Cloudy with a Chance of Marriage

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Stephen arrived at the little cottage in Kensington with a great deal of misgivings.

Who was he to interfere in someone else’s marriage?

But he had to know.

Before he’d left London, he’d gone to see Harry, who’d instantly understood the crazy mess in which Stephen had landed himself.

“You’ve got it bad, my friend,” Harry had said sympathetically. “But your plan is sound. You didn’t need me to tell you that, although it couldn’t hurt to hear it from someone who’s been right where you are now.”

And then he’d slapped his back, told him he’d take care of telling Lord Smelling to shove off, and wished him luck.

Stephen had gone to the Pantheon Bazaar next, where it had taken him an hour to locate that hackney driver, the one named Jack. But finally he had, and now he was here in Kensington.

He would get some answers.

A woman of uncommon beauty opened the shabby front door. It was the same woman he’d seen with Hector at the Pantheon Bazaar.

“Yes?” Her voice was sharp and unpleasant.

Her beauty dimmed instantly. But he gave her a cordial smile.

“I’m Stephen Arrow. May I come in, please? I’m here on rather urgent business.”

“Urgent?” She arched a brow. “Pray tell, what is so urgent that you’d knock on the door of a complete stranger?”

“Who’s there, my love?”

Hector.

Stephen pressed his lips into a thin line and stepped over the threshold.

The woman’s brow puckered, but she didn’t tell him to move back. “Someone asking questions,” she said over her shoulder. “A man named Arrow.”

There was a stark silence. Then a clatter of a fork on a plate.

Hector came out of another room, chewing. “Not you again,” he said with his mouth full.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Get out,” Hector said, pointing to the door.

Stephen widened his stance. “I’m not going anywhere. We can either hash this out inside, or go outside together.”

“Go with the man,” the actress urged Hector, fear in her voice.

Hector narrowed his eyes at Stephen. “Wait here then, Bessie.”

In a great sulk, he followed Stephen outside.

Stephen faced him beneath a gnarled fig tree. “Tell me who that woman is.”

“None of your business.” Hector had spittle in the corner of his mouth.

“She’s your mistress, isn’t she?” Stephen asked carelessly.

Hector shrugged. “So what if she is? What wealthy married man doesn’t have a mistress?”

“I’ll grant you that some do. I also know plenty who don’t,” Stephen replied. “At the moment, I’m only concerned about you and yours.”

Hector laughed. “You love my wife, don’t you?”

Stephen refused to answer.

Hector tsked. “What a shame she can never be yours. Because I assure you, we won’t divorce. And I won’t let her go. Ever.”

A bird whistled from the fig tree, and from the cottage next door, several children’s voices could be heard arguing. A woman opened the door to that cottage and pointed outside.

“Go,” she ordered.

A moment later, several children came out and went scampering off down the street.

Stephen watched them run, their bare feet flying. The world itself didn’t care that the woman he loved was trapped in marriage to the wrong man and that he would be lonely the rest of his life.

There were so many stories everywhere. His was just one.

“You don’t know what to do, do you, Captain?” Hector cocked his head, looking vastly amused at his discomfiture. “You can’t ram me. You can’t take me down with cannon fire. So why are you here?”

The children ran toward the next corner, laughing now—their argument already forgotten—and disappeared from view.

The words rushed into Stephen’s head. I am here to set Jilly free. Like those children. The woman he loved shouldn’t be tethered. She should be able to come and go as she pleased, to laugh, to run if she wanted to, by God.

To be her true self.

But what could Stephen do—other than kill her husband—to make that happen?

No matter how much he despised Hector, no matter how poorly the wretch had treated Jilly, Stephen couldn’t kill the brute as a matter of convenience. He believed in justice, yes, but justice properly administered within the framework of laws. He was an experienced war veteran, but he would not be a vigilante.

Besides, he knew in his gut that Jilly, no matter how mistreated she’d been by Hector, would not condone his murder, either.

“I’m here to inform you that I will bring you down,” Stephen said evenly. “It might not be today. But it will happen, and soon.”

Hector laughed. “Go on, Captain. Back to your dreary little street. Alone.”

And he went back inside, shutting the front door behind him.

Stephen seethed with frustration. He needed more information. He could travel to Jilly’s village, but Mayfair was closer. Perhaps he should start with Otis. He should know something more about Hector’s background.

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.