Cloudy with a Chance of Marriage

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Jilly was surprised to see that Lady Duchamp answered Otis’s knock herself. “It didn’t take you long to come begging, did it?” The old lady smirked. “This should be quite diverting.”

“We’re not begging.” Jilly stepped into the entryway. “We’re confronting. And if you call confronting your foe diverting, then I suppose it is.”

Once inside, Otis stared at Lady Duchamp’s feet. “Those are my shoes,” he said flatly.

Jilly saw she was wearing a pair of aquamarine-colored slippers with golden ribbons.

“Yes,” the old woman said. “What of it?”

“Give them back.” Otis spoke sternly, and Jilly was surprised at his vehemence.

“Absolutely not,” said Lady Duchamp. “They’re mine, fair and square.”

“You threatened them out of me at the beginning of the street fair,” Otis said. “You said you’d find a way to shut it down. I capitulated then, but I’m here to tell you we won’t be threatened by you anymore.”

Lady Duchamp huffed. “Come to my drawing room. I don’t endure fools in my entryway.”

They followed behind her at a snail’s pace, which frustrated Otis no end, Jilly could tell. He’d been so full of fire at the door, and now … now the tension was seriously dissipated. No doubt Lady Duchamp was aware of that fact as she shuffled along.

“She’s the only person I know,” Otis whispered to Jilly, “who can make frailty a devastating weapon.”

Jilly squeezed his arm. “Your time for speaking will come soon enough,” she whispered back.

He bit his lip and endured, but once in the drawing room, Lady Duchamp rang for tea and proclaimed that no one was allowed to speak until the niceties were observed.

So Otis must tap his feet another five minutes.

Finally, both he and Jilly held a brimming cup in their hands.

“Now I shall proceed,” Otis said.

Lady Duchamp glowered. “Not until you take a sip and offer your compliments.”

Otis made a face. But he did as he was told and set the cup down. “Lovely blend,” he said to his hostess with feeling.

“Why, thank you,” she began, then stopped herself.

Otis also looked mortified at his sincere compliment.

“Speak your foolishness now, so I can return to being alone,” Lady Duchamp muttered around her own teacup.

Jilly was eager to hear what Otis had to say.

He looked first at her—with a mixture of pride and affection—then at Lady Duchamp. “Your power over the street has ceased as of today,” he proclaimed in a pleased yet defiant manner.

“Is that so?” offered Lady Duchamp.

Otis nodded, and picked up a biscuit from a plate. “I followed you this morning.”

She sucked in her cheeks. “How rude of you!”

“As if you are not the same?” He huffed, then put his hand on his breast. “Now that I know your tragic history, you’ll not only quit your stranglehold on the neighborhood, you’ll return my shoes.”

“Never!” she cried.

Otis pointed the biscuit at her. “You’re just the same as the rest of us sad sacks on Dreare Street, my lady. You can deny it no longer.”

Lady Duchamp’s white-powdered cheeks paled even further.

“Do explain, Otis,” Jilly said softly. “And gently, please, if it involves tragedy.”

Otis sent a dark look at Lady Duchamp. “Oh, she can bear it. She’s a stalwart old thing.”

Lady Duchamp tried to look insulted, but she had a difficult time maintaining her pique, particularly when Otis let down his own defenses and bestowed a pitying look on her.

Jilly sighed. “Otis? The story, please?”

“Oh, right.” He placed a hand on her arm. “You wouldn’t believe it. I found Lady Duchamp depositing a daisy from her garden onto the front door step of a spectacular mansion on Dover Street. After she left, I knocked on the door and inquired. It seems she’s been leaving a flower on the stoop for almost four decades. In the winter, she’ll leave hothouse blossoms. The butler’s favorite are the pink peonies.”

“No!” said Jilly, and looked at Lady Duchamp.

She appeared to be shrinking, having made herself into a small ball (with delicious shoes) in the corner of the settee.

“Yes,” insisted Otis. “I found out from the housekeeper that Lord and Lady Duchamp used to live there as a young couple. They were very much in love. But the earl came to an early demise. Fell off a horse.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Jilly to his widow.

Lady Duchamp scowled at her. “I told you bacon-brains my history.”

“Yes,” said Otis, raising his finger. “But you didn’t tell us that Lord Duchamp didn’t die from a fall off a horse. He died in your own bed with his longtime mistress, someone you’d no idea existed.”

Lady Duchamp waved a hand. “Pure faradiddle.”

“I think not,” said Otis. “The houseboy who found him is now the butler at the Dover Street house. I told him you intend to destroy the lives of everyone on Dreare Street because you’re so damned unhappy. He decided it’s time for you to put the appalling circumstances of your husband’s death behind you. So he told me all the details.”

Lady Duchamp’s hands began to shake.

Jilly immediately dropped to her knees in front of the settee and held the old woman’s hands. “It’s all right, my lady.”

Otis’s face softened, and he moved over and sat next to Lady Duchamp on the settee. “The butler also told me that your husband left you penniless. It seems he spent much of his fortune on his mistress and her home, a fabulous mansion in the countryside of Kent. You were forced to leave your beloved home and all your false expectations and move to Dreare Street because you were too ashamed to ask your family for financial help.”

“I was the worst thing that ever happened to this place,” Lady Duchamp said proudly. “Even worse than the fog.”

Jilly patted her hand. “How did you rebuild your fortune?”

Lady Duchamp glared at her. “None of your business.”

“Her parents had loads of money,” Otis said glibly. “So after they died, her penurious circumstances ended. She bought up a great deal of Dreare Street.”

“I couldn’t very well leave it. I had to serve as a scullery maid in this very house.” Lady Duchamp shuddered. “After I received my inheritance, I dared not move to another part of Mayfair and risk becoming a laughingstock. My mistress had lavish parties, and I was always afraid a member of the ton would visit the kitchens to compliment Cook and—and see me washing out a huge pot lined with pig grease and bits of potato, or some such thing.”

“Oh, my lady!” Otis cried.

There was a brief, pregnant pause.

Otis reddened, and Jilly bit her lip, wanting to laugh. She knew it was wrong of her, but she could swear Otis was feeling soft feelings toward Lady Duchamp, which was outrageous. But somehow … appropriate. She had no idea why it should be so, but it was in a strange—ahem, very strange—way.

Lady Duchamp glared at Otis, but her mouth was soft, almost pleased. “Get on with it,” she demanded. “And keep your pity to yourself.”

“Very well.” Otis sniffed, straightened his spine, then stuck out his chin, which was his storytelling posture.

“It was the shame and the heartbreak,” he whispered, “that made Lady Duchamp the way she is now. She bought out the land lease from the previous owner so she could make an entire street miserable along with her.”

“Can you blame me?” Lady Duchamp said hoarsely. “It worked like a charm for decades. And then that silly