Penelope laughed—in a kindly way—and shook her head. “I think you had best compare odes with Letty while I retreat to my room and make repairs. It was brought to my attention that I am in sad need of such.” Memory of those dark eyes that had bored holes into her when he revealed his scorn for her behavior came back, and her cheeks flamed.
Clutching the cat more tightly to her chest, she quickly ran up the stairs to the second floor, where her bedroom was located. The room was empty. Where Miss Nilsson might be didn’t cross her mind.
Dropping Muffin on the bed, Penelope turned to her looking glass, utterly horrified at what she found there. The once neat line of her violet pelisse was not at all as it ought to be, snagged, dusty, and somewhat stained as well. While her bonnet had been straightened, it was not at the proper, fashionable angle. Oh, she appeared to be worse than a frump. She had the appearance of a hey-go-mad miss, a young woman with more hair than wit, to be sure.
She tore off the offending bonnet, removed her pelisse—wondering if it was totally beyond salvage—then sank upon her bed to caress her reprehensible cat.
“Muffin, I fear I am not cut out to be a member of the haut ton. I have the birth and wealth, but a sad want of conduct.” Never would she forget his cutting tone as Lord Harford denounced her foolishness. It seemed she had quite sunk herself beneath redemption as far as he was concerned. Why that bothered her so greatly, she didn’t pause to examine. She buried her face in the orange fur, and ignored the trickle of tears that crept from her eyes.
Muffin, as undemanding a pet as might be found, snuggled closer, offering comfort and understanding that no human seemed about to give.
Penelope sniffed, thinking to herself that life couldn’t become more grim than it was at this moment.
Chapter 10
Penelope was allowed little time to dwell on her misdeeds. Between paying social calls with Lady Harford and the adorable Charis, and trying to persuade Letty that she would be utterly miserable without Mr. Oglethorpe in her life, lamenting her shortcomings had to be tabled for private moments, of which there were few.
Henri had come to call on them, putting Mrs. Flint in a stew, not being accustomed to a mere servant presenting himself at the front door. His suave continental manner placed her in a greater quandary, for although she knew he was a chef, now at Lord Harford’s elegant establishment, he possessed an address many men of the ton might envy. Truth be known, he set poor Mrs. Flint’s heart all aflutter.
Penelope concealed her amusement when the dear lady informed her in tremulous tones that that Frenchie was here to see her, and in the morning room, no less!
“Henri, what have you to report?” Penelope asked with a glum countenance. She knew she ought to be happy that he might find his family, or at least his estate. She made an effort to smile, hoping she did a better job of it than Miss Nilsson, who, in spite of the concoction Penelope brewed up for her, still looked the melancholy Swede.
“Very little, I am sad to say,” he replied after bowing low over Miss Nilsson’s hand and offering her a small nosegay. His attentions brought a blaze of pink to her cheeks and a flustered glitter to her eyes.
Her simple dove-gray gown was subtly becoming, Outlining pleasing curves and flattering her delicate coloring. She studied the bouquet of pale primroses with demure eyes. Her hand strayed up to tuck a soft blond curl beneath her dainty cambric-and-lace cap, her one great vanity. All of Miss Nilsson’s caps were exquisitely embroidered in white with elegant flowers in attractive patterns and of the very latest style.
Since Miss Nilsson and Henri had frequently been at vociferous odds while at Fountains, Penelope found this new behavior distinctly curious. Was she to be surrounded by lovelorn souls? It seems to be the case, for Henri had eyes only for Miss Nilsson.
“You may as well tell us what has happened up to now.” It hadn’t been all that long, Penelope realized, a matter of five weeks since coming to London, but so much had happened to her that she felt it near a lifetime.
“I have decided to take my chances, now that peace has uneasily settled over France. I confess that I do not trust Napoleon, but I feel impelled to investigate. It would mean a great deal for me to regain the family property.” He ostensibly spoke to both women, yet Penelope had the feeling that it was to Miss Nilsson that the words were sent. “It would free me . . .“ His words faded off, leaving Penelope to wonder precisely what it would free him to do.
“When do you leave?” Miss Nilsson braved the answer she obviously feared.
“This week, once I can make arrangements with Lord Harford. I have a dinner this coming Friday I would not wish to miss.”
Penelope studied his face, thinking how much dearer he was to her than her own father. He had been present all her growing-up years, carefully friendly, offering fatherly advice on neutral subjects, but answering her questions on more controversial topics as well. Often she had persuaded him to discuss the concept of love. They argued amiably, for they far from agreed on the subject. He had called her his little cynique, casting concerned looks in her direction when he thought she wasn’t watching him.
“Henri . . . if you find it necessary to leave early, I shall take your place in the kitchen.” She raised a hand to silence the objections she could see forming in his mind. “I shan’t have the least difficulty, and you know it. Plan the menu, do the shopping, and let me know if I
