A Game of Hearts

Chapter six

Matilda had to admit that there was a bit of sense to the Earl. He might be the brother of that dunce of Penelope's late husband and as boring as they came, but he was still far more worldly and sensible than Edward - and Penelope, for that matter - had ever been. And just in the past half hour, he'd shown more common sense than she'd ever seen from Penelope, ever.

A terrible silence had ascended over the dining room, and Penelope looked almost terror-stricken. Her face had turned as pale as the white linen on the table, and her eyes were wide.

"Alexander, please. It would ruin us." She said with a feeble voice — almost a whisper. It was as if she was truly terrified of the police learning of Edward's death. Or maybe not the police. Perhaps it was the ton and the good society, who'd stop calling on the Duvelles when they learned of the possible true reason for the late earl's untimely demise.

Matilda had only met Edward two times: Once when he and Penelope were just married and had made a detour during their honeymoon to the cloister school in Boulogne that Penelope had sent her to. The second time was when they had made another detour on the same trip two months later but on the way back. Matilda was ten at the time, and scared to death of the new life in a foreign country, that Penelope had sentenced her to. Even so, she vividly remembered Edward: a tall, blonde man, with a charming smile and an even more charming air. Several of the nuns of the school had blushed sinfully when he had sent them his winks. Winks, that Penelope had willfully ignored.

He was a beautiful man, Matilda recalled, and she had even at the tender age of ten been acutely aware of the effects he had on the women around him. But whereas other young girls might've wished for such a husband for themselves when they grew up, Matilda had made another realisation. That night, after Penelope and Edward had left her in Boulogne to continue their blissful honeymoon, she'd said a small prayer in her bed: She, too, wanted to be able to have that effect on people — to be able to make them scurry and forget their thoughts by doing nothing more than send them a sly smile or a carefully timed arrested glance. If she could just learn to do that, ten-year-old Matilda had thought, she would never have been sent off to France. She'd have been able to convince Penelope to let her stay in England — to let her stay at home.

Now, Matilda would wager, that had it not been for Penelope's own choice of husband, Matilda would've never run off to Paris to use the gifts, Edward had inspired her to develop. It was a funny twist of fate.

"Do you not see the absurdity in this?!" Lord Ellismere asked, and Penelope cowered at his harsh tone. She, too, was used to people abiding by her wishes, but it was not done deliberately or even knowingly. "He was your husband, Penelope! If someone did do this to him, would you not want to know? To have them brought to justice?"

"You don't even know, if somebody did this to him or if it was an accident!" Penelope protested with wide eyes.

"Well, how could I? When you've literally buried the crime evidence!" The earl spat, his voice dripping with ire and sarcasm.

"Then dig him up!" Penelope yelled, clearly at her wit's end. "Call the police! Make a spectacle and ruin this family while you're at it!"

"Maybe I will," Lord Ellismere seethed. "This family has been ruined for a long time. You made sure of that ten years ago."

Penelope gasped and rolled her eyes.

"Not this again, Alexander!" She said exasperated. "Your family was shattered long before I chose to marry your brother. Don't blame me for your father's terrible decisions!"