Penelope by Anya Wylde Page A

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.
     
     

Chapter 10
    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