'Twas the Night Before Mischief (2 page)

A
scelpias. Ascolia. Ascyrum. Ase.

Darius Hall handed his coat and hat to the footman and walked through the foyer. Voices and music rose in a cacophony, and a blur of suits and glittering gowns rippled like leaves through the open doors of the ballroom.

Dissolvent. Dissonance. Dissyllable. Dissolution.

He stepped into the crush of Lady Wentworth's soiree. A wave of heat hit him, thick with the scents of wassail and perfume. His spectacles fogged a bit from the sudden warmth. He removed them and wiped the lenses on his sleeve before setting them back in place.

Holly lined the mantel, and a fat tree adorned with bells and tapers sat upon a table by the window. As he neared the refreshment table, the smells of oranges and cinnamon wafted through the air. Easing into the crowd, Darius circled the ballroom where lights twinkled and danced like stars.

Oleine. Oleosaccharum. Olfactory. Olibanum. Olive.

Darius schooled his features into politeness as he greeted acquaintances, introduced himself to strangers, engaged in bits of conversation, complimented several young women on their beauty.

He drank two glasses of punch and acknowledged to Lord Hamilton that it had been over a year since he'd last been in London. He agreed with Lady Wentworth that his elder brother Sebastian had indeed made an excellent match with his recent marriage to Mrs. Clara Winter, and yes, Darius did hope to visit them soon at their home in Brighton.

No, he did not know when he expected to return to St. Petersburg. Yes, he was pleased with his father's recent promotion at the Home Office. No, he did not intend to work there himself. Yes, the salmon savories were delicious.

When Darius looked at the mantel clock and realized that only twenty minutes had passed since he'd entered the ballroom, he went in search of a drink stronger than punch.

“Hello, Darius.” Esther Darlington approached him from the refreshment table, her round face creased into a smile of welcome.

Relief eased some of Darius's tension. “Mrs. Darlington, a pleasure to see you.”

“You as well. Henry didn't tell me you would be here tonight.”

“I didn't know that I would be,” Darius admitted. He nodded toward his father and sister, who stood with a cluster of people near the hearth. “Rushton and Talia thought I should put in an appearance. Is Mr. Darlington here?”

“No, he's at the shop, of course. He's still perfecting the cocoa press machine you brought back from Belgium.”

“I'll pay him a visit tomorrow.”

“And you'll come to the house for a visit soon, won't you? The boys would enjoy seeing you.”

“I'd be much obliged, Mrs. Darlington. Thank you.”

After they'd parted ways, Darius continued toward the refreshment table, glancing over the crowd with a bit more intensity. If Mrs. Darlington was here, then surely that meant…

It had been three Christmases since he had last seen Penelope Darlington. He had been living in St. Petersburg since his parents' divorce, but when his mother contacted him with concerns about Sebastian, he'd not been able to withstand the pull of familial responsibility. And after Sebastian's marriage and his mother's return to Russia, Darius saw no pressing need to leave London. Especially with his new publisher's contract and Christmas a scant few weeks away.

He had always looked forward to the holiday season—the pantomimes and festivities, carol singing, mince pies, bright red holly berries, and wassail bowls garnished with sprigs of rosemary. The streets were alive with travelers returning home, and fragrant evergreens adorned the houses and churches.

Darius had fond memories of traipsing through the woods around Floreston Manor with his brothers and Talia during the Decembers they had spent in Devon. After a day of foraging and roughhousing, they would return home after dark, covered with mud and snow and laden with prickly holly and pine boughs. Dumping the bundles unceremoniously in the foyer along with their muddied coats and boots, they withstood a scolding from the housekeeper before she hustled them into the warm kitchen for muffins and cups of hot cocoa.

Often the Hall family would return to London for Christmas, where they were greeted by an endless array of confectionery from shops and bakeries, Darlington's in particular. Each December, Henry Darlington sent baskets filled with sweets and jellies to his most favored and prominent patrons, among them the Earl of Rushton.

Through the yearly delivery of such goods, Darius had become acquainted with the Darlington family—first due to an interest in the modern manufacture of chocolates and candies and then because he'd begun to enjoy their company as they invited him to their house for tea and the occasional supper.

Darius has become quite fond of the Darlingtons' cozy, cluttered home—so different from Rushton's elegant town house—and the three rambunctious sons who reminded him of his brothers so many years ago. Hot tea and fresh cakes were always at the ready, and Mrs. Darlington fussed over him a bit whenever he returned to London.

Though Darius enjoyed the confectionery shop, he most looked forward to his visits to the Darlington house. There, the vague disquiet that always simmered at the edge of his brain seemed to disappear. Or, at least, to lessen.

And, too, there was Penelope Darlington, the solemn girl who had always seemed to Darius like an ideal daughter. He understood young girls like her, who met his expectations. The obedient girls who sat with their hands folded and waited for someone to address them. The girls who dressed well, listened to their parents, and waited with breathless expectation for their debut ball, after which they would marry according to their parents' wishes and become proper wives.

Penelope Darlington was such a girl. He remembered her as brown-haired little thing who sat behind the counter at her father's confectionery shop and looked at everyone with unnerving perception.

Now, though, he finally wanted to show her what—

He heard a distinctively feminine laugh. Even to his unpoetic mind, the sound echoed that of bells and music. He turned instinctively, and his heart gave a strange jolt.

Clad in a blue gown that contrasted with her pale skin, which glowed like alabaster, Penelope Darlington laughed in a way that made her eyes sparkle and a vibrant energy radiate from her. With her glossy light brown hair, diamonds sparkling at her throat, her bosom decidedly curved and round beneath her bodice, Penelope had become…not the young woman Darius expected.

The Penelope he remembered was a tractable, solemn girl who would develop into a woman with a serious dedication to life and her position in the world. She was not supposed to turn into a vivacious debutante.

The odd sensation in Darius's chest settled into disappointment. Only in that instant did he realize he'd wanted her to be the same dutiful girl she'd always been. Because like words, definitions, etymology…he understood Penelope Darlington. Or he'd thought he did.

Still smiling, Penelope said something to the person who stood beside her. Darius shifted his gaze to the other man.

Jatropha. Jaundice. Jealousy.

Simon Wilkie was the scion of a once-prominent Scottish family that had fallen on difficult times after the death of his father years ago. A handsome fellow whose charm appealed to ladies of all ages, Wilkie had spent the past two seasons making the social rounds in London.

At least, that was what Talia had told Darius, remarking that Wilkie had made a concerted but unsuccessful attempt to woo both her and several other daughters of the peerage. While the women had enjoyed his attentions, both they and their families had known Wilkie's attentions for the ploy that they were.

Darius could not help but wonder if Penelope Darlington knew that as well. He rather doubted it, given the way she was gazing up at Wilkie with admiration, again laughing that musical-bells laugh as she reached up to fiddle with her necklace, which lay against a throat so white and graceful it reminded Darius of a swan's neck…

He shook his head. He was unaccustomed to his thoughts swerving in such a ridiculous direction. It was simply that Penelope had changed so drastically and in a manner he had not anticipated.

His brain clicked and whirred as he watched Wilkie bend to murmur something in Penelope's ear. What did she see in such a cad?

She smiled and nodded, stepping so close to Wilkie that their proximity was almost indecent—

“Miss Darlington!”

The booming voice gave Darius a start. Then he realized it had come from him.

Marometer. Maculae. Madness.

“Miss Darlington.” He tempered his voice as he approached Penelope and Wilkie, ignoring the other man's narrowed gaze as he stopped beside Penelope. “A pleasure to see you again. You look lovely, as always.”

Penelope gave him tight smile. “You as well, Mr. Hall. Welcome back to London.”

He nodded his thanks and slid his gaze to Wilkie. “We've not been introduced. Darius Hall, third son to the Earl of Rushton.”

“I ken yer sister, Mr. Hall,” Wilkie replied with a faint tone of snideness that had Darius clenching his fists. He hated that Talia had endured her own share of gossip after their mother's affair and their parents' subsequent divorce.

“Yes, she tells me you sought unsuccessfully to court her,” he told Wilkie. Grim satisfaction filled him when Wilkie colored a bit with embarrassment. “Returning to the Highlands sooner rather than later, are you?”

Wilkie slid his glance to Penelope. “Sooner, yea.”

She was gazing at the fool as if he were the key to unlocking a box of surprises. Darius felt like his entire chest was filled with thistles, pricking and poking at him.

“And you, Miss Darlington?” he asked. “How are you planning to spend your Christmas?”

“Why, at my father's feast, of course,” she replied, her voice overly bright. “Haven't you heard?”

“Heard what?”

“That Darlington's Confectionery has been granted a royal warrant from Her Majesty the Queen.”

Darius was pleased to hear this. Henry had expanded his company significantly in recent years, particularly due to his interest in new processes of manufacturing and attempts to create a palatable form of solid chocolate. Darius had known it was only a matter of time before Darlington's Confectionery was granted the prestige and honor of being named the official supplier of chocolates to the royal court.

“A well-deserved honor,” he told Penelope.

“My father is planning an elaborate Christmas feast in celebration,” she said. “I'm certain you and your family will receive an invitation. You may expect roast goose, oysters, mincemeat pies, and plum pudding. December eighteenth.”

Even Darius was struck by the date. Though Henry Darlington had remarried and had three more children after the death of his first wife ten years ago, it seemed an act of callousness that he would plan to host a celebration on the date of her death.

Darius didn't take his eyes off Penelope. She returned his look with steady regard, as if trying to determine whether he remembered what she had told him all those years ago. If he could sense how deeply this betrayal hurt her.

He did. And he could.

But he could not tell her that in front of Wilkie.

Wilkie eased partway between Darius and Penelope, breaking their mutual gaze.

“As I was tellin' ye, lass,” he said, “the mermaid was the fairest lady the Shetlander ever did lay his eyes upon. Though he'd taken her seal-skin, so in love was he and so enamored of her beauty that he offered her protection as his beloved spouse…”

Darius stepped forward, reaching out to take Penelope's empty glass. “More champagne, Miss Darlington?”

She shook her head, and for an instant he thought he saw a faint apology in her eyes. He still wanted to tell her what he'd created, but she was clearly more interested in Wilkie's tales of mermaid love than she would be in Darius's explanation about chemical papers. He excused himself and went toward the refreshment table.

“Bit of a tumshie, inna he?” Wilkie's condescending voice reached Darius's ears as he walked away.

His spine stiffened. Though he hated the idea that anything Wilkie said could affect him, he didn't like the insult of being called
useless
. Least of all in front of Penelope Darlington.

After downing a few swallows of brandy, he looked at the clock again. Good. He'd been here an hour. He could leave now without offending Lady Wentworth. He would just seek the hostess out to pay his regards.

He put the glass on a table and went in search of the viscountess. His gaze swept over the crowd, his mind telling him he was seeking a plump woman in her fifties with white hair…

Penelope Darlington maneuvered through the crowd like a bright, shiny needle sweeping through cloth. Candlelight danced on her skin. Simon Wilkie was not at her side.

Seizing the opportunity, Darius followed the young woman down a corridor. She paused in the doorway to the library, as if checking to see if anyone was there. In three quick strides, Darius was beside her.

“Escaping the crush, Miss Darlington?”

She turned, fixing him with a gaze that shone vivid blue even in the dim light.

“You do seem to follow me when I try to escape, Mr. Hall.”

Darius almost smiled. He glanced at the dark, silent library. “I appreciate that you seek out places of quietude.”

He'd stopped close enough to her that her scent reached him. Darius inhaled, drinking in the aroma of sugar and cinnamon that still surrounded her. A bit of his tension eased.

“What are you doing now, Mr. Hall?” Penelope asked. “My father said you were writing an article for a scientific magazine but also that you were working with some sort of coding machine for the Home Office?”

“By profession, I am a writer, but by education, a scientist. By inclination, I am a mechanic, which is why I've always enjoyed the machinery of production.”