Penelope by Anya Wylde

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