And damn it, neither did Stephen. Try as he might, he could think of no idea to save the street other than Miss Jones’s.
He glanced at her.
Was she smirking at him?
He believed she was. Reluctantly, he must concede victory to her and sound happy about it in the bargain.
Dear God. He felt testy but was determined to be a good sport. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d been forced to follow someone else’s ill-conceived plan. He’d done it in the navy many a time.
He inhaled deeply on his cheroot and exhaled. “We have less than a month to raise the funds to send Mr. Redmond, the collector, packing. And it appears we’ll be conducting a street fair. We’ve nothing to lose. Have we?”
Almost everyone shook their heads.
“I think it could be fun,” Nathaniel piped up.
“I do as well,” echoed Miss Hartley.
“My Thomas will love a street fair,” said Susan. “I say we try it. Why not?”
“We could have theatrics,” said one matron.
“I know of a, hmmm, what you English call an up-and-coming acting troupe who might do it,” said Pratt. “They’re performing at the Royal Coburg Theater. I shall take Miss Hartley and her parents with me. We shall run these actors to dirt.”
“Run them to ground, you mean,” said Miss Hartley, clasping her hands together.
“Yes, we will find them and not let them go,” said Pratt. “Not until they say yes.”
His last comment was met with much enthusiasm.
“And we’ll need someone with influence to appear at the fair,” said one middle-aged man who’d never spoken until this moment. He was a frequent dog walker, but he’d yet to visit Hodgepodge to browse.
“You’re so right!” exclaimed Jilly. But which person of influence? she wondered. And how would they get him or her to come?
“Excellent ideas, all,” said Stephen. “Any others?”
“Of course, we’ll have booths,” said Susan shyly. “I’ll sell gowns and fancy caps.”
“I’ll sell my paintings,” said Nathaniel.
“I’ve boxes of china to get rid of,” said one lady.
“And I’ve old silver!” said another.
“I’ll cook something,” said Mrs. Hobbs. “Meat pies!”
“No you won’t,” said her husband. “You can barely boil water.”
Mrs. Hobbs bit her lip. “But I can try!”
“I’ll provide drinks,” said someone else, a stout older gentleman. “I make a fine beer in my cellar.”
“We need a band,” said someone. “My hotel manager knows someone.”
“And a children’s parade,” Susan added with a delighted smile.
As everyone shouted out their ideas, Stephen marveled at the change in Miss Jones. Her odd nervousness was gone. So was her anger. Her eyes were sparkling again.
“All these plans we’re making are splendid,” she said with a happy smile. “And now I need to know how many of you are in. Please show by a raise of hands.”
Otis, Susan, Nathaniel, the Hobbses’ children, and Mrs. Hobbs immediately raised their hands. But Mr. Hobbs made his family put their hands back down.
Miss Hartley was next, along with Pratt and several older residents. Her mother nudged Miss Hartley in the side.
“But I want to help,” the young lady said.
“You can’t do that,” her father blustered. “Helping is for the lower classes.”
“But I’ve nothing to do except go to parties all day and night and talk to stuffy people.” Miss Hartley turned pleading eyes on her parents. “Please, Mother and Father, please let me do this. And you raise your hands, too. We need to go to the Coburg Theater with Pratt.”
Lady Hartley rolled her eyes. “All right,” she said. “But we’ll involve ourselves only sparingly. Just enough that we can tell amusing anecdotes about these people later.”
These people.
Stephen looked around and saw only decent citizens of London. Gad, the Hartleys were a boorish couple. And to think they were sleeping under his roof!
By the time Miss Jones finished counting, everyone had raised their hands except for the Hobbs family, Lady Tabitha—who stated that she’d no interest in the fair as she was a guest in the neighborhood—and Lady Duchamp.
The old harridan faced the crowd to vent her spleen once more. “A curse on this street fair,” she muttered. “And on all you ridiculous people.”
With that, she sailed out. Lady Tabitha directed one last, alluring look Stephen’s way, and then she followed her aunt. Drawing up the rear was the Hobbs family. Stephen hated to see Mrs. Hobbs appear so drawn when a moment before, she’d been terribly excited. The children, judging by their sagging postures, were disappointed, as well.
Miss Jones called a wistful good-bye to them, but the unlikable Mr. Hobbs shuffled his family out so quickly, Mrs. Hobbs and the children couldn’t return Miss Jones’s farewells.
Fortunately, everyone else remained. They were busy talking about the street fair, what they would do, and how.
Despite the few setbacks they’d encountered with the loss of some participants in the fair, Hodgepodge was bursting with activity, Stephen noted with satisfaction. Miss Jones must have noticed, too. He exchanged a look with her, and she gave him a happy grin.
Then she mouthed the words, “Thank you.”
He must admit, against all good judgment, he felt excited himself. And warmed by her gratitude. Craving a kiss from her again, he followed her with his eyes as she made cheerful forays into the different clusters of people filling every corner of Hodgepodge.
“Miss Jones,” he whispered aloud, “you’re a damned nuisance.”
Nevertheless, as annoying as the lady was, he must give her some credit. Already he could see a change in the attitudes of the people of Dreare Street.
Hope hung in the air, along with the lingering fog, a wisp of which had been blown into the bookstore by Lady Duchamp’s exit.
But still, there was hope.
He felt it as surely as he did the plank floor beneath his feet.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“First things first,” Jilly said to Captain Arrow the next day. She knelt near him while he put the finishing touches on her window ledge. “We need booths.”
“Wait.” He looked sideways at her, an appealing grin on his face, and her heart melted in an alarming way. “I thought you said ‘first things first.’”
“I did.”
He cocked his handsome golden head at the ledge. “This was first. The ledge. What do you think of my progress?”
She sighed and bit her lip. She was happily surprised to see what a good craftsman he was. Indeed, he’d taken great pains with that ledge. She might even say he’d shown it extreme attention.
“You’re doing a good job,” she said simply, and stood.
“‘Good’?” He cocked a brow. “I’m rather disappointed. Do I sense your words are measured?”
She sighed. “I’m afraid to compliment you too very much in case you think your obligation to me is over. Because of you, the whole world thinks we have an … an understanding.”
“Ah.” He laid down his hammer and stood before her. She had to look up into his gold-flecked eyes. “That would be intolerable, wouldn’t it?”
His gaze was too warm for comfort.
“Yes,” she said, the word trailing off. “It would. Now, Captain—”
“You call me Captain much too often. Please feel free to call me Stephen.”
“I’d rather not.” She felt her face heat. “You know very well it’s improper.”
He moved a few inches closer. “But I heard you call that artist by his given name—Nathaniel.”
She blushed. “That’s because he’s no danger. You, sir, are an Impossible Bachelor. A lady can’t be too careful around the likes of you.”
She strode to the other end of the window and peered out.
“Expecting someone?” the
captain asked in cheerful tones.
A brief vision of Hector invaded her thoughts. “I wish a hoard of customers were coming this way,” she said as coolly as she could muster.
He laughed. “You’re not afraid of me, Miss Jones. You like me. That’s what you’re afraid of.”
“Oh, hush,” she said, and glowered at him.
He looked right back at her, with a lazy grin that somehow made her blink repeatedly, like a fussy old maid.
Which she was. Or might as well be since she would never marry again.
“Now about those booths,” she said in a deliberate change of subject. “We can’t sell anything at the fair without them. We need you to make them.”
He rubbed his chin. “I suppose we never put a limit on the number of favors you may ask me.”
“No, we didn’t.” She couldn’t help being pleased at her foresight. “It’s too late, of course, to change our arrangement.”
“Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “It’s too late. Much too late.”
He began walking toward her.
“It is,” she agreed.
And then had a very bad feeling.
Because he was looking at her as if he’d trapped her into saying something she shouldn’t have.
He stood before her and raked her with a glance that seemed to see right through her blue-sprigged muslin gown. “You agreed to go along with this story of mine. This romantic story of pursuit. Did you not?”
His eyes again. They held her fast.
Her heart began to thump wildly, and she backed up a step. “Yes,” she said. “But if you’re thinking about kissing me—”
He came forward a step. “When did I ever say that?”
She turned her head to the right. “You didn’t have to.”
He chuckled, and put a finger under her chin, turning her face slowly back to meet his gaze. “All I’m suggesting, Miss Jones, is that being involved with each other”—he hesitated—“could be a pleasurable thing.”
“I’m not interested,” she said flatly. “We have an agreement, and that’s what we’ll adhere to. Kisses were never mentioned.”
“No, they weren’t.” He kept her gaze, measure for measure, and dropped her hand.
She tried to ignore how good his fingers had felt wrapped around hers. “Back to the discussion about the booths,” she said.
“I’ve already worked on one.” He returned to his work at the ledge.
“Really?” She couldn’t help but sound pleased.
He looked back at her with a sly grin. “Oh, so now I’m in favor.”
“Is it any wonder?” she said, following after him when he stood to get the hammer. “When will it be finished?”
“It already is.” He picked up the hammer and let it dangle from his fingers. “Pratt and I were up all night, actually. Lumley came over and lent a hand. We’ve enough scrap wood and nails to make at least five or six more. That should be enough, don’t you think?”
“Yes.” She felt shy of a sudden. “Now I know why you look a bit … sleepy.”
“Now you know.”
“I assumed you’d been out at some sort of revelry. I didn’t hear a peep from your house.”
“Not even the hammering at midnight?”
“No.”
“You must have been well asleep.” He gave her a look that made her blush.
She had no doubt the man was thinking of her in her bedclothes—or worse, without them on at all. “Yes, well,” she stammered, “I was exhausted from worry and excitement, I suppose.”
The truth was, she’d been so frightened by the face she’d seen at the window during the meeting, she’d opened Papa’s old emergency flask and taken two large swigs of fine French brandy, which had helped her tumble into a very disturbing sleep.
But now was no time to dwell on her fears about Hector. She hadn’t even had an opportunity to confide in Otis. Last night seemed hardly the time, not when he was so giddy with excitement about the fair.
“What did Sir Ned and Lady Hartley think of the noise at midnight?” she asked the captain.
“Sir Ned never heard it. He snores too loudly. And that’s why Lady Hartley never heard it, either. As for Miss Hartley, well”—he laughed softly—“she sneaked out of the house into the shed and watched us, poor thing. She never stopped talking the entire time we were working.”
“My goodness!” Jilly laughed. “I had no idea Miss Hartley had it in her to defy her parents.”
“She’s sleeping late this morning,” the captain said. “Otis must be, as well.”
“He is, actually.” Jilly was amazed at his knowledge of the goings-on in her household. “How did you know?”
“He was there, too.”
“Was he?” Her mouth dropped open. “He left me a note on his door, but he never said why. I assumed he wasn’t feeling well.”
“Excuse me,” a lithe voice called from the back of the store. “My ears are burning. I’m awake now, I’ll have you know.” Otis showed himself, looking none the worse for wear. He beamed at Captain Arrow. “Our booth is perfection itself, if you ignore the yawning gaps between the planks. But you’re so right. The air flow between customer and selling agent will allow an atmosphere of true commerce to flourish.”
“I’m glad you see it my way,” said the captain.
“Our booth?” Jilly looked at Otis.
He reddened.
“I suppose you haven’t had an opportunity to tell Miss Jones your plans,” the captain remarked.
“Oh, my. Not yet.” Otis looked worriedly at Jilly. “While you tend the store during the street fair, I, er, would like to run a booth. I’ll sell my specially adorned footwear—”
“But Otis,” she interrupted him. “You can’t sell your special shoes. Each pair means something to you.”
He laughed. “Of course I won’t. I’m going about the street collecting used shoes in good condition today. I shall make new ones. And one of the young men on the street works at the hotel around the corner. He said they’ve got four big boxes of shoes. It seems people leave them under their beds all the time and never come back to pick them up. He said some don’t have matches, but I can make them match, can’t I? With a few slaps of paint and feathers and some of those exotic shells the captain brought back from his voyages—”
“Wait.” Jilly crossed her arms. “Were many people there last night?”
Otis nodded happily. “Yes, my dear, everyone who came to the meeting was there but you, Lady Duchamp, and that odious Mr. Hobbs and his poor, poor family, who I know want to participate in the fair if that unpleasant man would only allow them. It was quite a festive evening.”
Jilly stared at the captain. “Why was I not invited? I thought I was partnering with you in creating this event.”
Captain Arrow shrugged. “It wasn’t planned. It simply happened.”
“I didn’t want to wake you, Miss Jilly,” Otis said. “You were sleeping like a baby, with Alicia Fotherington’s sweet little journal propped in your hands. I had to blow out your candle and take the diary away.”
“Oh, dear,” she said. “I must have wasted a candle.” She trailed off, hating to think about their precarious financial situation.
She’d tell them about the diary instead. “Last night I read all about the second wing Alicia’s husband added onto the house in hopes they’d soon have a family. It’s the wing closest to Lady Duchamp’s.”
“I sleep there,” Captain Arrow said. “Or did.” Some fleeting tension seemed to cross his face.
“Is there a problem with that wing?” she asked him.
“No,” he said lightly. “None at all. Just a few repairs I have to make.”
“Oh.” She pushed an annoying wisp of hair off her cheek. “At any rate, do finish telling me your plans for the booth, Otis.”
“Gladly.” He clasped his hands together. “In addition to the shoes, I’ll sell my signature handkerchiefs. I’ve already commissioned Miss Susan to make thirty
overlarge ones. Today I’ll be sifting through her scraps for the fabrics—I see yellows, golds, scarlets, blues…” He held up his hand as if he were displaying a shelf of them. “They’ll be all the rage, mark my words. Especially if we can get the Prince Regent to come,” he added in an offhanded tone, and went to adjust his cravat in the large, oval mirror.
“The Prince Regent,” Jilly said with a chuckle. “You have lofty ambitions, my friend.”
Otis looked at Captain Arrow. “You haven’t told her yet?”
“No.” The captain was quite preoccupied with a small, sharp corner on the ledge.
“No one’s told me anything.” She was beginning to feel quite left out.
“Captain Arrow, Lady Duchamp, and Lady Tabitha are going to a ball,” said Otis grandly.
A ball?
The captain?
With Lady Tabitha?
Jilly felt a small twinge of something, although she wasn’t certain what it was. Something to do with that left-out sensation again. And feeling plain and frumpy.
“Was Lady Tabitha there last night?” she asked in as neutral a tone as she could muster.
“I told you,” said Otis, “everyone was.” He looked at Captain Arrow. “Tell her why you’re going to the ball.”
Captain Arrow lifted his head from his work. “So we can invite the Prince Regent to the street fair. We’ll ask him to be our guest of honor.”
Jilly was so shocked, she could hardly breathe. “The Prince Regent? Attending our fair?”
Stephen stood. “Why not? I know him fairly well. He chose me to be one of his Impossible Bachelors, after all.”
Jilly huffed. “What a silly arrangement that was. I never heard about it at the time, of course.”
“Where were you?” Captain Arrow asked quickly. “Were you not in London?”
Jilly gave a little laugh. “No, actually.” She trailed off and looked at Otis. “Otis and I might be called country bumpkins.”
“Is that so?” Captain Arrow sent her a penetrating stare. “You’ve never told me where you’re from, or what you did before you bought Hodgepodge.”
“It never came up, Captain.” She kept her tone light.
“Well?” He was insistent.
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