'Twas the Night Before Mischief (4 page)

Not unlike her father. She always knew where to find him.

“Mr. Harvey, I need your help.”

She tried not to sound desperate, but of course she did because, frankly, she
was
. And her heart pounded with fear that Mr. Harvey would cast her onto the street once he learned that she had very little money and even less hope that her portmanteau would ever arrive.

Mr. Harvey studied her with his pale eyes, his pen poised above his ledger. “What sort of help?”

“I…I have only a few shillings, sir, and I've little hope of ever seeing my portmanteau again. And I must get to Inverness. Do you know of a way I might be able to find transport there?”

He frowned. “Ye dinna think ye can leave without paying yer bill?”

Penelope swallowed. “Er, I assure you I will send payment as soon as—”

Mr. Harvey barked out a laugh. “I assure
ye
, lass, that I'll send the constable after ye if ye so much as try ta leave Wick without paying me what ye owe. Which amounts ta”—he checked his ledger—“twelve shillings, thrupenny.”

Penelope's heart went on its downward spiral again. “I don't suppose there is a telegraph office in Wick?”

“The closest telegraph office is in Inverness.”

Of course it was. And yet she couldn't send a telegraph if she couldn't even get there. She tightened her hands on the three shillings in her pocket, then put them on the counter.

“That's all I have to pay for the room at the moment, Mr. Harvey. I need to send a telegraph to my father in London. If I don't, I'm afraid you'll have to turn me over to the authorities. Perhaps they'll at least contact my father on my behalf, though I admit to rather dreading the notion of being arrested.”

As if that wouldn't give Henry Darlington more of an apoplectic fit than he was already experiencing.

Mr. Harvey looked at the three tarnished coins, then back to Penelope. He sighed and put his pen down.

“Tuesdays and Thursdays, the mail coach goes through from Thurso back ta Inverness. If'n ye want to send a message, I'll convey it ta the driver and ask that he bring it to the telegraph office upon his arrival.”

“Oh, that's terribly kind of you. I don't suppose I could accompany…” Penelope's voice died as she saw his mouth tighten. “No, of course not. Thursday.”

She hoped that meant he would allow her to stay for the next two days, at least. Perhaps by then she could earn enough money actually to send a telegraph begging her father for help. As discouraging as that would be, Penelope simply had no idea what else to do.

P
enelope swept the last of the dust from the floor and set the broom aside. She rested her hands on her hips as she surveyed the dining room, which looked more inviting now that she'd mended the curtains, dusted, rearranged the tables and chairs, and put a bowl of apples and pears on the sideboard. She had also convinced Mr. Harvey to procure a few boughs of holly and ivy, which she had arranged around the front counter. In return for her assistance, he'd agreed to pay to have her telegraph sent.

“I thought ye dinna like Christmas,” he said, peering at her with those narrow eyes.

“I don't. But most other people do, including those who wish to be guests at your inn. My father makes a great effort every holiday season to entice patrons with special Christmas treats and decorations.” She gave him a pointed look. “Perhaps if you did the same, you might have a few more of your rooms rented.”

He grunted in response.

“I'd even suggest you put a tree in the window,” Penelope continued. “Ever since Her Majesty took up the tradition, my father has adorned our home with a tree in the front parlor, which is decorated with glass balls and tinsel. Everyone speaks of how lovely it is. This year, he even put one in the window of his shop.”

She experienced an unexpected pang at the thought of the brightly lit window in which her father took such pride.

She started up the stairs toward what she'd come to think of as “her” room. The mail coach was coming by tomorrow, which meant she had to finish writing the message. Because she was limited to ten words for a telegraph, each word had to be of the utmost importance. Yet even if her father didn't respond to her message, she was beginning to think that Mr. Harvey wouldn't throw her out on her ear. Certainly it wasn't as if he needed the room free for another guest.

As she reached the landing, a deep male voice floated up toward her.

Penelope went to the banister and peered down at the foyer. A tall, dark-haired man wearing spectacles stood at the front counter, his overcoat damp and boots splattered with mud. Despite the disarray of his appearance, he held himself with a straight, undeniable dignity that lent him an almost regal air. A valise rested at his feet, and he held his hat in one hand as he spoke to Mr. Harvey.

Something about him seemed vaguely familiar, but Penelope couldn't place him. Before she could back away from the railing, he looked up. Their gazes met, and a curious jolt of awareness coursed through Penelope's body. She tightened her hands on the railing.

Darius Hall.
What was he…?

“I'd thought to find you in the Orkney Islands with your beloved,” he said, a chill infusing his voice.

Shock flooded her. “How did you know where I'd gone?”

“Your father showed me your letter.” His voice coiled upward in the air toward Penelope, so strangely tangible that she imagined it was composed of dark colors. Midnight blue, ocher, dusky red.

“I spent less than five seconds determining where you'd gone,” Darius continued. “I promised your father I would return you to London posthaste.”

Penelope gripped the banister. Though she'd told her father in the letter that she was leaving to start a new life, she hadn't told him that she'd planned to do so with Simon Wilkie. She wondered if her father had come to the same conclusion Darius had as to her intentions.

“You followed me all this way?” she asked.

“Yes. I'd have been here sooner but ran into train delays in Aberdeen.” His eyes narrowed into slits of dark glass. “Where is Wilkie?”

Penelope straightened her spine and tried to keep her voice even. “In Belman Castle, I believe. With his rather overbearing mother.”

She could almost see Darius's mind working as he figured out all the hidden implications of that remark.

“You've saved me a longer journey, then,” he said. “I'd planned to take tomorrow's steamer out to Kirkwall.”

“And do what?” Penelope replied tartly. “Abduct me from the prison of Belman Castle?”

“If need be, yes.”

Penelope's face flared with heat. He'd come all this way with the intention of rescuing her…er,
abducting
her from Belman Castle?

“You're here alone, then?” Darius asked.

Oh, heavens. Either she had to confess that Simon the Coward had cried off their engagement or she had to come up with a plausible lie in the next five seconds.

“Yes,” she finally said. “I'm…I've always wanted to visit Wick. I adore herrings.”

Even Mr. Harvey snorted at that. Penelope never had been a good liar.

Darius merely shrugged and turned his attention back to the innkeeper. “A room, please. It's too dark to travel now. Miss Darlington and I will leave at first light.”

“I beg your pardon?” Penelope snapped.

“We will leave at first light,” Darius repeated as he signed his name in the ledger. “I told your father I would have you back in London before his Christmas feast. I intend to keep that promise.”

Penelope was at a loss for words. She had so few options of her own and almost no money, so all she could do was continue to look for work in a town that had meager opportunities. But the alternative meant sacrificing what little pride she had left.

Mr. Harvey glanced at Penelope before turning to his book to make the arrangements. Darius took a purse from his valise.

“I was led to believe that Miss Darlington might have no funds of her own,” he said. “Therefore, I will settle both our bills together.”

Hot with shame, Penelope turned on heel and went back to her room. She didn't even want to imagine what Darius Hall thought about her reckless flight with Simon Wilkie.

Shutting the door behind her, she thought reluctantly that this served her right. She had made an absolute bungle of this whole situation, so why not heap further humiliation onto herself by having Darius transport her back to London like a recalcitrant child?

She groaned, pressing her hands to her face. She remembered the way he'd looked at her when he saw her with Simon Wilkie at Lady Wentworth's soiree a mere three weeks ago. Such a sliver of time, and yet it burned in her memory like a full moon. The way that unreadable gaze had slid from her to Simon, darkening with disapproval in the instant before he turned away from them.

It wouldn't have been so memorable, she thought, if the mistletoe incident hadn't happened twenty minutes later.

A hard shiver swept through her. Oh, that kiss. So warm and delicious, eliciting a feeling like light dancing through her veins. She'd tried hard to bury the memory…of course it wasn't right for an engaged woman to kiss another man, let alone feel like
that
…but Darius's mouth had settled against hers with such perfect, seamless precision.

He'd cupped the back of her neck in his large hand with a gentleness that made her feel…unique. Cherished.
Alive.
It had all been so unlike Simon's hurried kisses that Penelope was caught entirely off her guard. That was the only explanation for her swift response and the way she'd kissed Darius Hall back with an eagerness that both shocked and thrilled her.

A knock came at the door. Penelope tried to rearrange her thoughts as she went to open it. Darius Hall stood there like a sentry, the breadth of his shoulders almost filling the doorway. Penelope almost took a step backward. He'd always been so contained and reticent that she had never realized just how…powerful he was.

“Yes?” she asked.

“Mr. Harvey informs me that you've not dined yet.” He tilted his head toward the stairs. “He has nothing prepared in the dining room, but he tells me there is an agreeable restaurant just around the corner. They offer at least half a dozen herring dishes.”

Penelope jerked her gaze to his, expecting to see him smirking at her. But no. His expression was as stoic as always. She thought rather unexpectedly that in all the years he had come to her father's shop, she had never heard Darius Hall laugh.

“If you'd care to accompany me?” he asked.

She didn't much care to accompany him, but she did care to eat. Penelope nodded and pulled on her cloak as they descended the stairs. The wintry air of the sea iced against them as they walked through the dirt roads toward the center of town. Aside from a few pedestrians and a dog pawing for scraps, the place seemed as deserted as ever. The restaurant was gloomy but warm, with a fire burning in the hearth and clusters of trestle tables.

After ordering soup and bread, as well as a plate of salted herring that smelled like a swamp, Penelope eyed Darius across the table. “Why did you follow me?”

His big shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Your father has always been a friend to my family, and to me. I saw no reason he should abandon his work and the preparations for his royal warrant celebration to come and fetch you.”

Penelope couldn't help wondering what would have happened if Darius had not offered to “fetch her.” Would her father have come himself or ignored her flight entirely?

“You're fortunate his patrons and friends believe you're visiting your aunt in Bristol,” Darius remarked. “Though you'd best hope that Mr. Wilkie doesn't have cause to ruin your name.”

Penelope groaned inwardly. Simon had been the one to abandon her, but if he returned to London, he could very well spread rumors about her in the hopes of deflecting her own accusations. He'd consider it better to attack her rather than defend himself.

“You might as well say it,” she muttered. “I'm a complete fool.”

“We've all made mistakes,” Darius replied mildly.

Penelope rather doubted that about him.

“What mistakes have you made?” she asked.

She was unsurprised when he didn't respond, because of course his mistakes—if he'd ever made any—would be along the lines of using the wrong fork at supper.

At the very least, however, Penelope took a measure of comfort in the notion that this was her first mistake. Up until now, she'd been a paragon of obedience. And it would certainly be her last mistake, too, because once back in London and after having made amends, she would have to become…Penelope the Paragon again.

And that, she told herself firmly, was as it should be. She should be grateful she even had the opportunity to rectify her error. Grateful that Darius Hall had come to rescue…er,
retrieve
her.

“Are you still working on your dictionary, Mr. Hall?” she asked.

“Yes. It's not due for another year, and each term requires precise research.”

“What sort of terms?”

“Those used in medicine, zoology, botany, anatomy, among other areas of science.” He nodded his thanks to the server as she placed more bread in front of them. “Some political, historical, and legal terms that are useful for common knowledge.”

A dictionary. Writing such a tome was the perfect occupation for a man who seemed as contained as a closed book. Though he was the most composed man she had ever encountered, Penelope could almost see the thoughts burning behind his sharp, intelligent eyes. He was like a dictionary himself, filled with definitions and cryptic passages. In Latin, no less. And one could understand those thoughts only if they had the knowledge—and the desire—to translate them.

Which Penelope most certainly did not.

She doubted words like
joy
and
love
were included among Darius Hall's definitions of plant parts and medicine. A man like him wouldn't bother himself with trying to define emotions. Such a task belonged to poets, not scientists.

Still, for that one moment when Penelope had experienced Darius's…emotion in the form of that passionate kiss, she'd been struck hard by the energy crackling through him, the way his eyes had darkened with intensity in the instant before he'd pressed his mouth to hers. And, oh, heavens, that heat flowing from him into her made her think he had fire crackling and burning to the depths of his…

Penelope bit her lip and stared at her soup.
Why
did she allow her thoughts to swerve in such a direction? Why did she feel still as if she could no longer fit within her own skin, as if her hopes and desires would wither and die if she weren't daring enough to free them? And why did
freeing them
mean that she also had to be reckless and foolhardy, disappointing her father and putting her family's reputation at risk?

Running off to elope with an entirely unsuitable, glib rogue…
that
had been her definition of daring? Of being alive? Certainly she'd felt more in that one moment with Darius Hall than she'd felt in the month Simon had courted her.

Though what that discovery could possibly mean, Penelope had no idea.

“If the word
daring
were in your dictionary,” she said, “how would you define it?”

“Daring?” Darius sounded as if the word tasted unpleasant. “That's nothing to do with science or mechanics. It would not be in the dictionary.”

“But if it were,” Penelope persisted, “how would you define it?”

“Very likely the way anyone else would. As a quality of defiance. Perhaps foolishness.”

“You don't think it requires courage to be daring?”

“Courage is a quality of fortitude and strength.” He glanced at her, his eyes keen behind his spectacles. “They are not the same thing, Miss Darlington. Make no mistake.”

“I already have,” Penelope muttered.

She ate a spoonful of soup, though she was no longer hungry. Darius concentrated on his dinner, eating with a precision of movement. Penelope caught sight of the way he held the spoon, and she thought inexplicably that his hands—large with long, adept fingers—were well suited for both fitting machine parts together and holding a pen.

“You had better eat more,” he suggested, glancing at her bowl. “We've a long way to travel tomorrow, if we intend to reach Inverness by Thursday.”