Penelope (3 page)

“The Cobra?”
Lady Radclyff asked horrified.

“Yes, he is new
at the job, hasn’t learnt the nuances of highway robbery yet. Jimmy
said the man has a cruel streak and I should warn all my friends of
his presence. His territory is Wikhinshire and thereabouts. Jimmy
was true to his word. He came with us all the way and told us some
remarkable stories throughout our drive to London. It was highly
entertaining and cheered me right up. I don’t think he was bamming
me.”

“Oh, do tell us
one of the stories, Miss Fairweather. The whole thing sounds
positively romantic,” Lady Radclyff pleaded.

Penelope smiled
and said thoughtfully, “Let me think … Ah yes, this is a good one.
He told me that one time he stopped the carriage of an earl. He
didn’t tell me the earl’s name … wanted to protect the privacy of
his victim. He is, after all, an honourable robber. Anyhow, this
earl was ancient with white hair, sideburns and knobby knees. Jimmy
most respectfully searched through the old man’s belongings, but
try as he might, he could not find anything in his trunks or in his
coat pockets. But Jimmy is a very intelligent man. He knew
something was up. The man was hiding something of great value and
was twitching most suspiciously. He searched and searched, and sure
enough he spotted a diamond pasted in the earl’s ear.”

“In his
ear
?” Lady Radclyff enquired doubtfully.

“Yes, in his
ear
. You know this bit where your ears curve. The top bit …
right here,” Penelope said, tracing Lady Radclyff’s left ear to
demonstrate.

“How can you
stick anything in there, it’s so small,” the dowager asked, poking
around in her own ear.

“Maybe because
you are a woman. Men have larger ears … Ah, here is a man,”
Penelope said staring at the door which had just opened. She got up
and approached the gentlemen who had entered the room.

“Can you please
lend me your ear?” she asked politely.

“Excuse me?”
the man said in confusion.

Penelope
impatiently reached up on her tippy toes and taking hold of his ear
tugged firmly.

The man didn’t
have a choice but to stoop.

“Oh, bend a bit
… My goodness you are tall … A bit more … Ah yes, see his ear is a
fine specimen, large enough to demonstrate. See this shell here.
One can easily stick a diamond in here and no one would know.”

She turned to
smile triumphantly at the ladies present who were looking at her
with shock and horror etched on their faces. Her smile fell and she
turned to survey the man whose ear she was currently holding.

He was bent
over from the waist wincing, since she still held his ear. Yet In
spite of his awkward position, she couldn’t help but notice how
terribly handsome he was. His face was a little harsh, while his
eyes were a deep dark blue, almost piercing in their intensity. His
hair was jet black, and he was so close that she could see the
individual hairs of his fine stubble. She took a delicate sniff and
the masculine scent hit her right in the pit of her stomach.

Her heart
thundered in her ribs. She had a feeling that the man was not a
butler as she had first assumed.

She had also
started feeling a tad dizzy.

“Can I have my
ear back?” he asked irritably.

She
blinked.

“Mother, can
you tell this creature here to loosen her hold?”

“Mother?” she
squeaked. The hand holding the ear trembled.

“Yes, my dear.
You see, this is my son, the Duke of Blackthorne,” the dowager said
faintly.

The Duke of
Blackthorne, Charles Cornelius Radclyff, was famous as all the
dukes, viscounts, marquises and members of the royal family are
bound to be. But he was especially famous because he was
mysterious.

The various
lords, ladies, maids, fisherwomen … Basically the whole of Britain
considered it their duty to gossip about the aristocracy as if it
was their birth right. The Viscount of Warwick— the stablehand
assured his gaping fourth cousin’s children— was like a lion and
currently warming the bed of the famous Venetian opera singer,
appropriately named, ‘The Kitten’. The delicate Countess of York
was cursed— the shopkeeper assured his customers— for she bought
shaving cream every fortnight to shave of her thick wiry beard
every morning.

Now, the Duke
of Blackthorne annoyed these well intentioned folks. Oh, everyone
knew he was grim, powerful and wealthy enough to rival the
maharajas, but apart from that they knew diddly-squat. This irked
the women all the more because he was devilishly handsome,
unattached, sporting the right number of toes and fingers, with not
a limp and nary a flaw. It was their right to learn his past,
dissect his personality and gossip about his latest
attachments.

He might have
confided his deepest, darkest secrets had someone enquired, but of
course no one dared to ask him.

Penelope now
stood holding the same dark, brooding and very powerful duke’s ear.
She had seen the inside of his ear, which she learnt was squeaky
clean. The ladies of the ton would be jealous. She now knew more
about him than they did.

It would have
been ideal if she let go of his ear right about now. She didn’t
because for some reason her brain refused to let her release him.
She didn’t want to face what happened once she did give him his ear
back. She emitted a sound, a cross between a whimper and a
squeak.

The duke, tired
of waiting for her to act, took her wrist and extricated
himself.

“Who in the
world is this, Anne?” he asked his sister, gesturing towards
Penelope in disgust.

“Err … you
recall Mamma told you that Mrs Fairweather’s daughter was coming to
visit us for the season? This is she. I mean, this is Miss
Fairweather,” Lady Radclyff replied in distress.

“Indeed,” he
said coldly, his eyes examining her from top to bottom.

Penelope knew
what he saw, an unremarkable girl with dull brown hair and brown
eyes. Her dress, which was also unfortunately brown, had pink
flowers embroidered all over. She was conscious of the mud stains
and a few large damp patches from the rain.

The Falcon had
been delighted with her dress, remarking that it exactly matched
his curtains at home. She didn’t think the duke found her dress
delightful.

In fact, he was
looking at her as if she was a particularly hideous rodent.

“Mother, how in
the world will you present this … this thing to society? She
obviously lacks manners and has no looks to speak of. Does she at
least have a good dowry?”

“Charles! How
can you?” the dowager said indignantly.

“She grabbed my
ear and then refused to let go. How is that ladylike? I doubt she
has ever met a duke in her life. From the state of her dress, I am
convinced
that
she is not only a clodhopper
but she is also impoverished. Mother, send her packing, she will
never catch a man.”

“That’s enough,
Charles,” the dowager snapped.

Penelope stood
staring at the duke in shock. He was horrible, she thought, glaring
at him.

It was true she
didn’t have a dowry. Her father was landed gentry, and the only
connection they had with the aristocracy was her dead mother’s
cousin twice removed, who was third in line for an impoverished
kingdom. That cousin was now … also dead. They made just enough
money to live comfortably but not luxuriously. It was why the
dowager had insisted that she pay for her season in London.

Still, the duke
had no right to speak about her so disdainfully. Her face flushed
in embarrassment. He had made her feel like an unwanted charity
case. She blinked rapidly to dispel angry tears and then took a
deep breath. She would not let this man, duke or not, make her feel
so awful. She had, after all, faced the Falcon.

According to
Della, her cook back home, a lady’s best defence is her modesty,
cheerfulness and an elegant countenance when faced with a brute.
Della had managed to vanquish the crude butcher, who used to trick
his customers by packing more bones than meat, with politeness. The
butcher was now on board a ship to India in search of spiritual
guidance.

Therefore,
Penelope squared her shoulders, grabbed her skirt and dipped low in
an awkward curtsy.

“I apologise,
your grace,” she said in a voice that only slightly shook.

He stared at
her for a moment searching her face for any sign of mockery.
Finding none, he gave a brief nod and then turned his back on
her.

“Anne, I wanted
a word with you about Lady Hartworth’s ball. I would like to accept
….” He trailed off staring at the corner where Penelope had been
originally sitting.

Lady Radclyff
glanced worriedly at her mother, and then attempted to fling out
her skirts to hide the spot from the duke’s view.

“Your skirts
can’t hide it. I can still see the thing, Anne,” the duke remarked,
staring at the three of them.

No one dared to
reply.

“I see … I have
to state the obvious and ask the question it seems. We are in the
Blue Room and, Mother, you seemed to be entertaining a guest for
tea. Now, I am confounded and curious to learn as to why you have a
goat eating what seems to be a lettuce leaf sitting in that corner
by the Chippendale chair.”

The goat in
question looked up from its plate of lettuce sandwiches and
baaed.

“Lady Bathsheba
doesn’t like being called a goat …,” Penelope muttered to
herself.

The duke turned
to look at Penelope, and her next statement died on her lips.

“Lady Bathsheba
is it?” he asked softly.

Penelope
clutched her skirts and tried to bite her tongue. Her unfortunate
habit of babbling when nervous and spewing nonsense reared its ugly
head. She avoided his eyes, digging her nails into her palm.

It was no
good.

She could feel
the words bubble up inside her, and she finally gave up the battle
and let her tongue have its way, “Well yes, you see we have an aunt
called Lady Bathsheba, and my younger sister Janet is very fond of
her, and when she left for the Americas, Janet wouldn’t stop
crying. I had to do something, and finally I told her that the baby
goat was really Lady Bathsheba, who had been transformed by a
magician whom she had slighted. Lady Bathsheba is really very
gentle and has been my companion for a while. She is used to being
around me at all times, and the only time she misbehaves is when
someone calls her a G-O-A-T and—”

“Your sister,
she believed you?” Lady Radclyff interrupted, receiving a glare
from the duke for her efforts.

“Yes, you see
Janet was only five. Now she is six. She doesn’t believe so anymore
…,” Penelope replied trailing off.

The duke looked
baffled for a moment, and then he scowled and said, “I will not
agree to waste good coin on introducing this … this pastoral
nuisance into polite society. The goat goes back home with the girl
today, and I don’t care how late it is. She may travel all night. I
will send armed guards if necessary.”

He then
addressed his butler, who had mysteriously appeared at his side,
“Perkins, ask Hopkins to fetch the fake moustache from my room. I
need to visit my grandfather.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And, Anne,
come see me in my study before dinner.”

“Yes, of
course,” Lady Radclyff replied.

He gave a short
nod and then with a last glare at the goat strode out of the
room.

The door banged
shut behind him making Penelope jump. She picked a spot on the
carpet and tried to look every bit engrossed. She had been
unceremoniously dismissed within a day of her arrival in London.
She was utterly mortified and felt about as big as an ant.

She cringed,
squeezing her eyes shut. She no longer knew how to face the two
women she had been entertaining a few moments ago. She forced one
eye open when she felt a touch on her arm.

The dowager had
come up to her and Penelope braced herself for the apologetic
speech that she felt sure was coming. The dowager would no doubt
tell her how sorry she was and that she would arrange for a
suitable carriage to drive her back to Finnshire.

“Open your
other eye as well, Miss Fairweather, and please come and sit down.
We have a great deal to discuss,” the dowager said.

Penelope
wrenched her other eye open and allowed herself to be led to her
place on the chair.

“I am so
sorry,” Lady Radclyff said the moment Penelope sat.

Penelope
winced, having no idea what she could say in such a situation.

The dowager
took her hand once more. “My son is a little …” The dowager paused
searching for words.

“Churlish?”
Penelope supplied without thinking.

“Proud and—”
the dowager started to say.

“Domineering?”
Penelope interrupted again, trying desperately to keep her mouth
shut. It didn’t do to insult the duke, especially to his
mother.

“Wilful,” the
dowager retorted.

“Rude?”
Penelope gasped out.

“Responsible,”
Lady Radclyff joined in.

“Patronising,
hateful and a crusty fellow,” Penelope shot back.

The dowager’s
mouth twitched as she answered, “Hardworking, disciplined and
kind.”

“Kind?”
Penelope asked doubtfully.

“Yes, kind. Now
if you are done with the word games, may I please explain?” the
dowager asked.

At Penelope’s
sheepish nod, the dowager’s eyes glazed over and she said
reminiscently, “Charles was a wonderful child, a little mischievous
and always laughing…”

Both Penelope
and Lady Radclyff snorted in disbelief.

The dowager
ignored them and continued, “His father died when he was seventeen
and ever since then he has been responsible for a large duchy. He
is a good duke and provides well for his tenants. Unfortunately,
his numerous duties cause him to have little patience with anything
out of the ordinary. His life runs like clockwork with everything
having a designated time. You must forgive him if he is a little
bad tempered …”