And was Lord Stephen the right direction? She pulled a small slipper chair over to the window, reluctant to light a candle. She wanted to think, and the quiet of the night was a good time to do it.
The important thing now was to escape marriage to Ernest. It was quite plain that Aunt Winthrop intended to pursue that event. As Penelope dimly recalled, it was said that Eugenia Winthrop did far better than Bow Street at getting what she wanted.
And what was Penelope going to do about her altered feelings for Lord Harford? He must see her as the most tiresome of charges. As to that teasing kiss this evening, well, he had just admitted he didn’t really know what love was. It stood to reason that he simply couldn’t, having fallen in love dozens of times. And he had the audacity to declare he had been serious each time!
She thought back to the come-out ball, where a premonition had prompted her to order the milk, Culpepper’s remedy for too much henbane. Why she had suspected that drug, she wasn’t sure, except that it was easy to procure. Yet it could be deadly, not a drug to treat lightly. And Miss Dunston seemed the sort to desire a love potion. As though a love potion would really work.
Penny frowned again. Why had she been so attuned to danger for Lord Harford? Why had she even cared about what happened to him? For he was the veriest quibbler. Yet she had felt as though he was a part of her, in some peculiar way. It had to do with this surge of emotion she felt whenever she saw him.
And then the next day he came tearing after her. What a strange experience, finding herself in his comforting arms after the terror of her arrest. That ordeal had haunted her for some time, yet she suspected that his taunting her in his typically maddening way had lessened the impact of what she had undergone.
So where did that leave her now? She shook her head. It was hard to tell what Aunt Winthrop would do next. Perhaps if Penelope announced a betrothal to Lord Stephen, it would defeat her aunt. The problem with that notion was that Lord Stephen seemed content to flirt and dance with her, nothing more. Although he had been gallant when he had found Muffin. Lord Harford had merely sat on his horse and looked annoyed. Penelope admitted she was most confused.
There was no one else who half-appealed to her as a husband. Mr. Willowby was almost nice, Sir Aubrey did not quite succeed, the others presented to her were complete “perish the thoughts.” Lady Harford had described a number of gentlemen in that manner and Penelope had found it amusing. Now she discovered the designation most apt.
Deciding that her thinking process was sadly muddled, she deposited the cat at the foot of her bed, then swiftly undressed herself, scattering pins on her dressing table in her hurry to get to sleep and blessed insensibility.
Morning brought a note from Henri. In his spidery French, he wrote that he had a chance to leave immediately. The menu was all set, the food to prepare would be waiting, and he would be eternally in her debt if she would cook for him. Nothing he had planned to serve would be beyond her capabilities.
But would Lord Harford discover that she was in the kitchen? That was the largest problem she could see. It was one thing to cook for him before she had made her appearance at Almack’s. It was quite another to risk her reputation by sneaking into his house to cook a dinner for his friends again after she had been accepted by Society. If word of this got out, she would be ruined, and not even her pots of money would get her a proper parti.
Henri knew nothing of this aspect of the arrangement. She could only hope that among them—she, the cook, the maid, and Mr. Darling—the dinner could be pulled off with no one the wiser. God forbid Lord Harford come to the kitchen on any errand. The letter explaining the chefs absence would be given his lordship the next morning. After all, he knew that Henri had planned the trip.
“I shall be gone all day tomorrow, Nilsson,” she informed her companion over their chocolate, who raised shrewd brows in acknowledgment of the information and what it entailed.
“If anyone inquires for you, I shall say you have gone on a mission of mercy. And I believe that to be the case. Ja?” She paused, then added softly, “Minst sagt.”
“To say the least,” echoed Penelope in English. Miss Nilsson knew what chances Penelope took, yet she felt sure her companion also wished Henri Godspeed on his journey, with a safe return.
That evening Penelope joined Lady Harford and Lady Charis at a small musicale at the Sefton home. The Countess Sefton was the kindest of the patronesses and she and her earl welcomed the select group with gracious charm.
When Penelope saw Lord Harford taking a seat with the musicians, she turned questioning eyes to Charis.
Charis dimpled a winsome smile, holding a fan before her face so she might explain without another overhearing her words. “Did you know that Jonathan plays the flute? He is vastly accomplished. You play too. I overheard you trying the pianoforte at our house.”
Deep in consideration over this new aspect, Penelope merely nodded with
