The Unexpected Engagement of the Marvelous Mr. Penn

Stories

Title: The Unexpected Engagement of the Marvelous Mr. Penn

Source: Royal Road (https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/54508/the-unexpected-engagement-of-the-marvelous-mr)

Author: rkgoff

Category: RoyalRoad · Popular Romance Serials

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Synopsis: In May, 1899, a hundred and fifty unassuming envelopes are delivered to households across the city. Most of them will be picked up by butlers and carried on silver trays to their recipients. All of them contain invitations to the wedding of Lady Eleanor Serrs to Mr. Ryce Penn. When the newspapers hear about it, they start buzzing. Who can blame them? (...)

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### Chapter 1: Introduction Letters To The Editor Of The Quotidian

Dear sirs,

As always, I’m delighted by how gracious you are when handling my publicity, and considering the fact I’ve never had to pay for it, I feel ungrateful complaining, but I must point out that you have once again misspelled my name. It’s not, as you printed, “an unknown thief.” It’s “Ryce Penn.” No title, I’m afraid, but you may add esquire if you feel the need. The title is now defunct, and I suppose Her Majesty and His Honor, the Regent, wouldn’t begrudge it.

If you explore the etymology of the word, you’ll discover it was often bestowed on the young noblemen who aided the knights. I have a fairly noble bearing, if no actual nobility, and Sir Andrew will testify that, two nights ago, I was kind enough to help him unstick a window that had been shut so fast people assumed no power could open it.

On second thought, Sir Andrew might not be my best reference. I doubt he’s feeling grateful.

Dear sirs,

It pains me, but I must insist you check your sources! Imagine my consternation when I woke up this morning and read about how unhappy and disturbed Lady Mariselle was that her necklace had been stolen. “I can still feel the thief’s hands about my neck!” Oh, really.

I assure you, gentlemen, you’ve been lied to. She had no such objection to my proximity at the time.

Yours, ever, Mr. Penn.

Dear sirs,

I agree with your editor about the rise of crime in this country. Disgraceful. However, I feel that he failed to point out the most frustrating aspect of the matter: our fences are now so wealthy, they’re content to retire rather than pursue their chosen vocations!

Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

What am I supposed to do with all these gems?

Your fellow concerned citizen, Mr. Penn.

Dear sirs,

I appreciate your enthusiasm, but the break-in at Raverly Hall was not one of mine. I deplore violence.

Yours, ever, —

Well!

Master Thief , you say? Far be it from me to argue with the good men of the press. Is there a certificate I can claim somewhere?

The Master Thief, Ryce Penn

Thank you, sirs. It was an honor to see my name in type next to such a well-known scoundrel as Robin Hood. However, I should caution you against using his name as an epithet for myself.

I agree that, on a superficial level, we look similar, but he is supposed to have acted against a mean tyrant out of compassion for the poor—whereas I steal on a whim, primarily to gain fame, and I give it away for pretty much the same reasons.

And of course I steal from the rich. They’re the only people with property worth stealing. They also try to protect it, which does add a little to the challenge.

Yours, ever, —

Gentlemen of the press,

You’ve been listening to rumors again. I have not touched the baron’s home. I would never have stolen those works of art; I think they’re hideous.

I should have foreseen this. One gains a little bit of fame and now, if you’re burgled, it won’t do unless you’ve been burgled by the country’s most notorious thief! But I’m only one man. I can’t do everything .

I urge you not to compound the confusion. If you attribute every crime to me, the police will waste all their time failing to catch me when they could be failing to catch the real criminals.

Yours, ever —

Ah! Now, that’s more like it!

The Marvelous Mr. Penn!

My compliments to you, Mr. Jones. That’s an excellent title. It has a certain purr to it. You may dispense with esquire.

I will forever be faithfully yours,

The Marvelous Mr. Ryce Penn,

Master Thief.

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### Chapter 2: Chapter 1 The Invitations Arrive

The duke tobbled as he walked. It was an oscillating, ponderous movement, and it was enough to make anyone except a sailor ill to watch. This gait was adopted to accommodate the shape of his body. The man was a ball. He was a well-dressed ball. He had energy, health, and (god knew) an appetite, but all the best clothes in the world couldn’t make him any less round, and to try would make him look like a draped Christmas ornament. That he would not tolerate. After all, he had his pride.

The world had to accept him as he was: loud, adamant, quick to anger, and spherical. It was a good thing he was a duke—if he wasn’t, his magisterial air would have been farcical. As it was, he was only mocked from several cities away and, often, only as an unnamed duke appearing in a pantomime.

That morning, he tobbled his way down the staircase and into his dining room. His daughter, Eleanor, was standing inside the door. She curtsied when he entered.

“Good morning, Father.”

He nodded to her.

It had always been Father , even when she was a little girl. She’d heard other children refer to their male predecessor as “Daddy,” or “Papa,” but that was never her father. She had assumed it was his proper title, like “Your Grace.”

Eleanor was the comic opposite of her father. She was thin and tended to be quiet and easygoing. She loved to spend her days curled up on a couch, reading a book, but she often went out for long walks because her father insisted she needed some activity in her life. There was also a strange humility to her. Some said she was born with it, while others said it was the only sensible recourse when living with a man like Duke Aubrey-Serrs.

Since so many people seem to care what a young woman looks like—especially if she’s rich and single—you might as well know Eleanor was pretty. Not stunning, but definitely pretty. She had an average face with average features, but her eyes were special. They were bright, wide, green, and expressive. Considering how rarely she raised them, seeing them felt like catching a glimpse of red fur as the fox you’d barely noticed darts away. It left you feeling startled and lucky to have seen them.

The duke went over to the breakfast laid out on the sideboard. Eleanor only took her share when he was finished. She got a scrap of toast, two slices of tomato, and a cup of tea. Aubrey-Serrs never bothered his daughter about her eating habits. His late wife had eaten that way. He assumed all women ate that way.

Their mornings were made of this routine, and the collection of familiar hours added a pleasant atmosphere to the proceedings. Toward the end of the meal, the morning letters would appear at the duke’s elbow. The unseen hand that delivered them was as light and familiar as everything else, but the letters always had a ponderous weight. They represented the end of the routine and the start of the real day.

The duke finished off the last of his heaped food, then slit the first letter open with his cutlery. A letter knife was inevitably included with the missives, but it was also inevitably ignored.

Eleanor wasn’t paying attention. Few of the letters were for her, and even if they were, her father always opened and dealt with them. She was gazing out toward the front window, relaxing into the monotony of the morning, when she heard her father choke.

A swift glance allayed her worst fear; he was choking on his indignation, not his food.

“Eleanor!”

“Yes, Father?” Her subdued voice demonstrated how unnecessary his shout had been.

“What do you know of this?” He thrust a piece of heavy parchment at her. It rattled in his grip.

She took the paper and opened it.

His Grace, Erravold Dusten Aubrey-Serrs, Duke of Illucia

requests the honor of your presence

at the marriage of his daughter

Lady Eleanor Louise

to—

Eleanor broke away. “Father, what is this?”

“You’re saying you don’t know?”

He asked it as a matter of form. Her blatant confusion was enough to convince him she was ignorant.

“I know nothing!”

“Read it.”

Eleanor was so baffled, she read it in a rush, trying to find out if there was sense anywhere on the page.

to

Ryce Penn

at Saint Jerrum’s Cathedral

on Saturday, the fifteenth of July, eighteen hundred and ninety-nine,

at two o’clock in the afternoon

followed by a reception at Chaffinch Hall.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

About the time she realized there were no more words, she also realized she’d missed the two most important ones—the given and family name of her intended groom.

She read them again. Then again.

Ryce Penn.

She dropped the paper back on the table. Her eyes rolled, and her cheek lifted in a slight smile.

“It’s a joke, Father.”

“It isn’t funny!”

“I think it’s very funny. Have you seen the man I’m supposed to marry?”

The duke snatched back the paper. His red face darkened until it was almost purple. He fumbled to his feet, knocking over the chair he hadn’t pulled out properly. It dropped to the floor with a clatter. The duke left the room.

Eleanor picked up the chair and replaced it. Then she followed her father out to the hall. With her slippers on, she was as noiseless as a cat.

The duke was in the library, on the telephone. He was talking to the police.

Heedless of her dress, she sat down on the floor near the doorway so she could listen to the conversation.

Ryce Penn. The Master Thief.

Eleanor had followed his exploits since he’d first become active five years ago. She was not one of the women who admired his daring or generosity (What was there to admire? He was being generous with other people’s money!), but she did enjoy his humor—however, she was smart enough to realize her amused indifference only existed because all her knowledge of him came from the pages of the daily news.

The Aubrey-Serrs had never had a visit from Mr. Penn. The duke disapproved of the thief, but he did it with minimal animosity, as one would disapprove of a foreign evil unlikely to land on their shores. In his heart-of-hearts, the duke had always assumed Penn would never be brave enough to try to steal from him.

Eleanor smiled and shook her head as she listened to her father rage into the phone.

The world-famous Penn was out to steal her hand in marriage! It was ridiculous.

She might have been pleased to hear her father’s outrage, but she was close enough she could make out the words, not just his tone, and she knew that his feelings were reserved for his fortune and his good name.

Eleanor stood up and crept away so her father wouldn’t hear her.

She didn’t begrudge the duke his concern. It wasn’t as if she was in any danger. The priests acting on behalf of St. Jerrum’s Cathedral would probably have a few questions if she was hauled, bound and gagged, to the altar. As her father knew, she couldn’t be forced to marry against her will.

But…

But if this was a plot by Penn, then the danger to her father’s property was probably real.

She returned to the dining table. With a glance over her shoulder, she pulled out the two letters addressed to her and opened them. They were both from friends of hers—society acquaintances, really, but people she enjoyed being with, who seemed to enjoy being with her. They both included a personal letter as well as a copy of the wedding invitation.

From the cheeky nature of the letters, neither of them were taking it seriously.

“More invitations?” a voice behind her said. “Of course.”

The duke was back. He seemed to have burnt himself out yelling at the police. He didn’t even badger her about touching the letters.

“I wonder if any of these”—he flicked his hand at the pile of envelopes—“will have anything else to talk about. That bastard. That bastard! How dare he?”

“Oh, Father, please don’t upset yourself so much. No one’s writing anything down on their calendars. They all think it’s a joke!”

“Yes. He’s turned our name into a joke. I won’t be able to walk down the street without everyone snickering behind my back.”

“Can’t we simply leave it alone?”

“None of this would have happened if you had only married! I had three suitors, all lined up! Good men from good families! You refused them all .”

Eleanor felt the pulse of a headache slip in at her temples. “The year of the proposals” (as she had mentally dubbed it) had been the worst of her life. Only her quiet grace had carried her through. As her father had raged, she added more make-up to hide how pale her face was, and when her father had demanded she speak, she only repeated her refusal.

She had hoped those particular discussions were over. She needed them to be over.

Eleanor wanted to say something to ease the situation, but what could she say? Her father was right.

“Now this!” Her father threw himself into his chair. It groaned in protest. “What will people say!”

“They’ll say Penn overstepped himself.”

The duke sneered, picked up the personal letter that he’d opened with the first dreadful invitation, and tossed it to her.

As Eleanor lifted the page, she felt her stomach sink.

“… I look forward with much joy and amusement to the upcoming nuptial. If I asked, do you think your prospective son-in-law might return my wife’s ruby collection? He should have plenty of money soon…”

The duke’s voice was deep and cold. “Is that what they’re saying? That Penn overstepped himself?”

Overwhelmed, almost faint with weariness, Eleanor muttered, “Father, what do you want me to do?”

Too late, Eleanor realized her mistake.