One Night of Temptation Page 3

  “That is the hope,” she said cheerfully.

  His gaze flickered with surprise. “Truly? You wish to never marry?”

  “I would have liked to marry, but I want to choose my own husband. Is that so terrible?”

  “Absolutely not. I wouldn’t want to be forced into a marriage.”

  “You aren’t married, then?”

  He shook his head. “Much to the bishop’s chagrin. We tread a fine line in this occupation. We can’t really afford to take a wife until established in a living, and then we’re expected to wed as soon as possible.”

  “Yet you remain unwed.” It wasn’t a question, but it came out sounding like one. Probably because she was curious.

  “I haven’t found a woman I want to marry yet.” He stared at her across the table, and she felt that same urge to see his bare hand again. Or to press herself into his side again. Anything to increase the intimacy that had sparked between them when he’d rescued her.

  Oh, she was being absurd! There was no intimacy. She’d found herself in a terrible situation, and he’d saved her. Of course she would be drawn to him, which she most definitely was.

  Mr. Tarleton’s gaze shifted to somewhere behind Penelope. “Those two men keep looking in our direction. More precisely, at you. I don’t like it.” He returned his focus to her. “You just need to stay away for one night? Then you’ll return home?”

  She nodded. “That was the plan, yes.”

  “Then you’ll stay here at the Craven Cock. I’d take you to my house, but a rector shouldn’t take an unmarried lady home, even if she’s trying to ruin herself.”

  “Blast,” Penelope said as she exhaled a breath. “I have no wish to blight your reputation.”

  He smiled. “I can’t imagine you would. I could take you to my church, which means walking through St. Giles in broad daylight, but I don’t think that’s a good idea in case someone is looking for you. Though, I’m not sure anyone would dare come into St. Giles.” He fixed his gaze on hers. “Is anyone looking for you?”

  She imagined Mrs. Hall along with the footman and coachman would be searching for her, but not here. “Probably, but they wouldn’t know to look in St. Giles. I was at the British Museum with my chaperone and was able to sneak away.”

  His auburn brows arched. “How enterprising of you. I think it’s best if we stay here. I’ll get two rooms for propriety’s sake. I’ll make sure to be right next door.” He took a quick drink of ale then stood. “I’ll go speak with the innkeeper—don’t worry, my eyes will be on you the entire time.”

  “Thank you.” She watched him walk to the bar, and, true to his word, he kept looking back at her. Once he reached his destination, he angled his body toward her while he talked with the man behind the bar.

  She had no desire to ruin Mr. Tarleton’s reputation. It was one thing to make herself unmarriageable and another to discredit a rector in his parish. Perhaps she should just go home. If Maisie had sent the note to the Times as planned, Penelope’s ruination was already in motion. But what if Maisie hadn’t sent it? She’d already reneged on their plan. Penelope couldn’t count on anything. She could only hope.

  Bitter or not, Penelope took a long drink of ale to calm her nerves. She tried not to wince again and failed. That was enough of that. Leaving the mug on the table, she stood just as Mr. Tarleton returned.

  His plucked his hat from the chair and set it atop his head. “I’ve secured two rooms.”

  The worry she’d worked to quell rose again. “I wonder if I should go home after all.”

  His brow pulled into a knot. “That isn’t your plan.”

  “No, but this wasn’t my plan either. I don’t want to cause trouble for you.”

  “This isn’t trouble. I explained to the innkeeper that you are a widowed friend of my family passing through London and that you can’t stay at my house because it’s being refurbished.”

  “Is that true about your house?”

  He gave her a conspiratorial smile. “No, but Con, he’s the owner of the Craven Cock, doesn’t know that.” He gestured toward the stairs. “Shall we?”

  As she moved forward, his hand grazed her lower back. His touch coupled with his verbal invitation sent a shiver down her spine. Was it fear? Anticipation? Something she couldn’t define?

  Something she should ignore.

  She moved toward the stairs quickly, as much to evade his touch and the sensation it evoked as to remove herself from the common room and prying eyes. The wood creaked beneath her feet as they ascended. Instinctively, she reached for the railing, but it wobbled beneath her fingertips. She withdrew her hand and continued up to the landing, where light from a street-facing window illuminated the stairwell.

  “You’re in the first room here. It’s the larger of the two.” He gestured toward a door to their left and then to the next door along the corridor. “Mine is just there.”

  She moved onto the landing so Mr. Tarleton could pass. He pushed her door open and held it so she could precede him inside.

  “Is there a key?” she asked as she went in.

  He followed her and closed the door. “There’s a lock. You will be quite secure.”

  The room was smaller than her bedchamber at her father’s town house on Grosvenor Street, but it felt surprisingly cozy with a neatly made bed, a square table with two matching chairs in front of the window to the right, and a small hearth on the wall opposite the door. The cushioned chair angled beside it was probably what gave her the sense of comfort. It reminded her of her grandmother’s favorite chair at the dower house.

  He removed his hat and placed it on a hook beside the door. “Now, tell me the rest of your plan.”

  “You’re staying?”

  “For now. We still have things to discuss. Besides, it will be better to pass the time together, won’t it?”

  She couldn’t deny that. “If you’re satisfied that it won’t affect your reputation?”

  “Quite.” He indicated she should sit at the table.

  Penelope considered whether she should remove her hat and gloves. She certainly didn’t want to wear them the rest of the day. Decisively, she pulled off her gloves and set them on top of a battered dresser in the corner. Then she untied the ribbon beneath her chin and removed her bonnet.

  He held out his hand. “I’ll take that.”

  She gave him the bonnet, and their bare hands briefly touched. With each physical connection—on the street, downstairs, and now here—she felt even more drawn to him. She’d worked so hard to put up a wall between herself and pretty much everyone else and she wanted to tear it down, to allow someone to really see her. Just for tonight.

  He hung her hat beside his on a second hook. “Presumably your parents are worried about you and are doing whatever they can to comb the area in search of you.”

  She sat down at the table and waited for him to sit across from her. “Worried is perhaps not the most accurate description of how my parents likely feel. You’ve met my mother. Does she seem the type to worry about anything save what gown she should wear or which jewelry would accent her costume best?”

  His brow creased. “I couldn’t say. I would expect a mother to be concerned about her child.”

  One should expect that, but Penelope didn’t. The Marchioness of Bramber would only care about her missing daughter because of how it would impact her. She would not like being the center of negative gossip.

  “My mother was kindhearted,” he said softly, drawing her from thoughts of her own mother, who was decidedly not kind—hearted or otherwise. “I remember her laugh. It was warm and bright, like a perfect summer day—the kind you never want to end. She died when I was eight.”

  She heard the warmth he spoke of in his voice. The admiration. The love. “It sounds as though you miss her.” Penelope couldn’t imagine missing her parents. She was so very happy to be away from them.

  “Somewhat. She’s been gone a long time now. I miss that she wasn’t able to watch us all g
row up.”

  That had to be the loveliest sentiment she’d ever heard. “You’ve a way with words, but then you are a rector. Perhaps I should come listen to one of your sermons.”

  He gave her a wry half smile. “You ladies always say that, but none of you ever do.”

  “I beg your pardon, but I’ve never said that.”

  “I don’t suppose you have.” He studied her a moment. “I’m trying to think if you ever spoke at all on the occasions you visited my church. I recall meeting you, but I can scarcely remember that event either, other than your face and your name.”

  “Good.”

  “Good?”

  She shrugged. “I like to be inconspicuous.”

  “How…odd. Most ladies like you prefer to be the center of attention.”

  “I am not most ladies.”

  He gave her a brief appraisal. “No, you are not. I can’t think of one who would choose to ruin herself.”

  “Well, now you know one,” Penelope said.

  “To return to your question, I doubt my parents will be worried. They will, however, be angry.”

  He looked aghast. “They won’t be concerned that you’re in danger?”

  She shrugged. “Perhaps. Mostly it will be an inconvenience because my disappearance interrupts my father’s intent to betroth me to—to betroth me.” For some reason, she didn’t want to tell him whom she was supposed to marry. Findon was horrid, and since she wasn’t going to marry him, there was no need to speak or even think of him.

  “I don’t know your father at all, but I can’t believe he won’t search for you. I think we must assume he will.”

  “How will he possibly find me?”

  “It depends on what he knows. Will the ransom note give him any clues? Presumably he has to deliver money somewhere, and I wouldn’t put it past Maisie and Joseph to require the payment be made in St. Giles.”

  Penelope hadn’t thought to ask for such details and was now cursing herself. Although it likely wouldn’t have mattered since Maisie had apparently not intended to follow their plan at all. “Wouldn’t it be foolish of them to have the ransom delivered to where I’m actually located?”

  “We can’t assume they’re shrewd criminals.” His sardonic tone made her laugh softly. “You have a lovely laugh.”

  Heat climbed her neck and bloomed in her cheeks. “Thank you.” That was maybe the nicest compliment she’d ever received. It had nothing to do with how she looked or what she was wearing.

  He stood, and his height relative to the ceiling made the room feel suddenly smaller, which made her feel even more aware of his presence. Of his masculinity and the unseemliness of their association. “I need to send word to my staff so they don’t think I’ve gone missing.”

  “What will you tell them?” she asked.

  “That I’m ensconced at the Craven Cock with a marquess’s daughter.” He chuckled. “My apologies. I don’t mean to make light of your situation. I will tell them I’ve a matter in the rookery that requires my attention overnight.”

  “They won’t find that odd?”

  “No. It happens from time to time.”

  She imagined the things a rector might need to do. “Do you tend the sick?”

  “Sometimes. On occasion, a new mother asks for my presence when her babe comes into the world. More often, I’m asked to sit with someone as they pass into the next.”

  Penelope had never seen a dead person. “How many have you…guided?”

  “Too many to count. I daresay I didn’t guide them.” His mouth stretched in a brief, somewhat sad smile. “That’s not my job. I give comfort, primarily to the living.”

  “You sound as if you might be very busy.”

  “I am.” His tone held a warm satisfaction. He seemed to enjoy his work.

  “Is that unusual? The vicar in Bramber hardly does anything. His curate, however, runs around as if his feet are on fire.”

  “That is, unfortunately, an all too common situation. My curate would say he runs around in the same manner.” Mr. Tarleton flashed a broad smile, and Penelope nearly forgot what they were talking about.

  Pulling herself together lest she melt into a puddle, she said, “Yes, I recall him—not you—dashing about to help organize the donations we brought.”

  “That would be Tom. He’s only been with me a little over a year, but I don’t know how I would manage without him. In fact, I’ll need to send a note to him too—to let him know I won’t be at the church tomorrow morning.”

  “I don’t wish to keep you from your church.”

  He rested his hand on the back of the chair he’d vacated. “You aren’t. A large part of my job—and truly the most important—is tending to my parishioners.”

  “I am not one of your parishioners.” But she suddenly wanted to be.

  “That doesn’t matter to me.” He lifted his shoulder the barest amount. “I will always take care of those who ask.”

  She bit back a smile. “I didn’t ask.”

  He chuckled again. “So you didn’t. Regardless, you need me, whether you want me or not.”

  Want him. That word—want—sent a thrill up her spine.

  “How do you plan to dispatch these messages?” she asked.

  “Con has a boy who works in the kitchen. I’ll send him to Tom’s, and then Tom can run over to my house and let my staff know.”

  She blinked at him. “Do you live here in the rookery?”

  “Almost. I live on the corner of Dyott and Great Russell Streets. I was on my way home when I saw you.”

  She would forever be grateful. “What would Joseph have done if you hadn’t seen me?”

  Mr. Tarleton let go of the chair and exhaled heavily. “I’m not entirely certain, but I don’t believe he would have harmed you. Joseph was looking for money. In all likelihood, he would have sent a ransom note to your father.”

  She’d done a good job so far of not thinking of what might have been, of how her naïveté in trusting Maisie could have cost her far more than the money she’d lost. But now a shudder raced across her shoulders, and she twitched. Lifting her gaze to his, she gave him an earnest stare. “Thank you for rescuing me.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. Once we organize a plan to explain what happened to you and I see you home safely, I’ll accept your gratitude. Now, I’ll go and speak with Con. Lock the door after I leave, and don’t open it unless you’re completely certain it’s me.”

  “Are you going to use a special knock when you return so I recognize it’s you?” She realized she sounded as if she was flirting. She’d never flirted with anyone.

  Something flashed in his eyes—something that said he realized she was flirting too. “You’ll know it’s me.”

  He turned and went to the door. She followed him and held it open as he stepped out into the corridor.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said.

  She nodded, then closed the door in his face. When the latch was securely locked, she put her palms flat on the old wood. Grooves and scratches marred the surface, mostly around the latch.

  Crossing to the bed, she grazed her fingertips across the worn coverlet. It must once have been a rich blue but was now faded to nearly gray. She wondered what Mr. Tarleton’s room looked like. They should investigate it when he returned.

  He’d paused his entire life to help her. Perhaps he’d had plans this evening. He wasn’t married, and as he’d said, he hadn’t yet found someone he wanted to wed. Perhaps he was going to attend a social event where he might meet her. Perhaps Penelope was interrupting the most important day of his life.

  A soft knock startled her. She pulled her hand from the coverlet and stared at the door, wondering if she’d heard anything at all. Then it came again.

  She crept across the floor, her feet moving lightly over the wood. At the door, she said, “Who is it?”

  “’Tis the rector, lass.”

  Lass? The voice had an accent. Irish, if she had to guess. He was most definitely not
Mr. Tarleton.

  Rather than engage the man, she stayed quiet. She also stayed next to the door and even pressed her ear to the wood.

  He knocked again, more loudly this time, making her jump. “Open up!” He tried the latch, and the door moved with his efforts. She backed away, fearing he would breach her meager defenses.

  Where was Mr. Tarleton?

  A grunt filtered through the door, and she leaned close again, not quite putting her ear on the wood. The sounds of a tussle were unmistakable, but she’d no idea who the participants were. She had to assume the Irishman and Mr. Tarleton. She hoped it was Mr. Tarleton. Yet, she also didn’t want him hurt, especially because of her.

  A loud thud forced her to step back from the door once more, the sound of her racing heart pounding in her ears. Then came another knock. This one was more purposeful than the previous. “Lady Penelope?”

  She recognized Mr. Tarleton’s voice and exhaled with relief. Still, she should be certain. “Who is it?”

  “Hugh.”

  Hugh. It almost sounded like you. She smiled. “It isn’t me. I’m in here.”

  There was a beat of silence, then, “I’ve never heard that before. Your wit is astounding.”

  She smiled. “Shall I open the door, Mr. Tarleton?” She wondered if she ought to now call him Hugh.

  “Yes, please.”

  She unlocked the latch and opened the door. Mr. Tarleton stood between her and the supine form of, presumably, the Irishman. She gasped. “What happened?” She could see the man was breathing, but his eyes were closed.

  Mr. Tarleton glanced down at the Irishman. “When I saw him trying to get inside, I hit him. He tried to fight back, but he’s rather inebriated. I hit him again, and he went down like a tree. Tried to get back up, but I convinced him to stay down. He’ll be all right.”

  In fact, loud snores began to fill the corridor.

  Mr. Tarleton picked up a basket from next to the door and handed it to her. “Take this while I dispose of this nuisance. Lock the door again until I return. I’ll just be a moment.”

  She took the basket and watched as he turned and bent over the man. Grasping the Irishman beneath the arms, Mr. Tarleton dragged him toward the top of the stairs. He paused and looked up at her. “Lock the door.”