“Oh, I will!” Jilly said.

“We’ll tell you more about it during the meeting,” Mr. Hobbs said, and took his wife’s hand in his own and kissed it.

Jilly bit her lip. Mr. Hobbs’s loving gesture was very sweet. One might even say adorable. She met Susan’s eyes again, and hers were shiny with emotion, too.

Within several minutes, the room had filled up. Lady Duchamp, of course, was missing, and so was Stephen (her heart skipped a beat knowing he was probably right next door), but everyone else had come.

She and Otis exchanged hopeful glances.

He indicated that he was going to keep an eye on the door and signal her if Hector came anywhere near—it was their plan.

Jilly cleared her throat and addressed the gathering: “It’s so good to be here,” she said, “and I simply want to state unequivocally that I’m sorry I misled all of you. I am Mrs. Broadmoor, and I’ll acknowledge that openly now. But I don’t plan on living with my husband, and I’d prefer you all call me Jilly. There’s no place I’d rather be than with friends like you—if you’ll accept me back here. I can endure the fog. I can endure the bad luck. But I can’t endure being without you as my neighbors.”

Nathaniel stood. “On behalf of the whole street, I think I’m safe in saying we all embrace you … Jilly. Because from your very first day here, you’ve embraced us. And even though the fair went wrong, for an hour there it was working, wasn’t it?”

He looked around. Everyone nodded their heads.

“I’ve never seen anything like it in all my years on Dreare Street!” piped up one ancient old man. “For the first time, I felt like Dreare Street was the place to be in London!”

Everyone cheered.

“Good,” said Jilly. “Because we can’t give up. We have only days left before those leases come due.” She smiled gratefully at Mr. Hobbs. “I’m very glad to announce we have Mr. Hobbs working with us now. Together we can still raise the money we need. But even more important, we’re going to get rid of Dreare Street’s poor reputation once and for all.”

After talking for another half an hour, a plan was hatched to everyone’s satisfaction.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Stephen arrived at the little cottage in Kensington with a great deal of misgivings.

Who was he to interfere in someone else’s marriage?

But he had to know.

Before he’d left London, he’d gone to see Harry, who’d instantly understood the crazy mess in which Stephen had landed himself.

“You’ve got it bad, my friend,” Harry had said sympathetically. “But your plan is sound. You didn’t need me to tell you that, although it couldn’t hurt to hear it from someone who’s been right where you are now.”

And then he’d slapped his back, told him he’d take care of telling Lord Smelling to shove off, and wished him luck.

Stephen had gone to the Pantheon Bazaar next, where it had taken him an hour to locate that hackney driver, the one named Jack. But finally he had, and now he was here in Kensington.

He would get some answers.

A woman of uncommon beauty opened the shabby front door. It was the same woman he’d seen with Hector at the Pantheon Bazaar.

“Yes?” Her voice was sharp and unpleasant.

Her beauty dimmed instantly. But he gave her a cordial smile.

“I’m Stephen Arrow. May I come in, please? I’m here on rather urgent business.”

“Urgent?” She arched a brow. “Pray tell, what is so urgent that you’d knock on the door of a complete stranger?”

“Who’s there, my love?”

Hector.

Stephen pressed his lips into a thin line and stepped over the threshold.

The woman’s brow puckered, but she didn’t tell him to move back. “Someone asking questions,” she said over her shoulder. “A man named Arrow.”

There was a stark silence. Then a clatter of a fork on a plate.

Hector came out of another room, chewing. “Not you again,” he said with his mouth full.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Get out,” Hector said, pointing to the door.

Stephen widened his stance. “I’m not going anywhere. We can either hash this out inside, or go outside together.”

“Go with the man,” the actress urged Hector, fear in her voice.

Hector narrowed his eyes at Stephen. “Wait here then, Bessie.”

In a great sulk, he followed Stephen outside.

Stephen faced him beneath a gnarled fig tree. “Tell me who that woman is.”

“None of your business.” Hector had spittle in the corner of his mouth.

“She’s your mistress, isn’t she?” Stephen asked carelessly.

Hector shrugged. “So what if she is? What wealthy married man doesn’t have a mistress?”

“I’ll grant you that some do. I also know plenty who don’t,” Stephen replied. “At the moment, I’m only concerned about you and yours.”

Hector laughed. “You love my wife, don’t you?”

Stephen refused to answer.

Hector tsked. “What a shame she can never be yours. Because I assure you, we won’t divorce. And I won’t let her go. Ever.”

A bird whistled from the fig tree, and from the cottage next door, several children’s voices could be heard arguing. A woman opened the door to that cottage and pointed outside.

“Go,” she ordered.

A moment later, several children came out and went scampering off down the street.

Stephen watched them run, their bare feet flying. The world itself didn’t care that the woman he loved was trapped in marriage to the wrong man and that he would be lonely the rest of his life.

There were so many stories everywhere. His was just one.

“You don’t know what to do, do you, Captain?” Hector cocked his head, looking vastly amused at his discomfiture. “You can’t ram me. You can’t take me down with cannon fire. So why are you here?”

The children ran toward the next corner, laughing now—their argument already forgotten—and disappeared from view.

The words rushed into Stephen’s head. I am here to set Jilly free. Like those children. The woman he loved shouldn’t be tethered. She should be able to come and go as she pleased, to laugh, to run if she wanted to, by God.

To be her true self.

But what could Stephen do—other than kill her husband—to make that happen?

No matter how much he despised Hector, no matter how poorly the wretch had treated Jilly, Stephen couldn’t kill the brute as a matter of convenience. He believed in justice, yes, but justice properly administered within the framework of laws. He was an experienced war veteran, but he would not be a vigilante.

Besides, he knew in his gut that Jilly, no matter how mistreated she’d been by Hector, would not condone his murder, either.

“I’m here to inform you that I will bring you down,” Stephen said evenly. “It might not be today. But it will happen, and soon.”

Hector laughed. “Go on, Captain. Back to your dreary little street. Alone.”

And he went back inside, shutting the front door behind him.

Stephen seethed with frustration. He needed more information. He could travel to Jilly’s village, but Mayfair was closer. Perhaps he should start with Otis. He should know something more about Hector’s background.

With a sigh, he mounted again. Slowly, he walked his horse down the street. He was reluctant to leave, knowing his quarry was there uncaught.

He must be patient.

And sensible. He wanted to get back to Dreare Street as soon as possible. But he’d had a long journey and another one still ahead of him. He’d make a quick stop at an inn one street over for some portable sustenance, some bread and cheese perhaps.

While the barkeep went back to the kitchen to get his order ready, Stephen nodded his head at a middle-aged gentleman sitting next to him with a pint of ale.

“You could use one of these,” the man said to him, raising his glass. “You look much disappointed in something. Let me buy you one, stranger. My name’s Mac McIver, at your service.”

“Thank you, no,” Stephen said, barely managing a polite response. “I need to get back to London.”

Mr. McIver gave him a sideways look. “Why the long face, then? London is a fine place.”

In a moment of weakness, and against all his good judgment as a gentleman—a military man, at that—Stephen gave in to impulse. “I’m in love,” he confessed.

“Well,” the man replied, “that usually induces more feelings of happiness than gloom.”

“Yes, sir,” Stephen said with a sigh, “normally you’d be correct. But she’s married. She doesn’t love her cad of a husband, nor he her. She loves me. But as a gentleman, I can’t do anything without compromising her honor, or mine.”

Thankfully, the barkeep returned then with Stephen’s food, wrapped in paper. He paid for it and put the package under his arm. “Good day,” he said to Mr. McIver.

He was rather embarrassed and anxious to be gone.

The stranger touched his arm. “Your dilemma isn’t unique,” he said low, “but it’s unsalvageable in most cases, no?”

Stephen nodded. “Right.”

“If I may be so bold, might I know the names of this man and woman?”

Stephen shook his head. “I’d rather not say.” It still stung deeply to recollect that awful moment in Hodgepodge when he’d first realized Jilly and Hector were married. “They’re not from here anyway.”

Mr. McIver grinned. “I envision him as a Ferdinand. Or Brutus. The villain always has such a name in the Gothic novels my wife is fond of.” He chuckled. “If he doesn’t live here, then tell me, lad. Just the first name will do.”

Stephen shrugged. “It’s Hector. The lady’s name I’ll keep to myself.”