herself. Stephen hadn’t realized it until just now, when a break came in the mist, but a horse and carriage waited before her house, and she was inside the carriage, at the window. She was apparently going on her regular morning outing, wherever that was.
She leaned on her cane. “You’re a poor excuse for a host, Captain Arrow. And that baronet and his harpy of a wife are up to no good, mark my words.”
“Who is she?” called Sir Ned, his voice thick with fury.
Lady Duchamp’s carriage began to roll down the street.
“Arrow?” Sir Ned yelled again from his window. “You’d better set her straight! Arrow, are you there? And what are you going to do about the bats?”
Stephen ignored him and slipped through the fog to the front door of Hodgepodge. Otis had come downstairs and was waiting to let him in. The familiar odor of books comforted him, and that delicious bacon smell had wafted down from the first floor. He realized he was hungry, he hadn’t read a good story in a long time, and he was anxious to finish the ledge.
It felt good to have such simple cravings.
Of course, his craving for Miss Jones was much more primal. He looked forward to seeing her this morning.
“Miss Jilly is finishing up the toast,” Otis said, as if reading his mind. “Come upstairs.”
Stephen was taken aback by the man’s appearance. He was dressed in a tricorne hat and red coat and was carrying a bell, like a town crier. “What’s going on?”
Otis stood tall. “We have an important announcement to make to Dreare Street,” he said in a dramatic voice. “But first, we must eat.”
Upstairs, Miss Jones was bending over the fire and holding a slice of bread on a poker.
She looked over her shoulder, her cheeks pinkening at the sight of him. “Good morning, Captain.”
He’d never seen a more alluring sight. “Good morning, Miss Jones.”
She seemed struck dumb by his presence, but then she stood straight with her poker and toast. “We’ve much to discuss,” she said rather breathlessly.
“Do we?” He’d rather not discuss. He’d rather do. Kissing, that is. He wished it could be more, but he knew a scorching flirtation was all he could allow.
“Captain.” He felt reprimanded with that word alone.
“Yes, Miss Jones?”
She let out a huff of air. “You need to stop being so … so—” She waved her poker and toast.
“Stop being so what?” He pretended he had no idea what she meant. But he knew she wanted him to stop looking at her the way he’d looked at her on the roof the afternoon previous.
“Are you asking him to stop being so spirited, good-looking, and stylish?” Otis interjected.
“Of course not,” said Miss Jones crossly. “Forget I even spoke. Here.” She thrust the poker toward Stephen. “Grab a plate and take this. We’ve plenty of butter and jam.”
Stephen did as he was told. After he’d slathered the toast with both butter and jam, he sat down at the small table and began to eat. Otis ate a piece of toast as well and then remembered to pass the bacon, which Stephen took with thanks.
Otis looked back between Miss Jones and Stephen and chuckled. “My, my,” he said, and wiped his mouth with a linen serviette.
“What are you on about?” Jilly asked her assistant.
Otis merely shrugged and kept chuckling and eating his toast. Stephen couldn’t help it—he knew that Otis was aware of the tension between Stephen and his mistress. He gave a short laugh, too. Which made Otis chuckle more.
“I need you to be serious,” Jilly said to Otis in her primmest manner. “And you, as well,” she said to Stephen.
Stephen stopped chewing. “I’m perfectly serious, Miss Jones.”
Otis giggled again.
“No you’re not.” Miss Jones narrowed her eyes at Stephen. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“Do you?” He cast a sideways glance at Otis.
He knew they were being like two little boys, but it was an amusing diversion, especially when one wasn’t allowed to give in to impulse and damned well kiss the girl.
“Yes, I do know,” his beautiful neighbor said, “and you’re putting our futures in peril by refusing to listen.”
“But you haven’t said anything,” Otis declared in his sauciest manner.
Miss Jones pursed her lips. “I’m saying it now.”
Stephen sat up straighter. “Do go on.” He did his best to intimidate her with the face he’d used when facing the enemy at sea, the one that had set his own sailors trembling in their shoes—but she merely put a hand on her hip and stared him down with her violet-blue pansy eyes.
Good God, he could get lost in those eyes. But at the exact moment he had that delicious feeling, her pupils sharpened dangerously, and he looked away.
First.
What was the world coming to when he looked away first? And from a female other than his own mother? It had never happened before.
And damned if it would ever happen again.
He looked back at her, intending to impress her with his best fierce expression, but it was too late. As if his lowered brows and steely-eyed glare meant nothing, she was already on to putting another hand on her hip and opening her mouth to deliver a big speech.
He knew it would be a big speech. Women always nagged men with big speeches.
So he retreated to his own little world, a world that consisted of her breasts, straining against her laces, her pale, delicate neck and the creamy expanse of her shoulders, and the plate of bacon, which still had two slices on it.
“Captain,” she said. “You’re to partner with me in conducting a street fair.”
And then there was dead silence.
Whatever happened to the big speech?
He returned his gaze to her face. “I’m afraid that’s impossible.” He could hardly take the remaining bacon now, a fact
which set his jaw on edge.
Miss Jones blinked several times. “You must.” She began to pace in a small, tight circle. “We have no choice but to try.”
“Why?”
She turned to face him. “To make money to pay the overdue leases.”
Otis pushed himself up from the table and took his bell with him. “Now we’ve got that out of the way, I’m going outside to call the neighbors over.”
And then he scampered down the stairs.
Stephen pushed his chair back. “I’m leaving. Thank you for the toast and bacon.”
“Captain.” Miss Jones stood in front of him, her chin in the air. “I did you a favor, now it’s your turn to return it.”
Stephen looked down at her. “People don’t conduct street fairs in London anymore.”
Miss Jones bit her lip. “But they used to have a street fair here on Dreare Street.”
“Used to. They don’t anymore.”
She looked so bereft, he felt almost regretful about bursting her bubble. “I know many of us have money woes,” he said. “But a street fair won’t cure them. You’ve no idea how much is involved in conducting one. It’s a major undertaking. And I, for one, don’t have time to make it happen. I have a house to repair.”
He turned to go.
“You have to help me,” she blurted out. “You made a promise when I agreed to allow you to pursue me.”
He turned back around. A few beats of tortured silence went by. What could he say, other than that she was right?
“You’re right,” he said. “I am pursuing you.” He lifted her chin and had a brilliant thought. A morning kiss would be a nice thing to have, especially one from Miss Jones.
“No, Captain,” she said, her face flushing pink. “You’re not really. It’s all a ruse.”
“That kiss on the roof was no ruse.”
“Yes, well, that was a mistake.” She blinked several times.
“Was it?”
Her lips parted prettily. She wanted to kiss him, too. He saw it in her eyes.
Out the window, they both heard the bell ring and Otis cry, “Urgent meeting at Hodgepodge regarding the overdue leases! Commencing immediately!”
And sadly, Miss Jones took a step back. “We need to focus on my plan. Trust me, Captain. It will work.”
The empty space she’d left near him—and that ringing bell—irritated him enough so that all his good humor vanished. “Why should I trust your judgment over my own?” he demanded to know.
It was a ludicrous idea—especially when a man needed a kiss.
Miss Jones looked at him steadily. “Because I found that diary and got the idea for the street fair from it. It was meant to be. It was … good luck.”
“I don’t believe in luck.” And he didn’t.
“Nor did I,” she replied, “but I’ve realized something recently.” Now she grew agitated but in a delicious way—all breathy and warm and appealing. “We resort to luck when we worry that someone or something else is going to snatch the future we crave away from us. That’s why I believe in luck now, Captain. I’m desperate. And I suspect you are, as well.”
“I’m not desperate, Miss Jones.”
Other than being desperate for her.
“Aren’t you?” She was impertinent, asking him such a question with a daring little arch to her brow.
Of course, she’d no idea how provocative her statement was.
He thought of other ways—other than longing for her—in which he could be desperate. The idea of sitting on Dreare Street while his house crumbled around him came to mind. And of all the money he didn’t have yet that he’d have to spend to fix it. And the days, weeks, months, and perhaps years it would take to sell it afterward.
It was a dismal prospect.
Very dismal.
“I … I might be a little bit desperate,” he admitted. “But not enough to take orders from anyone.”
She cracked a smile. “We’ll see about that. Come on!” She beckoned him with a hand.
“I’m only going to stay and listen because we both made an agreement,” he told her in his firmest manner, the one he’d always used to negotiate the enemy’s surrender. “Together.”
But she either didn’t hear him or ignored him.
She was already running down the stairs and calling Otis’s name.
CHAPTER TEN
Jilly expected to see some neighbors appear at Hodgepodge after Otis performed his duties as the street crier, but she wasn’t prepared to see so many of them arrive that the bookstore was crammed to overflowing within minutes.
Otis reappeared with his bell at the front door, positively beaming.
The crowd, Jilly noted right away, seemed nervous. Everyone stood looking at each other warily. A very few conversed in low tones, but most people acted as if they didn’t know each other and rather regretted coming.
Jilly went to Otis.
“Well done,” she told him, refusing to give in to nerves. She squeezed his hand. “Please leave the door open. Anyone else who arrives will have to listen from there.”
His cheeks were bright red with excitement. “It was remarkable. I barely began ringing the bell and speaking when people started pouring out of their houses. It was almost as if they had been waiting for the announcement. As if they knew something must be done to help Dreare Street. Of course, no one could see where they were going through the fog—it’s particularly thick today—but I kept ringing the bell, and they found us.”
Jilly was just as excited. “I’m going to do my very best to bring us together.”
“You will,” Otis said. “I’m sure of it.”
She turned back to the crowd and gently eased her way through before stopping at the counter. It was time to address Dreare Street. She would need to lead her neighbors into a major resolution. It would require that she be bold and convincing.
But no matter how tall she stood, she still couldn’t be seen by some people near the shop windows.
“Here,” Captain Arrow said, “Stand on this.” He brought over a sturdy chair. “I’ll stay beside it to make sure you don’t fall.”
“Thank you,” she said, acutely aware that his hands were at her waist when he lifted her up.
But she was angry at him. He hadn’t truly committed to assisting her in this endeavor. He’d made it clear he thought it was a stupid idea and he was only here because she’d threatened to reveal that his pursuit of her was a mere ruse if he didn’t cooperate.
She needed more than halfhearted support. She needed him to believe her plan could work.
So she’d have to convince him, too, wouldn’t she?
“Hello, residents of Dreare Street,” she said, and tried to control the trembling in her voice. “Thank you all for coming. I realize I haven’t met all of you, but I’m glad—so glad—you’re here.”
Most people just stared at her. A few smiled, among them Nathaniel, Susan, and Mrs. Hobbs. From the door, Otis mouthed something and made some earnest gestures she didn’t understand. She could swear he was pretending to ride a horse, and then he made a face as if he’d sucked on a lemon.
She couldn’t see Captain Arrow’s face as he was next to her. But she sensed his reluctance to be there.
Introduction over, Jilly took another breath and launched into her main point. “We’re here this morning because Dreare Street is in crisis. We’re in arrears. We must all pay an overdue lease on the land beneath our homes, and for many of us, this will be a severe hardship.”
“That’s right!” a man called out.
She wasn’t sure who’d said that, but there was a smattering of applause in response.
Good, she thought. They want out of this fix, too.
She smiled. “I’m glad we’re in agreement on that point. Because I believe we’ll need everyone’s cooperation if we’re to solve our financial woes. But there’s something else I think is just as important to repair”—she paused—“and that is the doleful atmosphere on Dreare
Street.”
There were a few intakes of breath and one or two murmurs.
“It can’t be done,” croaked one elderly man in a fine vest of gray silk that had seen better days. “I’ve been here my whole life, eighty years. Dreare Street is dreary, and that’s the way it’s always been and always will be.”
There was a murmur of agreement.
Everyone looked sadder than ever.
Jilly caught Captain Arrow’s gaze and couldn’t read it. It was completely neutral, and she guessed he was probably biding his time until the meeting was over. His indifference annoyed her no end—not that she had time to think on it at the moment.
She must address the elderly man’s concerns.
“Said with all due respect, but you’re mistaken, sir.” Her tone was bright. She wouldn’t let Captain Arrow’s or anyone else’s skepticism keep her from her purpose. “Two hundred years ago, Dreare Street was a bustling, thriving community.”
It seemed everyone’s mouths dropped open at that statement.
“That’s impossible!” cried Mrs. Hobbs.
“Im-possible,” echoed her red-faced husband.
Nathaniel held up his paint-stained hand. He must have come straight from his easel. “Pardon my asking, Miss Jones, but how would you know what Dreare Street was like two hundred years ago?”
She heard a familiar whimper—she swung her gaze to Otis and saw him puckering his mouth more than ever, as if he were sucking on two lemons, not one. He angled his head toward the door.
It was Lady Duchamp. She was already waving her cane about, the one with the tiny porcelain figurine on top, and making a path toward the front of the crowd.
How could Jilly not have noticed her absence?
The old lady’s mouth was as puckered as Otis’s had been.
So that was what he’d been trying to tell her—that Lady Duchamp was on the way. She must have just returned from her mysterious morning outing in her carriage. Of course, Jilly couldn’t object to her presence. She was a neighbor and should be at the meeting as much as anyone.
“What’s going on here?” Lady Duchamp demanded to know.
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