"Art!" Snuffy cried, making Art wince. Snuffy's voice had a deplorable tendency to squeak. It did so now, and it caused infinite numbers of tiny pains to explode in Art's head. At least these pains were smaller than the ones Penny's greeting earlier in the day had begat, which was encouraging. Art began to believe he might just survive that idiotic party of his.
He suppressed his pain at his friend's loud greeting, unclenched his teeth, and smiled. "Hello, Snuffy. I see you aren't suffering too badly after last night. H'lo, Harry."
He gave Harry a keen, surreptitious once-over, and thought he detected a troubled air about his easygoing friend. If what Penny had told him was true—and he could think of no reason to doubt her, however much he wanted to—he could understand it. It made him sad to think of Harry Potter in trouble. Ever since they'd met, Harry had been more like a member of the family to Art than a friend.
Snuffy shuddered eloquently. "Let's sit down, old man, and have a good chat. We have rather a lot to tell you."
Snuffy made rather a lot sound like something sordid. Art knew Snuffy to be the possessor of a dramatic disposition, but he feared the dear boy might not be overacting today. With a small internal sigh, he braced himself. "Sounds like a grand plan to me, lads."
The three men hung up their outer coats and made their way into the sitting room. There Art ordered a bottle of port for Snuffy and Harry, a cup of tea for himself—the mere thought of alcohol made him feel queasy—and they sat in three cozy chairs drawn around a table in front of the fireplace.
Two hours later the three men were still talking, and Art invited them to dine with him. He'd heard an earful already—and seen an eyeful, too—and Snuffy and Harry were still at it. His heart felt heavy as they headed into the dining room. He kept shooting glances at Harry; Art was beginning to worry in earnest.
Promptly at nine o'clock on the morning following his dinner with Snuffy Wilkinson and Harry Potter, Art had a message sent up to Miss Penelope Potter's room at the Clarendon Hotel. His mind was in a turmoil and his mood was bleak while he waited impatiently for Penny to join him for breakfast. At least this morning his head was clear and his body didn't hurt.
Penny descended the stairs looking radiant. Art lost his worries to wonder for a moment as he watched her. He couldn't recall ever knowing a young woman who glowed the way Penny Potter did. This was only the third time he'd seen her since she was fourteen years old, but he had a feeling the glowing quality was part and parcel of the woman she'd become. He felt even more depressed than when he'd arrived at the hotel, as he considered how very little time he had left in which to appreciate her. He resolutely banished the dismal thought.
Her smile when she spotted him lit up his entire soul—then almost immediately made it hurt. She was dressed today in a becoming morning costume of muted green that showed off her slender figure to perfection and made Art wish she still wore buckskin breeches, so he could more accurately determine the shapeliness of her long legs. He'd be willing to bet a good deal that Penny Potter was the possessor of beautiful legs. God knew, the rest of her was as close to beautiful as Art had ever encountered.
It was odd, too, because when he analyzed his impression, he had to acknowledge that Juliette Griffin had more classically perfect features than Penny. Juliette, however, gave off all the warmth and exuberance of a death mask. Penny was alive. She was flesh and blood and exuded a vitality Art had never met up with in a female before. Or anybody else, for that matter.
She wore a small hat that sat atop her fiery red hair like a crown. Art leaned on his cane and gave in to wistfulness for a moment.
If they were back in Montana, Art would sweep her up in his arms and ride off into the sunset with her. There they could make their way, together, in the vast American wilderness. Nobody and nothing could stop them there. Not lack of money. Not the London Stock Exchange. Not even Juliette Griffin.
Almost immediately he shook off the mood. Penny Potter could stop him. She probably would, too, with a fist to the jaw. Art didn't expect Penny would take kindly to being swept off her feet unless she'd agreed to such an arrangement first. No matter how she stirred Art's primal instincts, Penny Potter was no fragile flower. Nothing like, in fact.
Besides, not only did he have no right to harbor such feelings about a female who wasn't his fiancée, but they had things to discuss, Penny and he—serious things—and he couldn't afford to get distracted. Although he knew of no reason to do so, he felt responsible for whatever it was that had happened to Harry. And something had happened to him. Art knew it with a bitter certainty after seeing him yesterday.
Penny took one glance at Art, who appeared more elegant than any other gentleman she'd ever seen in her life, and her heart executed a loop-the-loop. She wanted to let out with a holler like the ones she used to give back home when she was happy. This wasn't Montana, though, where the wide-open spaces went on forever and nobody thought twice about a person whooping for joy. This was England, where civilization reigned, and where a whoop would be considered beneath the dignity of anyone who dared venture into the lobby of the old and stately Clarendon Hotel.
What a magnificent male Art Collingsworth was, though. Although worry about her brother gnawed at her, Penny couldn't stop a smile from breaking forth. What a shame Art was about to waste himself on an inferior female. Not that Penny knew for a fact that Juliette Griffin was inferior, but she certainly had no reason to doubt all the awful things Tipton had told Penny about her. Penny liked Tipton a lot.
She was glad she'd donned her new English-made kid-skin gloves when she held out her hand for Art to shake. Her new gloves added just the right touch and gave her a sense of being elegantly dressed. She felt quite refined and even-almost-ladylike.
"Good morning, Art."
"Good morning, Penny."
She blushed when he bent over her hand and kissed her fingers. How gallant. How charming. How—how utterly English of him!
"You look stunning this morning, Penny."
"I do?" Penny cringed and wished she could go back upstairs and start over. What a ninny she was. Striving to regain her dignity, she said augustly, "Thank you very much, Art." Then she added, "You're looking awfully handsome yourself," and wanted to roll her eyes and kick herself.
Fortunately, Art didn't seem to notice her lack of polish. He merely said, "Thank you. Are you ready for a good breakfast? I hope so, because the Clarendon has a wonderful poppyseed cake, as well as all the other requirements for a hearty English breakfast."
"Thank you," she murmured, determined to say nothing at all unless it was in response to one of Art's comments. When she tried to initiate topics on her own, she invariably sounded like an undignified American. Which, she guessed with an internal sigh of regret, was exactly what she was.
She marveled at the way the waiter in the dining room deferred to her companion. The man took one look at Art and immediately led them to the most well-chosen, tucked-away table in the place. Yesterday, when she'd ventured down here alone at dinnertime, the waiters hadn't been so polite to her. They'd looked her up and down as if trying to determine whether she was a trollop on the troll or a hotel guest. She'd been forced to use her most quelling manner on them, in fact.
She gave this waiter the same quelling look she'd used yesterday and was pleased to see him seem to shrivel. Then she felt guilty. After all, this wasn't one of the snooty waiters she'd encountered on her previous foray into the dining room. So she smiled at him. Her smile seemed to confuse him even more than her great-lady manner, and Penny decided to give up trying to second-guess these odd British people for the time being.
Art waited until he'd given their order to the waiter before he cleared his throat and began to look grave. Penny felt tension coil in her stomach. She feared what he might say. Harry had sent a note to her last night, telling her he had dined with Art, and that he and Snuffy Wilkinson were planning to "do the town," whatever that meant. She wasn't even sure she wanted to know, except that it affected the brother she loved and, therefore, she had to know.
"Penny, I believe you may be right."
She blinked at him. "About what?"
Art dropped his gaze, which had been fixed rather flatteringly on her face, and began to fiddle with the sugar bowl, picking up lumps with the little silver tongs and dropping them back onto the tiny mountain of lumps in the bowl. They made soft little plops as they landed, and crystals of sugar broke off and glittered in the sunlight streaming through the windows. Art's hands, Penny noticed, were even more beautifully manicured than her own, and she'd had hers done yesterday by a service offered in the hotel. Her brain took only a second to decide that there, indeed, was the mark of a true gentleman.
He glanced up again, and she immediately stopped her unprofitable mental meanderings. He looked so sober and concerned that her heart panicked. She leaned closer to him over the table. "Oh, Art, what's wrong?"
"Well, I'm not sure, but I think you're right about something having happened to Harry."
Terror slammed into Penny so hard and so fast, she sat back abruptly and had to grip the edge of the table to keep herself from jumping up and pacing. "Why?"
He waved a hand out to his side, as if he weren't exactly sure about what he needed to say. "It's hard to explain."
"Try," she commanded, the word clipped and hard.
He heaved a sigh. "Well, he and Snuffy met me at my club last night."
"Yes?" Harry had told Penny all about Englishmen and their clubs. She wasn't surprised to learn that Art belonged to one.
Art was silent for a moment. Right before Penny succumbed to her urge to pick up the salt cellar and heave it at him, he took a deep breath and began to talk again.
"Harry was subdued when I first met them at the club."
"If he felt anything like you did when I saw you yesterday, I don't wonder at it."
Art gave her a short, appreciative smile. "Yes. I suppose that's true, but I sensed something deeper in Harry's attitude. It seemed to me as though he were worried about something. Mind you, I hadn't seen him for several years before I met your ship the day before yesterday, but when he came over to my flat before the party, he seemed just like the Harry I used to know. I mean, he didn't seem to have changed."
"He hasn't changed. Harry is always the same. Or he always used to be the same, anyway."
Art eyed her sharply. "He hasn't ever been depressed or subject to melancholy in your experience of him?"
"Harry?" Penny gave a short, humorless laugh. "I've never met anybody who's less apt to succumb to introspection or melancholy than my brother."
"I thought as much. That's been my experience of him, too." Art sighed deeply again. "Well, he seemed somber yesterday. Then he and Snuffy described the adventures they'd had on the night of the party." He stopped speaking and frowned.
"When he shot his gun off in Piccadilly and was subdued by the constables?"
"Yes." Art paused again. Penny wanted to kick him under the table. "You know what he said?"
He looked at her, and she pinched her lips together as she restrained herself from saying something sarcastic. Lord, once he got started, the man could drag things out farther than she and Harry used to pull their aunt Maisie's saltwater taffy. She said tightly, "No. What?"
"He told me that when he thought about what he'd done that night, it was as if he were looking at another person. He said it was as if somebody else had got into him and made him do those stupid things, and he could only stand back and watch."
Penny gave a rather indelicate snort. "Hmph. He said the same thing to me, but that may have been just an excuse."
Art shook his head. "I don't think it was just an excuse, Penny, because he seemed genuinely contrite."
Curling her hand around the stem of her water goblet and tapping a nervous finger on the bowl, Penny scowled in concentration. "Well, I don't know, Art. My aunt Maisie's husband, Ralph, in Louisiana, is a dipsomaniac, you know. He always does horrid things and then feels contrite. That never stops him from drinking again and doing more horrid things."
Art's eyebrows rose. "Do you think Harry is a dipsomaniac?"
"Of course not! Ralph isn't really even related, so it can't be in the blood. Poor Maisie is Mother's sister, and she only married him." Penny glared at Art. "In fact, until Harry went to your party, I've never known him to drink much at all. Well," honesty made her add, "not except at school. I guess it's considered fashionable to act the fool in school."
A grin kicked up at one side of Art's mouth, making him look even more handsome than he already did and causing Penny's heart to flip-flop in her breast. She looked down at the salt cellar again so as not to give herself away.
"I'm only saying that merely because he felt bad about having behaved like an idiot, it probably doesn't mean anything. Harry's got a conscience. Of course, he'd feel bad for acting like a maniac in public."
"I suppose you're right about that," said Art, frowning. "So you don't think he might have a problem with alcohol?"
"No. If he had, I probably wouldn't be so worried now. Or, at least, I'd be worried about that instead of this—this crazy behavior."
"I suppose that's true." Art gave her a sympathetic glance that Penny felt through her entire body.
The waiter brought their breakfast, so their conversation had to be suspended for a while. Penny was glad, as it gave her a chance to get her emotions under control. They'd taken to tumbling around inside of her like acrobats. She snatched up a muffin, broke off a piece and began to slather it with butter and jam.
"I see worry about your brother hasn't affected your appetite."
Her head jerked up, and she discovered Art grinning at her. She wasn't sure what his expression meant, but her eyes narrowed suspiciously.
"I believe it to be a silly affectation to forego food when one is under strain. That's the time a person needs her wits about her. It may make for high drama, but it's stupid to waste away out of worry. What good would it serve if I were to allow myself to become sick over Harry? It certainly wouldn't help him."
"Absolutely. I fully agree with you."
Penny wasn't sure she believed him. He looked too amused. Defiantly, she carved into her sausage and popped a small piece into her mouth. When she'd swallowed it, she said, "I have plans for my future, Art, and they don't include fainting spells, eating like a bird, or allowing my sensibilities to carry me off into swoons." She leaned forward a little and demanded, "I suppose that makes me out to be what some people consider a 'modern' woman. And I am. Does that shock you?"
"No," he said quickly. "Not at all. I like watching people enjoy their food."
She still didn't believe him: Art Collingsworth, the man who was going to marry a thin-lipped, stuffy, silly, screechy, corset-wrapped English lady who wouldn't be caught dead in a South American jungle. Or, rather, Penny thought viciously, she'd only be caught dead in one.
"I," she announced grandly, "am going to travel."
"Are you?"
"Yes." She gave one firm nod and took another bite of sausage. It didn't taste anything like the sage-seasoned pork sausage her mother used to make back home on the ranch, but it was rather tasty.
"Good for you."
She gave him another narrow look and didn't appreciate his grin. She hated it when people patronized her for her ambitions. Art's evident skepticism hurt her feelings, as well. If anybody should understand wanderlust, it was he.
"Not only am I going to travel, Art Collingsworth, but I also plan to write about my travels and have my travelogues published in periodicals. Mock me if you will. You'll see."
"Mock you?" Art seemed genuinely surprised. "I wouldn't dream of mocking you, Penny. I think it's grand that you have ambitions for the future." He tucked into his breakfast. "Although I fear you're destined for disappointment. After all, you're a woman."
There it was. With a grimace, Penny put down her knife and fork. There it was, and from the lips of Art Collingsworth, of all people. He'd dared express in words the one thing that could possibly stand in her way. Fury enveloped her so suddenly, she saw red and had to calm down before she spoke for fear she'd scream at him.
"My being a woman has nothing to do with it." She spoke through gritted teeth, and her voice was resolute.
Art looked up, surprised. "I didn't mean to offend you, Penny."
"No?"
"Of course not. I think it's admirable that you have goals." He swallowed another bite of his eggs. "Even though we both know that you'll undoubtedly marry someday, it's a fine thing to be prepared for eventualities."
"I see. You mean, it's a good thing I have plans in case I end up an old maid." Her smile would probably have warned him, if he'd bothered to look. He didn't, so it was wasted.
"Oh, I doubt that will happen. You're certainly charming and attractive enough to attract a husband."
"Indeed?"
"Oh, yes. Why, I'm sure you'll get any number of offers. But you never know what might happen in this life. If you were to be widowed or something. Besides, I've always believed it wise of a woman to develop some interest outside the home."
"Have you?" She could scarcely open her teeth far enough to force the words through. "Yet you still think I'll be disappointed in my choice of careers?"
Art finally managed to wrest his attention away from his breakfast. He looked slightly taken aback when he saw Penny's forbidding expression. "Well, I mean—yes. I mean, well, I don't mean to dismay you, but even you must admit that a married woman couldn't do what you want to do. One has to be reasonable, after all."
"Does one?"
He shrugged. "Certainly. It's wise to face reality. Don't you think so?"
"And you believe reality dictates it to be a woman's fate that she marry."
Art shrugged again, rather feebly. "Well, I can't imagine a lovely woman like you declining every single one of the offers you're bound to get, Penny." He smiled, as if he'd just offered her a compliment. Penny resented it.
"Aha! So you really believe that's it, do you? The ultimate fate for a female." Penny glared at Art, feeling the more betrayed because it was he who'd said the words. He gazed back blankly, evidently puzzled by her reaction. Well, Penny decided, she'd be more than happy to enlighten him.
"You truly believe that, because I was born female, I'm destined to marry some oaf who'll support me and our offspring while I waste away at home, cooking, cleaning, picking up, sewing, and generally slaving myself to the grave while he has all the adventures." Feeling almost militantly daring, she added, "And probably supporting mistresses, too! Unless, of course, he turns out to be a drunkard and I have to support him by sewing or taking in other people's laundry or something. Even then, it would be, according to you, impossible that I earn our keep doing something I enjoy."
Art swallowed wrong and had to grab for his coffee cup and take a hasty swig.
"Oh, dear, Mr. Collingsworth, did I shock you?"
Art couldn't talk yet because he was choking.
Penny smiled sweetly. "I don't suppose in your world a woman has any business knowing about drunkards and mistresses." She emphasized the words drunkards and mistresses. Art flapped his hand helplessly.
"You think I don't know about those things? Well, I do! And I won't stand for it, either. Why, I'd rather be an adventuress myself! I'd rather be a man's mistress than his wife and a slave!"
Art shot a glance around the restaurant, and Penny realized her voice had risen. She looked around, too, and scowled at the nosy couple who had dared peek at their table. She had the satisfaction of watching them turn away again hastily, then continued in a lower voice. "But I don't plan to be at the mercy of any man, Art Collingsworth. I plan to choose my own destiny, and I won't let your doubts or anybody else's get in my way!"
She felt like adding a so there, but figured it might make her appear childish. She savagely sawed off another piece of sausage and wished she could use her knife on Art. She had no reason to feel so betrayed by his doubts, but she did. After all, Art was a man. He was an Englishman, to boot, and Englishmen were even more repressive and stodgy than American men. Yet she'd honestly hoped that he, of all men, might understand her heart's most fervent longings.
Art wiped his eyes, as they'd watered during his choking fit. He looked mildly alarmed. "I didn't mean to upset you, Penny. I didn't realize how fragile your nerves were."
Penny's eyes popped open. "Fragile nerves. Fragile nerves! Why, of all the—"
"Wait!" Holding up a hand as if to ward off a tantrum, Art hurried on. "I didn't mean to disparage you, or—"
"Fragile nerves, my foot! How dare you accuse me of having fragile nerves? If you'd told a man he couldn't achieve his goals because of his gender, you wouldn't tell him he had fragile nerves if he took exception to your idiotic reasoning!"
"You're right. You're absolutely right, and I had no right to—"
"You're absolutely right, you had no right!"
"And I apologize."
"I've never been so furious in my whole life."
"And you have every right to be angry with me, Penny. I didn't think—"
"Ha! That's the first sensible thing you've said so far. You certainly didn't think!"
Art's eyes narrowed. "—that my pointing out something so patently obvious would inflame your suffragist sensibilities."
Suffragist sensibilities? She wouldn't have believed Art capable of saying such a thing, if she hadn't heard it with her own ears.
"It's been my experience that men seldom think they're being asses when they're being asses." If Penny hadn't come here to discuss her brother's very real problems, she'd have taken great satisfaction in getting up and storming out of the restaurant. As that would defeat her purpose—and perhaps give Art some ammunition to fuel his accusation—she held herself in check.
He looked startled, as if he hadn't expected such plain speaking from her. She wasn't surprised. In fact, she sneered at him. "You don't enjoy hearing the truth, do you?"
"As to that, I'm not sure that it is the truth, but I certainly didn't expect such language from you."
She flushed and wished like the devil that her redheaded complexion didn't so vividly express her every emotion. Her passion for justice came to her rescue. She could almost feel Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Susan B. Anthony, and Lucy Stone line up at her back. Those magnificent fighting ladies stiffened her backbone and renewed her courage. If men could speak unpleasant truths using indelicate language, it was a woman's God-given right to do likewise, no matter how many benighted governments run by benighted men thought differently.
"You," she said grandly, "have no idea in the world what I'm talking about, since you're a man and, therefore, have not the least notion that there are people willing to fight for the freedom you accept with such lofty complacence. It's no use trying to explain it to you, either, because you wouldn't understand. Or you'd refuse to understand, which comes to much the same thing—only worse. Therefore, I suggest we not discuss my plans, but return to the subject about which we agreed to meet today."
A moment of silence ensued, during which Art looked at her as if he weren't quite sure she was actually the same Penelope Potter he'd known and once liked. Penny glared back, daring him to say one more single, little, tiny thing about her ambitions or her language or women or what he perceived to be their roles in life. Damn all men to hell and back again. It just drove her to distraction to know that the only thing in the universe that might one day thwart the dearest wish of her heart was something over which she had absolutely no control: her gender.
"Er," Art said at last, sounding a shade indecisive. "Perhaps that would be a good idea."
"Very well." Her heart was slamming around in her chest so hard it hurt, but Penny nodded and forced herself to turn her mind away from her own grievances and back to Harry's problem. It was a real problem, she loved her brother very much, and she wanted to get to the bottom of it. She could curse Art later, in the privacy of her hotel suite.
"All right." She took a deep breath. "Now, you say that Harry indicated he felt as though he were outside of himself, as if he were watching somebody else, who looked like him, act like an idiot the other night after your stupid party."
Art frowned, but said, "Yes."
"That's exactly what he told me." She frowned, too, and discovered it wasn't difficult to turn her mind to Harry. She found herself becoming engrossed in her worries about her brother naturally. She guessed that was a good thing. "Did he say anything else that might provide some insight into this puzzle?"
"Not verbally."
Art didn't seem to find it easy to maintain eye contact. Penny's heart stopped thundering and squeezed painfully. "What do you mean, 'not verbally'? What happened, Art? Please tell me. For heaven's sake, don't think to spare me because you fear my delicate female sensibilities can't take it. I won't faint, I assure you."
A brief smile flickered on his face. "I'm sure that's true, Penny. All right."
He stopped speaking abruptly. Penny wished to God he wouldn't do that. It drove her mad when he dragged things out this way. "Well?" she prodded.
He sucked in a deep breath. "The longer we sat in my club, talking, the more his behavior seemed to change."
Penny sat up straight and she held her breath for a moment before she asked, "What do you mean?"
"You mentioned that he was acting very strangely when the constables brought him home."
"Yes."
"And that even his voice seemed to have changed?"
"Yes. Actually, it—it was as if he were somebody else entirely. His voice sounded sort of nasal and high—and his grammar was abominable. I've never heard Harry talk that way." She paused to dredge up memories she'd just as soon forget. "He even said something about being trapped in a bottle for years and finally being able to howl. He did, too."
"Did what?"
"Howl."
"My goodness."
"Yes." She frowned in disapproval.
"Well, that's what seemed to happen last night, too. Except he didn't howl."
"That's a mercy, I suppose."
"I guess so. At first he was quite subdued and, as I already said, appeared almost melancholy. As soon as he'd had a glass of port, he relaxed. He kept drinking—God knows how. I couldn't face more than a sip or two myself—and soon his entire personality seemed to undergo a subtle change."
Penny whispered, "Oh, my."
"By the time we finally went in to dinner, the change was no longer subtle. He was laughing and loud and behaving—well, really quite badly."
"Oh, dear."
"Snuffy and I had to restrain him or he'd have pulled out that damned gun of his and shot the wicks off the candles on the mantel."
"Oh, no!"
He nodded. "I tried to point out the error of his ways, but he only laughed at me."
Penny fought tears.
"He didn't seem at all like the Harry I used to know, the one I traveled all over the world with."
"No." She sniffed unhappily and snatched out a handkerchief, upon which she wiped her eyes as if she were mad at them.
Art's brow wrinkled. "You don't suppose he's suddenly succumbed to some kind of dementia, do you?"
Penny thought about it, and her heart ached. "I—I'm not sure."
"Has he ever exhibited these types of symptoms before?"
"No. Never." She cast him an accusing look over her hankie. "Not until your party."
"Hmmm."
An idea hit Penny so suddenly, she dropped her handkerchief and sat back as if she'd endured a physical blow. "Oh, my!"
Blinking, Art repeated, "Oh, my?"
Light flooded Penny's heart, and she beamed at him. "I just had a brilliant thought!"
"Please share it. I could use some brilliance right now."
"It's a hex!"
Silence greeted her remarkable insight. Penny beamed at Art, wondering why he didn't smile, too. After all, it was the only plausible conclusion.
"Er—what?" he asked at last.
"It's a hex!" she repeated, happy.
He stared at her, his expression blank.
"Well?" she urged, eager to have her conclusion confirmed.
"A hex," he said doubtfully.
Penny's smile began to fade in the face of his evident bewilderment. "Yes. It must be a hex. It's the only answer that covers all the symptoms. Don't you agree?"
"A hex?" he said, even more doubtfully.
She hesitated for a moment, then asked, "You do know what a hex is, don't you?"
"Er, I've heard of hexes, yes."
"Well? Don't you think a hex is the most likely answer?"
Art fiddled with his fork for a moment. He looked undecided, as though he weren't quite sure what to say to her. At last he took a deep breath and blurted out, "Penny, that's the balmiest theory I've ever heard in my life."