A roiling, unnamable emotion overcame him, and he marched through heavy shrouds of white vapor to Hodgepodge.
He’d put it off long enough. He had to find out where Miss Jones was.
“Fifty-four Grosvenor Square,” Otis said a few minutes later, still in his nightcap. “But Captain, you can’t see her. Her wretch of a husband won’t allow it, I’m sure.”
“I know he won’t.” Stephen turned on his heel to go then looked back. “Thanks, Otis.”
“You’re welcome.” The unlikeliest of bookstore clerks had a fresh wrinkle on his brow.
Stephen grinned. “Don’t worry about me.” But then he grew serious. “It’s Miss Jones we need to be concerned about.”
“And I am!” Otis cried. “I didn’t want her to go. I hit that blackguard in the eye with my shoe, but”—he hesitated—“I didn’t know what else to do. I’ve been up all night thinking about it.”
His expression, already heavy with lack of sleep, drooped even further.
“You did the best you could,” said Stephen. “I’ll let you know what I find out when I return.”
Otis smiled. “Very well. Godspeed.”
When Stephen arrived at the town home on Grosvenor Square in a hired hackney, all was quiet. He instructed the driver to wait on the corner. He sat in silence for an entire hour. In that time, the street lightened substantially. Another quarter of an hour went by before he saw any activity on the premises.
Someone flicked aside a curtain in a front window. A minute later, Broadmoor exited the front door on foot. Other pedestrians were out, not many, but a few. There was a chimney sweep, two young bucks who appeared to be headed home after an evening out on the town, and a nurse with three young children heading in the direction of the park.
Stephen was sorely tempted to knock on the door and demand to see Miss Jones, but he suppressed that temptation, slipped out of the hackney, and began following his quarry at a safe distance.
A little while later, Broadmoor entered the Pantheon Bazaar, lingering over a stall featuring men’s silk hats and another that boasted cures for all men’s ailments. After wandering for another ten minutes, he raised his cane in greeting to someone in the crowd.
Stephen’s heart beat faster. Who was he meeting?
A woman emerged from the milling shoppers, and Stephen’s first thought was that the two were a well- matched pair. Broadmoor was decked out in the fine garb of a gentleman, but he came across as low class. The woman wore an elegant gown and was quite beautiful—but in a hard way.
They appeared to be in intent conversation. The woman nodded repeatedly. Broadmoor gestured with his cane, as if he were giving her directions to another place.
After a few minutes, they went their separate ways.
Stephen continued following Broadmoor out onto the street. The man approached a line of hackneys and spoke to one driver, then moved down the line to another. He entered that vehicle, and it rolled away.
Stephen ran to the first hackney driver. “Could you follow the one that just left?”
The driver shook his head. “Only if you pay me more than that cheapskate was willing to. I’ve got a toll to cover, you know.”
“Of course,” said Stephen and named a fair price, which the driver accepted. “Can you catch up with them?”
The driver shrugged. “I’m sure I can, although I know where he’s going.”
“Where?”
“To a cottage in Kensington. He wanted me to wait there a few hours, but he wasn’t willing to pay the extra money for that, neither. What does he think I am? Desperate?”
Stephen warred between the desire to know exactly what cottage Broadmoor was heading to and why—and an overwhelming need to see Miss Jones.
The need won.
“Keep the money,” Stephen said to the man, “and I’ll pay you triple that if you can tell me what the other driver says when he gets back. I’d like to know the address of that cottage.”
“Fine by me,” said the driver. “I’m here every day at this time. Ask for Jack.” He tipped his hat.
“Thank you, Jack.”
Stephen felt a sense of satisfaction that he’d soon learn more about Mr. Broadmoor. But it was nothing compared to the surge of happiness that overwhelmed him.
He was happy because he was going to see Miss Jones.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
When Jilly woke up that morning, her first thought was of Stephen. Did he miss her at all? Or did he hate her so much for her deception that he’d already put her out of his mind?
She was entirely miserable recalling the events of the day previous. There was no denying she’d hurt him— badly. She felt guilt, but even more she felt overwhelming sadness.
They could never be together.
Why couldn’t she accept that fact and move on?
With a sigh of despair, she swung her legs out of bed. She had no choice but to endure.
Yes, she was miserable and lonely, but on the bright side—if she could call it a bright side—at least she wasn’t afraid of Hector anymore. She’d lost too much already to be afraid of a paltry man like him.
As she dressed, she wondered what Otis might be doing at the moment, not only Otis but the rest of Dreare Street.
A thought which reminded her of Stephen.
Everything always came back to him.
She felt a hitch in her throat, the kind that signified imminent tears, but she choked them back. A moment later, she was thrilled to descend the stairs to the breakfast room to find Hector gone already.
“Did he say where he was going?” she asked the butler, who’d turned out to be a kindly old gentleman.
“No, madam, he didn’t.”
She bit into a piece of toast, surprised that she felt any appetite. But she did, a slight one. Her heart felt a tiny bit lighter without Hector near.
She took a sip of good, strong tea. “Did he say when he’d come home?”
The butler shook his head. “Sorry, madam.”
“Thank you.” She smiled at him, but her heart sank just a little. It was awful to be trapped here in the house, unsure of her husband’s whereabouts. She felt a bit like a bird in a cage, which is exactly what he’d hoped she’d feel like, she remembered now.
The butler cleared his throat. “Mr. Broadmoor said you’re to receive no visitors. But a man came by a few moments ago while you were still upstairs.”
Jilly put down her cup. “A man?” Her heart beat hard. “To see me in particular?”
The butler nodded. “He was very angry when I told him no.”
“What did he look like?” She could barely breathe.
Had it been Otis?
Or Stephen?
“He was distinguished,” said the butler. “Quite handsome.”
“Young handsome or older handsome?” she blurted out.
“Young. But he was covered in plaster and sweat. I told him to leave the premises immediately, or I’d pull out my master’s pistol.”
He lifted his coat to show Jilly he meant what he’d said.
She gasped. “Why would you threaten anyone with a pistol? That’s ridiculous!”
The butler appeared rather uncertain. “I don’t like it myself. But Mr. Broadmoor demanded I be armed at the
