Otis stared at her with wide, fearful eyes. Poor man, he could tell something was wrong. He knew she’d broken her fast with that toast, bacon, and a strong cup of tea. But she couldn’t tell him in front of everyone else about whom she thought she’d just seen.

Captain Arrow lowered his head to hers. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” he said.

They exchanged a silent look for a few seconds.

“It’s nothing,” she whispered. “I simply grew faint for a moment. It must be the excitement of having the bookstore full of people.”

“I don’t believe you,” he said in a low tone, “but now’s not the time to discuss it. Can you go on?”

She nodded. “Of course.”

He gave her a hand—his was strong and reassuring—and she returned to her chair.

“Forgive me, everyone,” she said briskly. “I felt faint for a moment, but it’s passed.”

The truth was, it hadn’t passed a bit. She was still buzzing from fear. She was having difficulty even concentrating on the task at hand.

“Now,” she said, her voice quavering just a tad, “let me finally tell you what I think we should do, based on what made Dreare Street prosperous back in Alicia Fotherington’s day.” Her gaze swept the room. “They used to hold a small market here every Wednesday. It was really a lovely little street fair. Isn’t that delightful?”

Otis clapped. “Yes!” he cried. “It’s very delightful!”

“What’s your point, Miss Jones?” Mr. Hobbs asked her, his mouth twisted with impatience.

“I believe we should hold a street fair,” she answered him in her brightest, most confident voice. But she didn’t feel bright and confident at all. She felt frightened. And vulnerable. What if that man had been one of Hector’s minions?

Maybe Hector was waiting for her somewhere in London!

“At first, we’ll hold just one,” she managed to suggest, despite her racing thoughts. “But then if it’s a success, we can repeat it.”

“This is Mayfair,” Mr. Hobbs said in a flat tone. “And two hundred years later. No one holds street fairs anymore.”

“Besides which, no one likes the place,” Sir Ned said. “Dreare Street’s unlucky.”

“And there’s too much fog,” said Lady Hartley with a moué of disgust.

Jilly attempted to compose herself. “We can’t let a bad reputation or a little weather hold us back,” she said. “Think of it this way: we’ll raise money to pay our overdue leases. Won’t that be wonderful for all of us?”

“Yes!” squeaked Otis.

But no one else said a word.

Jilly forged on. “Even those of us who have the money at hand will enjoy having some of that financial burden removed. We’ll split the profits. And with this street fair, Dreare Street will make a name for itself. We’ll be prosperous again. Happy.”

“Speak for yourself,” Lady Duchamp bit out.

“All residents,” Jilly went on earnestly, hoping everyone was ignoring the naysayers among the crowd, “whether you own a business or not, will be proud to call Dreare Street home.”

She leaned back and took a breath, hoping her message had gotten through.

Susan smiled, raised a finger, and opened her mouth as if she wanted to say something.

“Yes, Susan?” Jilly asked hopefully. Finally, someone was going to agree with her!

But Susan seemed to think better of it and put her finger down.

Jilly’s heart sank. “Anyone else with a comment?” she asked in faint tones.

Lady Duchamp sniffed loudly, but not a single person spoke.

When Jilly gazed around the room, her spirits plummeted further. To her dismay, some faces, like Sir Ned’s and Lady Duchamp’s, were scornful. A few, such as Captain Arrow’s, Lady Tabitha’s, and Nathaniel’s, were unreadable. Surely, Jilly thought, if they were enthusiastic, they’d show some emotion, wouldn’t they?

But no. They didn’t. Captain Arrow’s face was the worst of all. She was used to seeing him merry. An impenetrable expression didn’t suit him at all.

Some expressions, like that of Mrs. Hobbs, were confused. Still more, like Susan’s, were simply sad and worried.

Not a one of her neighbors appeared hopeful.

Jilly stole a quick glance at Otis—

His mouth drooped down, and he was staring into space with a big wrinkle on his forehead. But oh, when he caught her gaze, how he tried to be optimistic! He gave her a wobbly grin and a thumbs-up.

But it was too late. She’d seen his disbelief.

Her stomach tightened into a hard knot of tension. If even Otis couldn’t come up with authentic enthusiasm, her idea for saving Hodgepodge and all of Dreare Street must be a disaster. She clasped her trembling fingers in front of her skirt and racked her brain for a solution, but none came.

Perhaps she must face an unwanted truth: her idea was doomed.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Stephen believed Miss Jones’s proposal was as likely to launch as a yacht with no rudder, sails, or crew. But to see this naïve yet well-intentioned campaign fail so quickly bothered him. Perhaps it was because he hated to see Miss Jones disillusioned. He was reluctant to admit it, but he rather liked her optimistic nature. And perhaps he was disappointed because none of these people on Dreare Street had volunteered to be put in their difficult position. They weren’t ready to fight their enemy. They were ill trained, taken by surprise—

Vulnerable to attack.

Stephen had made sure his ship’s crews were always ready. They’d been trained, and they’d known exactly what they’d signed up for.

The people on Dreare Street were easy prey for the Mr. Redmonds of this world.

It was a pity. But what was he to do? Go about protecting everyone? He couldn’t keep being a naval captain on land, urging the population of Dreare Street onward and upward.

No. It wasn’t his place. He couldn’t take on other people’s problems anymore.

He had his own.

“Well, that’s that,” Mr. Hobbs muttered aloud, hitting his hat on his leg. “This meeting didn’t help at all. I’m on my way.”

As one, the crowd turned toward the front entrance of Hodgepodge.

“Don’t leave!” Otis cried, throwing his arm across the door. “Let’s play charades, shall we? I’ve a book title.” And he held up four fingers.

“Four words!” called out Nathaniel.

Otis held up one finger.

“First word!” lisped Miss Hartley, a big grin on her face.

Stephen saw Miss Jones’s jaw working hard, and was sorry to see her violet-blue eyes clouded over with distress. But then she looked at him, and those eyes turned almost black.

“What have I done?” he asked her.

She pursed her lips. “You know what.” She hopped down from her chair and stormed past him.

He took her arm. “You can’t possibly expect—”

She yanked her arm back. “If you’ve nothing to say to help me, then please—just play charades and leave with the rest of them.”

She went over to her counter and bent below it. He heard a cupboard flung open, and saw the top of her ebony head, moving back and forth. She must be putting something in the cupboard and taking something out. Long lashes framed her cheekbones, and her delicious lips pursed as she created two stacks of books.

She always moved things about when she was upset.

Her idea about the street fair didn’t seem viable, but Stephen didn’t have a better solution, did he?

“There’s more to this thing than trying to earn money to pay the lease and keeping the street’s spirits up, isn’t there?” he told the top of her head. “Maybe you don’t even realize it yourself, or maybe you do. But my instincts tell me you’re creating the street fair to keep something else at bay—something that’s worrying you besides the money. Something you’re afraid of.”

She refused to answer. But then she looked up, distrust of him evident in her gaze. “Whatever my reasons, at least I’m trying to do something to help.”

He laughed. “I’ve done plenty of helping, as you call it, in my time.”

“Oh,” she said mildly, “is your time over, then? You’re awfully young to retreat from the world.”

He pushed off the counter, too annoyed with her to speak.

“Fourth word!” called Sir Ned at Otis’s antics.

“Second syllable!” called the lively old man in the gray vest, the one who’d lived on Dreare Street his whole life.

His whole life.

And he’d never seen it happy.

Stephen made a split-second decision.

“Otis,” he said in a voice he knew would be heard above the crowd noise—it was his captain’s voice. Hadn’t he planned mere seconds ago never to use it on land again?—“please cease the charades and continue holding the door. I’ve something of importance to say.”

“The Mysteries of Udolpho!” Miss Hartley cried out. Her mother stared at her in shock.

Otis clapped. “Very good, Miss Hartley.”

“She’s not supposed to read novels!” Sir Ned cried. “They’re nonsense.”

“Shut up, you idiot.” Lady Duchamp poked Sir Ned in the chest with her cane. “I’ve better things to do with my time than listen to you or Captain Arrow or anyone else in this godforsaken shop. Get out of my way.”

She managed to get to the front door, but Otis held fast to the doorknob. “You must stay, my lady. Captain Arrow is a man of passion, style, and good looks. He has something important to relate to all of us.”

“You foolish clerk,” Lady Duchamp chastised him, “why should any of us listen to the captain? He’s more concerned with carousing than he is with the affairs of Dreare Street. If he could sell his house today, he’d depart faster than a ball from a fired pistol.”