Penelope (11 page)

“Dr Johnson!
How considerate, Charles. I am surprised none of us thought of
calling him before,” the dowager said, her eyes telling the duke
that she knew what he was up to.

The duke
widened his eyes innocently.

The dowager
hmmphed and muttered something rude under her breath.

The duke
smothered a smile and turned to eye Penelope. She looked guilty, he
thought in satisfaction. Her cheeks were rosy red, her eyes were
furtive, and her hands were pulling at the yarn in agitation. He
had her now. She could not trick an experienced physician. Nothing
whatsoever was wrong with her foot, and her little act would be up
for good. Mother would be shocked and Anne disappointed to learn
that their little innocent friend was not so innocent after all,
and that she was in fact a liar. He could not wait to hear the good
doctor’s judgement.

“Leave,
Charles. The doctor can’t examine her with you in the room,” the
dowager ordered.

Some of his
exuberance dampened slightly. He opened his mouth to argue but was
neatly shot down by one simple look from the deceptively sweet
dowager. With a short nod, he left.

He left but did
not leave. That is to say, he went out of the door, stamped around
a bit, and then once the occupants of the room were convinced of
his departure, he bent his six foot form and stuck his eye to the
keyhole.

He found that
he had a splendid view of Miss Fairweather, and if she stayed in
the same position, he would be able to see the whole thing
clearly.

She stayed in
the same position. It was the physician who approached her. After a
few routine questions, the doctor reached for her foot.

The duke
stopped breathing. This was it … the moment of truth.

Suddenly he
heard a deep heartfelt sigh behind him. He froze and then turned to
look behind.

A maid stood
staring at his behind in admiration and shock. The silly girl was
rooted to the spot just staring with her eyes wide, mouth slightly
open and a hint of … Was that drool?

He glared at
her and she did not notice. He straightened and waved and got no
response. He hopped from foot to foot trying to attract her
attention as silently as possible. When that didn’t help either, he
wriggled his buttocks and her eyes wriggled with it. He gave up. He
would have to deal with her later. Currently his attention was
urgently required elsewhere. He stooped once more to look through
the keyhole.

But before his
eye could focus on what was going on inside the room, a throat
cleared behind him. The duke squeezed his eyes shut in annoyance.
He briefly contemplated ignoring this new interruption and then
thought better of it. He turned back to find Perkins had joined the
maid.

Perkins did not
look pleased, not by the maid’s awed expression and her point of
interest, or by the duke’s unworthy occupation.

Mutely, Perkins
attempted to pull the maid along. In a daze, the girl refused to
budge.

The duke eyed
the two irritably and once again bent to peer through the
keyhole.

This time it
was a voice that distracted him.

“Your grace,
I—” The unfortunate creature was shushed by Perkins, the maid and
the duke.

He unbent
himself … again, his back giving a slight twinge, to find his
estate manager, Theodore, also staring at his buttocks. Theodore
looked just like how one would imagine a man with his sort of name
would look— small, brown and fidgety.

This time the
duke swore he would not look away, no matter who arrived. He bent
once again and managed to stick his eye back on the keyhole without
any further interruption.

He could see
the doctor kissing the dowager’s hand. He had finished his
examination and was giving his verdict. Or had the verdict already
been given? The duke was not certain. He panicked. If it had been
given, then they would be coming this way. Gathering the last
shreds of his dignity, he raced back towards his study.

The maid and
Theodore took off after the duke. Perkins ran after them at the
speed of a horse— that is he ran, but in his head. In reality, he
hobbled a few inches forward.

“Leave,” the
duke snapped, turning around and addressing the enchanted maid.

The maid broke
out of her trance. Her eyes wrenched away from his buttocks and
focused on his face. She took one look at his expression and
fled.

“Theodore, I
don’t think I have to tell you but …”

“I won’t
mention the little incident, your grace. Not even on my
deathbed.”

“Thank you, but
to be safe you should give me your solemn oath.”

Theodore
repeated his promise with his hand on his heart.

“Ah, we have to
do his sort of thing correctly. Fetch me a holy book.”

Theodore
finally departed after taking his oath in numerous different ways
and languages.

The duke waited
in his study for half an hour growing impatient. The physician had
left ages ago and he would have told mother and sister that the
country girl was a fraud.

He wanted to
look down his long aristocratic nose at his sister and tell her
that in future she must defer to his judgement. She was too young
to correctly assess a person’s character. He would graciously offer
himself as a guide, and instead of looking smug and all knowing, he
would adopt an understanding countenance. He would not sneer at his
mother. No, he would smile at her and comfort her. A mistake like
that was all too easy to make. He would pat her on the back, give
her a bit of brandy, and then he would have the acute pleasure of
throwing Miss Fairweather out of the Blackthorne Mansion, into a
carriage bound straight for Finnshire, and out of his life for
good.

He picked up an
inkpot and set it back down. Next he opened a ledger, stared at the
numbers for half a minute and then slammed the book shut. His eyes
strayed to the clock. He frowned. Half an hour had gone by and his
mother had not arrived. His patience snapped, and he decided to
inspect matters for himself.

He walked
towards the Blue Room, pausing briefly in front of a large Venetian
mirror. He looked at his reflection and scrutinised his expression.
He looked too happy. He frowned a little but … no, that was not
right either … He then chose his blank aristocratic expression.
Perfect.

He entered the
room and found a picture; a picture some would consider sweet, but
to him it looked vile. The rosy glow, the sparkling smiles, the
feminine laughter, and his mother’s hand gently patting Miss
Fairweather’s hand hurt him deep inside. He silently raged at the
foolishness of his family members. Had they forgiven her already?
Had they no self-respect?

“Charles,” Lady
Radclyff commented, eyeing her brother’s thundering expression in
delight.

“What brings
you here … again?” the dowager asked, hiding her own smile behind a
flowery teacup.

The duke
rearranged his expression to look faintly inquiring, “I was just
concerned about our guest. I suppose Dr Johnson has seen her?”

“Yes,” the
dowager said.

The duke
waited, and when no further light was thrown on what had occurred,
he deigned to ask, “The prognosis?”

Lady Radclyff
took pity on her brother and said, “He has bandaged her ankle. He
assured us that it wasn’t broken, merely sprained. It should be
alright in a few days’ time.”

“So it was
sprained?”

“Yes, she
wrenched it badly. It is horrible, all red and swollen. It looks
remarkably painful,” Lady Radclyff replied.

“I see… I see.
I suppose I should get back to work then,” he muttered, turning on
his heels.

“Don’t you want
to wish Miss Fairweather a speedy recovery, seeing how you were so
concerned about her welfare a moment ago?” the dowager
enquired.

“Miss
Fairweather, go boil your head!” the duke stormed, slamming the
door shut behind him.

“How touching,”
Penelope murmured.

“Quite,” the
dowager replied, picking up her knitting needles.

Madame
Bellafraunde fluttered in with a swish of aubergine skirts, veils
and golden tassels. Four uniformed maids followed her. Her massive
form immediately collapsed on the nearest sofa while one of the
maids urgently fanned her using an exquisite cream and silk lace
fan.

Everyone waited
until the smelling salts had been administered and the chilled
champagne drunk. Finally, Madame, much revived from the ordeal of
walking from her carriage to the doorstep of the duke’s home,
lifted an imperious hand in signal.

Lady Radclyff
immediately launched into an explanation, “No one but you can help
us, Madame Bellafraunde. The situation is dire. Miss Fairweather
here is in immediate need of your attention. She is raw from the
country, poor as a church mouse and has not a single thing to wear,
and she debuts next week! I know you do not pay calls to customers’
homes, but Miss Fairweather has turned her ankle. If things were
not so grave, we would have waited. But as you can see … only the
best can help her.”

Penelope
shuffled her feet doing her best to look pathetic. She had been
told that a hint of flattery and a lot of disparaging remarks
against the intended victim was the only way the excellent,
extremely choosy, and most expensive modiste in town would help
her. It was rumoured that Madame Bellafraunde once turned away a
countess because she didn’t approve of her smile.

Penelope
therefore did not smile.

The dowager
entered the Blue Room and, wonder of wonders, Madame Bellafraunde
actually heaved herself off the sofa to bow to her.

“Can she be
made presentable?” the dowager asked.

Madame
Bellafraunde lifted her veil and Penelope stifled a gasp.

Madame
Bellafraunde was not a Madame but a Mr Bellafraunde sporting a
faint moustache and day old stubble.

After a moment
of stunned silence, Penelope whirled. She spun on the spot and the
carpet and the furniture twirled and whizzed with her. She
immediately spotted what she searched for and quick as lighting
raced towards it. She sprang over the couch misjudging the
distance. She rammed into the back seat and fell landing face
down.

She ignored the
pain in her ankle and rallied forces. She scrambled back up and
took another flying leap. Her legs spread, her skirts flew and her
toes pointed gracefully. Her landing was a tad clumsy, but she had
reached her goal.

She turned like
a warrior. Her eyes narrowed and lips parted. Like a seasoned
hunter, she lifted the object that she had snatched from above the
fireplace.

The room
squealed in shock.

Penelope held a
barking iron— that is to say a hunting rifle— a grey rusted rifle
that was the duke’s paternal grandfather’s. The last time it had
been used was in an attempt to shoot down a tiger. The tiger
survived, but the unfortunate squirrel that got shot in the process
… didn’t.

Otherwise it
was used to scare of annoying guests, Lady Radclyff’s unsuitable
suitors and the occasional trespasser. Now Penelope held it and
aimed it at the impersonator, the man who had dared to enter the
duke’s home dressed in an exquisite silk aubergine gown.

“Don’t worry,
your grace. I have it all in hand. Lady Radclyff, would you be kind
enough to call a few burly footmen? We will tie this imposter up
and keep him in the dungeon until the Runners arrive.” Penelope was
proud that her voice came out strong and loud. The run in with the
highwayman had done wonders to her courage. She had always assumed
that she was as bold as a mouse. London, it seemed, had turned her
into a tomcat.

“Err, Miss
Fairweather … we do not have a dungeon and—” Lady Radclyff started
to say.

“Well, we could
always lock him in a room or a dingy attic. The important thing is
to tie the man up. Stop dawdling and hurry, Lady Radclyff. Don’t
worry, I know I have to press the trigger, and if he attempts to
escape, he will be awfully sorry. I have seen my father do it. I
have it all in hand.”

“Pull the
trigger, my dear,” the man spoke up.

Penelope gaped
at him. She focused on his expression and was disconcerted to note
that the man looked confident and serene, irrespective of the fact
that he was facing a loaded gun and wearing yards of silk. Was it
false bravado, she wondered, her courage rapidly faltering at his
smile.

“I will pull it
… I am warning you …”

“Please, by all
means, go ahead.”

“No, Miss
Fairweather, you do not understand. You are mistaken,” the dowager
interrupted urgently.

But Penelope
had already raised the gun to her shoulder and was taking aim.

The room froze,
their throats constricted by giant lumps of fear.

Penelope shut
one eye and squinted. She couldn’t see a blasted thing. How did one
see through a hunting rifle? She tried again, desperately peering,
her arms already aching from holding the heavy rifle. She gave up
and aimed with both her eyes open. She had intended to aim and keep
it aimed until help arrived. Unfortunately, that was when the
weight of the rifle became too much for her and her back bowed and
hand slipped.

She had pulled
the trigger…

… and
thankfully shot the ceiling.

Lady Radclyff
screamed, the maids screeched and Madame Bellafraunde tsked.

A few bits of
the mortar fell to the ground and with it the tomcat fled. Penelope
was back to being as brave as a mouse. The rifle now lay on the
ground and she did not dare pick it up again.

“My dear, we
have been trying to explain. This is the real Madame Bellafraunde.
She is not an imposter,” the dowager said, staring at the roof
aghast.

“But … But this
she … is a he!”

“I am a man,
yes. No need to look so horrified, girl. I am a man with the soul
of a female and a brain that can potentially change your life.”