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.”
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
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.”
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
“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,
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.
