Lord Beast

Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Patricia Pennyworth went about her usual morning routine with fastidious propensity. From a reasonable hour, say about eleven-ish, she would deem it acceptable to arise from her comfortable bed, after which a lengthy toilette would ensue with the aid of not one but two maids. Hereby she would perfect the art of reprimanding said maids for lacking the ability to perfect the most complicated of tasks.

Her hair, for example, was in dire need of a wash. Being a woman with set traditions and customs her great-great-great grandmother used to follow, Patricia did not believe that washing one's hair during the colder months was conducive to one's health. As a result, the mousey locks were coated in grease and nigh impossible to fix into some semblance of prettiness or curl.

Naturally, she was not to blame. It was the ineptitude of her maids where the problem lay. So she docked their pay.

By the time she descended the stairs for breakfast, it was nearly noon.

Here, a hearty breakfast would follow, complete with London's society papers and her latest correspondence. Patricia would first make a grab for the society papers, eager to devour the gossip that therein lay. Having squandered most of her inheritance left to her

by her late husband (a paltry sum as it were seeing as Lord Philips was a notorious gambler and rather poor at that to boot), she realised that she would have to marry again soon and marry rich. She was living well above her means. In actuality, she was almost destitute. However, Patricia felt that it would be too humiliating for a woman of her standards to accept anything less that absolute superiority. She would never be made a pauper.

She flipped open the paper to the gossip column, her eyes scanning through the jumble of names for some hint that someone, preferably old and disgustingly wealthy, was looking for a wife. Amid stories and rumours of a more scandalous nature, her eyes skidded to a halt on a name she never thought she would see again.

Lord Rhys Ashcroft, Earl of Falmouth.

Her fork clattered against her plate noisily.

Brusquely, she gestured for the unfinished meal to be taken away. That was indeed a rare occurrence for Patricia Pennyworth and she ignored the startled looks from the servants.

Lord Rhys Ashcroft, Earl of Falmouth, made a rare appearance at the Worthwell Masquerade. Why his sudden re-emergence into society now is cause for speculation, but some have it on good authority that it was because of a girl that His Lordship chose to appraise of his exclusivity.

Could it be that this society will hear wedding bells for the once- thoughtof- as- deceased earl and his unidentified miss?

Involuntarily, Patricia's fingers flexed around the offending article, completely ruining the paper it was printed on. A rage unlike anything she had ever experienced began to boil under her skin. Her face burned and contorted, hatred for the man who had once spurned her filled her with an intensity that threatened to choke her.

Screeching like a harpy, she snatched her teacup and threw it viciously at a passing servant. The poor lad had to dive for cover before the porcelain shattered above his head, staining the wall with brownish liquid. Hurriedly, he vacated the room, along with several others who bore witness to the start of their mistress's tantrum.

Blood-curdling screams and vehemently shrill curses followed for about half an hour, enunciated with the reverberating shatter of crockery meeting the walls.

The servants waited anxiously outside the dining room, anticipating their mistress's anger to transfer to the abuse of one of them. When Patricia did emerge, it was only to bark a sharp order to one of the footman before she disappeared into her chambers.