Cloudy with a Chance of Marriage

CHAPTER FOUR

The next morning, a slant of sun—real sun—peeked through Stephen’s window. He felt as comfortable and lazy as the ship’s cat that used to sleep on top of his charts on his desk in his cabin.

“Late to bed, late to rise,” he said out loud, his humor fully restored in spite of his rejection by Miss Jones the evening previous, “makes a man—”

Makes a man what?

Happy?

Relaxed?

He threw off his quilt, and—

The bed promptly collapsed on the floor.

What the devil?

Thoroughly jolted, he was now at a ridiculous angle, his head down, and his feet up. Gingerly, he rolled off the side of the mattress. He’d just bought the frame from a well-respected furniture dealer. It was sturdy and new, of the finest maple.

He leaned over to examine the legs at the top of the bed. Good God, they’d fallen through the floor! Two floor planks had given way. No doubt the gaping hole accounted for the shouts coming from below in the breakfast room, where Pratt, his former ship’s cook, had been charged with the daily morning chore of frying up a rasher of bacon and several dozen eggs, as well as toasting a loaf of bread and making a pot of tea.

Stephen froze, wondering if his legs were to go through the ceiling next. Carefully, he walked over the seemingly sturdy planks to the door of his bedchamber and looked back at the slanted bed.

Odd, that. Very odd.

He shrugged. Nothing he could do about it at the moment. Might as well have breakfast, if there was any left that didn’t have plaster in it.

“You’ve got woodworm in a beam.” One of his friends winced as he looked up at the hole in the ceiling through pince-nez missing a lens; it had been lost last night in a playful brawl on the roof. “One rubbery creature fell on my toast.”

Gad.

The other men looked near to being sick.

“I’m sure it’s only in that portion of the beam,” Lumley added, his face rather green and his eyes a bloodshot red. “Otherwise, we’d be seeing it everywhere. And we haven’t.”

Stephen eyed the row of beams above his head. The others, if in good condition, would support the ceiling very well, but his chest tightened, nevertheless. “The executor of my cousin’s will told me the house was worn in places, but one doesn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. I’d planned to have it inspected at my leisure.”

Another friend added a few dollops of brandy to his empty teacup and drained it. “I’m sure it’s fine. Except for that one beam, it appears in excellent shape.”

Frying pan in hand, Pratt was none the worse for wear. Always impeccably groomed, this morning he wore one of his more intricately embroidered waistcoats when he slid three eggs and a side of bacon onto Stephen’s plate. “No house is, what you call, perfetto,” he said, kissing the fingertips of his right hand, where several large golden rings sparkled.

The whole table seemed soothed by his smooth Italian accent.

“It’s nothing I can’t take care of.” Stephen picked up his fork and looked round the company as if daring anyone to disagree.

“Aye,” whispered one dapper fellow who’d had both eyebrows shaved off but didn’t know it yet. “If I were you, Arrow, I’d hire a reputable carpenter, the best in London.”

There was a low, miserable chorus of assents.

Stephen was aware none of the men at the table had done an ounce of hard labor in their lives. They were all sons of noblemen, accustomed to having everything done for them by servants and skilled laborers—especially Lumley, who was so rich, if a coin fell out of his pocket he could hire someone to pick it up for him if he wanted.

Stephen poured himself a glass of beer and gulped it down. “I can take care of my own house. Besides, I’ve nothing else to do while I wait to sell it.”

Except win over a certain bookshop owner.

Not that that was going well.

“Did you happen to notice this street is unlucky, Arrow?” one of the men said in a wary voice. “A chimney sweep told me so last night when he directed me here. I was on Curzon and actually passed by Dreare Street without seeing the entrance. Someone needs to cut back those large holly bushes out there.”

Stephen gave a short laugh. “Yes, I heard only yesterday the street’s unlucky. But we’ve seen no evidence of it, have we?”

Everyone looked up at the hole in the ceiling.

“Forget that,” Stephen said with disgust. “We’re men of action, not puppets of Fate. One small rotten beam doesn’t make a place unlucky.”

The other bleary-eyed men of action agreed that this was so, but not until Stephen swept his intimidating captain’s gaze over them.

“Speaking of action,” said a freshly wakened gentleman limping through the breakfast room door with nothing on but breeches and mismatched boots, one a tasseled gray leather and the other a deep black. “Who’s driving up this early in the day? I thought the next carriageload of lightskirts wasn’t arriving until after sundown.”

Stephen went to the window and peered out. A respectably dressed young woman was getting out of a coach, and she was followed by an older man and woman.

Who were they?

The young lady wore a cape over a fussy white gown with bold green braid and too many matching plumes atop her bonnet. She looked up at the house, and Stephen saw she had a sweet face but an unfortunate squint. A square-faced older woman with broad shoulders spoke crossly to her, which no doubt was why the girl’s smile instantly disappeared.

The man had three chins, an overdone waistcoat, and a silk hat squashed so hard on his head, his ears stuck out. He looked about him with an air of superiority that made Stephen dislike him on sight.

Stephen strode to the front door. “How may I help you?” he called out to them, rather dreading their answer. All three had a determined look about them.

He was in no mood to deal with house buyers today, not with that wormy beam and the chunks of plaster on the dining room table. And it didn’t sit well with him that Miss Jones was outside her store, no doubt pretending to wash her windows in order to spy on the goings-on at his house.

The girl smiled broadly. “We’re your family, Th-tephen Arrow.” She spoke with a great lisp. “Dith-tant, of course, on your father’s th-ide. But family nonetheless.”

His heart clenched. The only person he considered real family was dead. Mama had been gone several years now, and there was no one else save that cousin who’d left him the house, and he was on his father’s side of the family. If these people were, too, they weren’t family by his definition of family.

He prepared himself to dismiss the trio, but as he’d learned the value of diplomacy in the navy, he’d do his best to be halfway charming about it.

Now the gentleman looked at Stephen with a haughty eye. “I am Sir Ned Hartley. This is my wife, Lady Hartley, and our daughter, Miss Hartley. My third cousin is the late Earl of Stanhope.”

Stephen, at very guarded attention, knew very well who the Earl of Stanhope was. “Your point is?”

Sir Ned’s lips thinned. “My point is we’re staying here with you while we’re in Town.”

Stephen scoffed. “Hardly.”

So much for diplomacy.

Lady Hartley gasped, and Sir Ned narrowed his eyes. “You’ve received notice from your attorney. He assured us you signed for the letter.”

Stephen blinked, but just once.

He had signed for a letter. It had come the day he’d arrived at the house, but he’d forgotten all about it as he’d been working hard at opening a stubborn cask of Highland whisky with a very dull blade. He did remember inviting the courier in for some drinks. The man had obliged and stayed half the evening.

Stephen had no idea where the letter was at the moment.

“The letter stated that we plan to stay at 34 Dreare Street for the length of the Season,” boomed Lady Hartley.

Stephen clenched his jaw to keep from wincing. Surely he could find something to like about the woman. Her thunderous voice certainly complemented her broad-beamed physique and thrusting bosoms the size of world globes, the kind found in schools around the country. And education was a good thing, wasn’t it?

He knew he was grasping at straws, but it was the kindest observation he could produce about her.

“You can’t, I’m afraid,” Stephen explained. “I plan to sell the house immediately.”

“Immediately?” asked Sir Ned. “You have a buyer?”

“Not yet, but I soon will.” It was his latest mission, to find that buyer. “There will be people traipsing in and out all day, no doubt, kicking the corners of the fireplaces, peering into all the rooms. We’re in Mayfair, so I expect someone will come along and purchase the place within the week.”

“But Cousin,” Miss Hartley lisped, her voice tinged with disappointment, “it’s our opportunity to get to know each other.”

Stephen’s heart sank like an anchor disappearing into the briny deep. Miss Hartley had that look in her eye—the one that suggested she might already be halfway in love with him. He called it the Bedazzled Virgin look. He was old enough now to be quite tired of it. It was the reason he avoided Almack’s and other places where sweet young girls gathered.

Sir Ned yawned. “As for the sale,” he drawled, “I don’t anticipate a buyer any time soon. Everyone knows Dreare Street is unlucky.”

“If you know that,” Stephen asked testily, “then why would you stay here?”

Lady Hartley laughed. “My husband doesn’t protect his inheritance by being careless with his money. If he can save a tuppence, he will.”

Sir Ned beamed as if he’d been highly complimented. “Yes, well, there’s plenty of room here for all of us. We hardly have to encounter each other. No doubt we keep different company.” He looked Stephen up and down as if he were riffraff. “You can take your meals at your club.”

“I prefer to eat at home,” Stephen said. “Not that it matters to you. We’ve had an enlightening conversation, but I’ll have to ask you to be on your way. I’m expecting a houseful of guests later today.”

Feminine houseguests who enjoyed making merry at all hours and for no reason at all, unlike his staid neighbor, Miss Jones.

“I brought another copy of the letter in the event you’d make trouble.” Sir Ned pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Stephen.

It hurt his eyes to read the lines, but he scanned it and saw that it was authentic. In it, the attorney declared that the baronet, his wife, and daughter were permitted by a codicil in the will of Stephen’s deceased cousin to stay at the house during the Season.

His chest tightened with resentment.

Lady Hartley tossed her head. “We hear you’ve been named one of Prinny’s Impossible Bachelors.” A flock of birds flew out of a tree at her earsplitting pronouncement. “But I’m warning you, Cousin”—she pointed a finger at him—“all manner of merrymaking must cease immediately. Miranda will be sheltered from wayward behavior. In fact, shame on you for not wearing a cravat.”

Stephen looked down. Yes, he was only in a shirt and breeches, but dammit all, it was only noon.

“Although I’m sure you mean well, madam,” he said evenly, “what I wear is none of your business. And I’ve no intention of letting you stay, even if we are”—he swallowed—“very distantly related.”

Sir Ned stuck out his lower lip. “Well, we’ve no intention of leaving.” He held out both arms, and his wife and daughter took them. Together, all three began walking up the stairs toward the front door.

“We’ve rights, and we know the law,” sniffed Lady Hartley.

Miss Hartley—Miranda—looked down at the ground, her cheeks pink. Perhaps she was embarrassed by her parents’ effrontery.

Stephen sighed. And here he thought being given a house as a gift was a lucky thing! Which reminded him—

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.