by Nina Rowan
’Twas the Night Before Mischief
Nina Rowan
New York Boston
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Prologue
December 1847
The front door slammed shut. Twelve-year-old Penelope Darlington ran, ignoring the call of her governess behind her. She dashed around the pedestrians bustling through Oxford Street, not knowing where she was going and not caring. Wintry air knifed against her face and cut through the cloth of her dress and petticoats. She skidded on a patch of ice, righted herself, and kept running. She turned onto Regent Street. Her throat ached.
When she could no longer pull in another breath, she collapsed into the doorway of a closed butcher shop. Hugging her legs to her chest, she rested her forehead on her knees and struggled to swallow endless waves of anger and sorrow.
How could he? How could he?
Penelope swiped her eyes on her sleeve as a hard shiver shook her to the bone. She wasn’t wearing her coat or gloves. She lifted her head. A group of carol singers strolled down the street, voices rising in melodic cheer, and the aroma of cinnamon bread drifted from a nearby bakery. Across the street, a church stood with its doors open, light streaming from inside like a pathway.
Penelope pushed to her feet and went toward the church, welcoming the rush of warmth. Evergreens and lit candles decorated the nave, filling the air with the scent of pine and beeswax. Only a few people sat in the pews. Penelope slipped into the back row. Her breath still came in shallow gasps, and she scrubbed her hands together to try to warm her fingers.
She stared at the altar, the flickering light of the candles. A shadow fell across her as someone stopped in the aisle beside the pew.
Not Papa. Penelope glanced to her left, her heart sinking at the sight of Darius Hall. She’d all but forgotten he’d been in the workroom of her father’s confectionery shop when she’d fled.
Darius slid onto the pew beside her, his tall figure moving with the grace of a cat. Penelope stiffened and eased away from him. She couldn’t bear it if he tried to defend her father now, to justify what Henry Darlington had done without even telling her…
Darius didn’t say a word. He simply sat there, his hands in the pockets of his coat. Light reflected off the spectacles he wore, concealing his eyes.
The longer he sat without speaking, the more the tension slid from Penelope’s body. Silence, at least, was what she’d expect from this young man. At the moment, it was enormously comforting to have her expectations met since everything else fell so horribly short.
Her breath began to quiet, and for the first time she was grateful for Darius Hall’s reticence. Though her father had known the Earl of Rushton and his family for years, the five Hall children were all several years older than Penelope and therefore hadn’t become her close friends. They’d always been congenial and friendly, though, asking after her health and schooling.
All of them except Darius, the serious twin, twenty years of age, who didn’t look as if he knew how to smile. Penelope doubted he had an ounce of elusive Christmas cheer, but ever since he’d departed for Eton and Cambridge, in between various world travels, he always returned to London for Christmas. A visit to her father’s shop to discuss chocolate manufacturing processes and machinery was one of his first stops.
In the years that Darius Hall had been visiting Darlington’s Confectionery, however, Penelope had not often spoken to him.
“For what it’s worth,” he finally remarked, “she’s a kind lady.”
“I know.” Penelope’s heart ached. “My father wouldn’t marry an unkind woman.”
“Then what has you so upset?”
“He didn’t tell me he was planning to marry her.”
Darius glanced at her. “Didn’t tell you?”
“He returned from Bath this morning.” Penelope stared at a crack in the smooth pew before her. “He never said a word about it until Miss Carroll and I stopped at the shop a half hour ago. Then my father told me he’d married Mrs. Waters in Bath. I suppose he intended it to be a surprise.”
“Then it appears he succeeded rather spectacularly,” Darius replied, his voice dry.
A faint smile curved Penelope’s mouth. Her shoulders relaxed a bit more in relief that someone in the world understood. It hadn’t been just a surprise that her father had remarried and replaced Penelope’s mother. It had been an utter shock.
“So you don’t dislike the new Mrs. Darlington,” Darius said.
“No.” Penelope had no feelings for Mrs. Darlington at all. Formerly Mrs. Esther Waters, Penelope’s new stepmother had blond hair and wore gowns in different shades of blue. She had a nice smile, a gentle voice, and knew exactly how to conduct herself. She made Penelope think of the description of Augusta in Lady Caroline Lucy Scott’s Trevelyan, which her governess was reading to her—“if she imparted no charm to daily life, she at least never disturbed its peace.”
Rather like the type of woman Penelope thought she would one day become. Pleasant, respectable, and entirely unoriginal.
Not like her mother, who had shimmered with energy and recklessness. Who had lived in order to disturb the peace of daily life. Penelope imagined that her mother was creating quite a stir in the afterlife as well.
She glanced at Darius Hall. He didn’t seem as if he’d disturb anything or anyone, at any time, anywhere. He was the son of an earl, a young man who bore the burden of expectations and responsibilities. Penelope wondered if he ever felt caged by them. If he ever felt as if every emotion he had was being stifled by who he was supposed to be.
Darius shifted, reaching into his pocket. He removed a cylindrical package about the size of a carrot and wrapped in brown paper. He extended the package to Penelope.
Curious, she took it and tugged off the paper to reveal a plain cardboard tube.
“What…?”
“Open it,” Darius suggested.
Penelope broke open the tube. Several sugared almonds spilled into her lap amid a spray of colored paper and a small wooden frog. She couldn’t help smiling at the unexpected surprise.
“I arrived at the idea after seeing the way the French wrap sweets in twists of paper,” Darius explained, his voice quiet in deference to the silence of the church. “They call them bonbons. I thought it might be worthwhile for the holidays, given how popular the wrapping of gifts is becoming.”
“Clever.”
“I’m trying to improve the design.”
Penelope looked at the broken tube. “It ought to explode.”
“Explode?”
She nodded. “When you break it, the tube should make a noise of some sort. A bang. Letting everyone know that it’s been opened.”
“I’ve no idea how one would make that happen.”
Penelope twisted the paper around her finger. Charming little gift. Her mother would have loved it, but Penelope was surprised Darius Hall had invented something so frivolous. Like her father, he’d always been so intent upon the practical nature of manufacture—how machines could be used to make the process more efficient and inexpensive.
“Are you ready to return?” Darius asked.
/> Penelope put the gifts back in the tube and gathered up the bits of paper. His question needled her. Not “Do you wish to return?” but “Are you ready to return?”
Despite everything, Darius already knew that a quiet, obedient girl like Penelope Darlington would go back to her father eventually. It was just a matter of her readiness, because her angry flight from the shop was as defiant as she was ever likely to get.
Even as her chest tightened with resistance, Penelope wiped her tear-streaked face and stood up. She followed Darius from the pew, still clutching the cardboard tube in her fist. They walked back out into the cold, the scent of evergreens fading as they turned onto Oxford Street toward Darlington’s Confectionery.
“I don’t like Christmas,” Penelope said, wondering if the confession would shock Darius.
She knew she was likely the only twelve-year-old in the city who disliked Christmas. The holiday festivities, the merriment, the wassail, the excess of roast beef and plum pudding, the pantomimes, the shops filled with books, toys, paste diamonds, and holiday fashions—all of it soured her disposition for the entire month of December.
Even three years after her mother’s death, Penelope couldn’t find a reason to enjoy the holiday season.
“Why don’t you like Christmas?” Darius asked.
“My mother died on December eighteenth.” Penelope looked at a shop window displaying different kinds of fabric. It still hurt to remember her father’s face, etched with grief as he came to tell Penelope that her mother had died in a horse-riding accident.
“She was bold,” Penelope told Darius. “I fear I’ll never be like that.”
“Why is that a fear?”
“Because I don’t want to miss anything.” She glanced at him again, the straightness of his profile. Serious Darius. The third son of an earl. Surely he had to feel trapped by who he was, just as she did.
Penelope hesitated, then confessed, “I don’t want to be invisible.”
Yet with her father remarried and so busy with his business, she was afraid not only of being invisible but of disappearing entirely.
Darius didn’t respond. Penelope flushed. He must think her a silly, ungrateful girl indeed. They continued walking. Darius pushed his hands into his pockets.
“The atmosphere is a layer that surrounds the earth on all sides,” he said.
The atmosphere?
“It is composed of oxygen and nitrogen, as well as a small amount of carbonic acid, aqueous vapor, and hydrogen,” Darius continued. “It also contains an element called miasmata, which…”
Penelope stopped listening. She’d taken a chance that he might actually understand, and instead he was inexplicably telling her about the atmosphere.
A bubble seemed to expand in her chest, so taut with desperation that she thought it would surely burst. She held the cardboard tube tightly enough that her fingers ached. She came to an abrupt halt and turned to face Darius.
“I don’t care about the atmosphere or nitrogen,” she snapped, her voice tense with urgency. “Don’t you sometimes feel that you’re like…like this?” She held up the broken cardboard tube. “Utterly dull to everyone else, but filled with…with something? Do you ever think that surely there has to be something out there bigger than ordinary happiness? Bigger than joy? I don’t know what the word is. I don’t even know how to define it, but it must exist.”
Darius blinked. He looked as if she’d gone a bit mad. Now he’d likely start a lecture about electricity or something equally scientific. He didn’t understand at all what she was trying to explain.
Penelope ducked her head and hurried to her father’s shop. She pulled open the door, and a warm rush of sugar-scented air greeted her as she went inside. Rows of treats shone like jewels in the window and along the countertops—Twelfth Night cakes, cocoa nibs, fondants, pralines, and chocolate pastilles. Shelves held jars of preserves, jellies, and brandied fruit.
Penelope’s heart shriveled at the sight of her father, who stood behind the counter. Henry Darlington was a big man with heavy side-whiskers and a thick mustache. When he frowned, he did so with his entire face, his mouth turning downward and his brow creasing.
Penelope took a step back. She felt Darius’s presence behind her, blocking the door.
“Penny, Mrs. Darlington will treat you with the utmost kindness and respect,” her father said, as if she hadn’t left at all. “I expect you to reciprocate.”
Penelope glanced at Miss Carroll, who stood near the window. The governess gave her a firm nod of reminder.
“Yes, Papa,” Penelope said. She wondered if anyone but she noticed the hollowness of her agreement.
Her father approached, the crease on his forehead softening a bit. “I hope you will come to love her.”
Penelope knew she wouldn’t, but still she nodded.
“Come along, Penelope,” Miss Carroll said briskly. “Piano lessons this afternoon. Fetch your coat, please.”
Penelope went to the closet and took her coat from the rack. As she slipped it over her shoulders, Darius approached to collect his hat. He paused to look at her for a moment. Light reflected off his spectacles, making it look as if he had sparkles in his eyes.
“The word you seek,” he said, as he set his hat upon his head and walked to the door, “is exhilaration.”
Chapter One
Seven years later
Ascelpias. 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 yo
u.”
“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.
