Jack shook his head, his mouth curving. “I think you ladies have everything well in hand.”
Twenty-Seven
En route to Brompton’s, Jack had to make a stop at his boarding house for a fresh change of clothes. Although he told Lottie to wait in the carriage, she would have none of it and followed him into the ramshackle building.
Mrs. Clooney, of course, pounced on them like a cat. She regarded him with the avaricious gleam that he’d always found discomfiting. Then she noticed Lottie, and her eyes turned squinty.
“I run a respectable place, Mr. Wilkins,” she said. “No visitors allowed in the rooms. Those are the rules.”
Her dyed black curls quivered with outrage, her stubby fingers gripping her wide hips. Her righteousness was rich since she’d intimated more than once that she would enjoy his company in her own room. He’d politely declined each time, but that didn’t stop her from making advances, including showing up at his door one night in a flimsy robe, a sight he wished he could unsee.
“We’ll be but a moment, Mrs. Clooney—” he began.
“No exceptions, sir.” She glared at Lottie. “And fancy pieces ain’t welcome in my establishment.”
“I am not a fancy piece.” Lottie’s eyes flashed like a blade. “I am his wife.”
“His wife?” Mrs. Clooney looked momentarily nonplussed. “But Mr. Wilkins ne’er mentioned no missus?—”
“He also probably neglected to mention the fact that he is giving his notice. Effective immediately.” Lottie continued walking toward the stairs as if she owned the place. “Come along,Mr. Wilkins. We must pack your things.”
“Well, I ne’er,” Mrs. Clooney huffed.
Suppressing a grin, Jack followed his spouse up the steps. Even the inconvenience of having to find new accommodations didn’t dampen his sudden joy. Bleeding hell, he loved it when Lottie acted like he belonged to her.
“Do you even know where you’re going?” he murmured.
Lottie shot him a fulminating glance. “How long has that woman been trying to get in your bed?”
Her acuity never failed to astound him. As he wasn’t an idiot, however, he was not about to court trouble.
“I am not interested?—”
“I know that,” she said in clipped tones. “But she has tried?”
He gave a hesitant nod, uncertain where this was headed. Luckily, he was saved from saying more because they arrived at his room. He focused on getting his keys out and opening the door. Lottie entered first, and her brows elevated. Seeing the space through her eyes—the cracked ceiling, peeling wallpaper, and sagging furnishings—he cringed at the squalor of his living situation.
“Is Mrs. Clooney’s cooking exceptional?” Lottie asked.
“Er, not really.” With his foot, he nudged an old newspaper under his bed. “Unless you mean exceptionally bland. Why do you ask?”
“Because I am struggling to understand why you would choose to live here.”
Because I’ve lived in worse places. Because since I left you, I haven’t cared where I live. Because the only home I’ve ever had is with you.
He shrugged, opening his wardrobe and rifling through the choices. “It is the sort of place where George Wilkins, traveling actor, would live. It’s cheap, conveniently located, and nondescript. It also explains my late hours, absences, and disguises.”
Lottie arched a brow. “How many identities do you have?”
“Not enough time for that, love, if we’re to get to Brompton’s before closing.” He selected a pinstriped waistcoat and pair of dark trousers. “Does that say innkeeper to you?”
“I don’t see why you get to make the inquiries at Brompton’s.”
He loved the way she pouted.
“Because you lost the coin toss. It should be a simple in and out.” He paused, his hands on the buttons of his collar. “Would you like to wait in the carriage whilst I change?”
“It is nothing I haven’t seen before.” Lottie rolled her eyes. “And a great deal of, I might add.”
