sam_storyteller (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-03 03:13 pm
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-03 03:13 pm
Entry tags:
LORD PETER: Shortfic
These may contain spoilers for all books through Busman's Honeymoon.
Warnings: None.
Part of the Wimsey of Ficlets podfic anthology by the lovely![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
blueyeti!
My Price: G.
Over the years, his accent had mellowed; the impact of intelligent, well-bred company was never lost on Mervyn Bunter. His intellect had sharpened because Lord Peter challenged it, and because Lord Peter didn't like stupid people and didn't want them in his employ. His skills with the camera were comparable to any professional photographer, especially in the area of fingerprinting, and Lord Peter had given him that, too -- he would never have been able to afford the equipment on his own salary, generous as it was.
Once, one of Lord Peter's acquaintances had (while Bunter was listening at the door for the proper moment to bring in the wine) offered Lord Peter six hundred pounds a year for Bunter, which was a three hundred pound rise in pay. The young Lord had looked baffled, and replied that he ought to ask Bunter himself.
"You couldn't buy me away from Lord Peter," Bunter had said, when the man asked him in person.
"Come, man, everyone has their price."
Bunter had looked gravely at him for a moment, and contemplated in his mind's eye an amiable face, pianist's fingers, and a library full of first-edition books. Finally, he spoke.
"You couldn't pay me enough to buy another Lord Peter, sir, and he's my price."
Centre Of Attention. G.
"Oh dear," said Harriet Vane, known under alias as Lady Peter Wimsey, "I think Peter's feeling rather left out."
"Don't mind him, dear," the Dowager Duchess replied. "It's good for the character. Do go on with what you were saying."
Harriet glanced at Peter, who was indeed looking just the tiniest bit sullen, although clearly he was trying to hide it; it wasn't her fault, after all, that nobody who read mysteries cared as much about Lord Peter as they did about Harriet Vane.
When the first annual meeting of the Womens' Mystery Writers Of Great Britain (Harriet Vane, Guest of Honour) had dissolved, Peter brightened a little, and held her coat for her as she slipped into it.
"I thought you were marvelous," he said, earnestly.
"You thought they all should have been mooning over you," she replied, grinning at him as they stepped out into the crisp winter evening.
"Nothing of the sort."
"Admit it, Peter, you were sulking."
"Well, a chap gets used to being the centre of attention in a roomful of intelligent women," he confessed. Peter wasn't a particularly expressive man, in public, but now he wrapped his arm around her waist, possessively. "But I was more proud of you, you know."
"Do you love me very much, Peter?" she asked, laughing.
"I happen to," he replied gravely. "I would happily spend the rest of my life being ignored by women for you, Harriet."
She leaned closer, and sighed happily. "I do so enjoy your piffle, once in a while."
Ascot Opening Day. PG
All the dukes and earls and peers are here;
Everyone who should be here is here...
Lord Peter Wimsey liked Ascot's opening day because he honestly liked horses; he could have done without the women, swanning about in oversized hats, and the men, talking conservative politics. He went in equal parts to see the races and please his mother, who asked very little of him, really, in the grand scheme of things.
"Have you met her?" asked Freddy Eynsford-Hill as he dashed up to him just before the second race. He didn't bother saying hello, and Peter adjusted his monocle, leaning forward slightly.
"Met who?" he asked.
"That divine girl! There she is!"
Peter followed Freddy's gaze and his eyes lighted on a woman in one of the usual black and white dresses, unusually accented in red, standing near good old Higgins (who hadn't bothered with the usual pastel grey suit).
"She's splendid, she is," Freddy said, and Peter smiled gently. "I gave her my wager ticket. I do hope seven wins."
"Seven?" Peter asked in alarm. "Freddy, did you wager on Dover?"
But Freddy was already off to join his newest love, and as the horses raced past Peter was suddenly intent on the Eynsford-Hills and their companions. Just as the last straggler passed, he saw the girl lean forward and shout, to the general shock and amazement, "Come on Dover! Move yer bloomin arse!"
Caught by paroxysms of laughter, Peter managed to stumble over to where Freddy was standing.
"I think you've picked a winner after all," he said through his mirth. "Beware she doesn't run off without you!"
Examination. PG
The body was dead, which was a relief in some ways; Harriet could deal with dead bodies, and this one wasn't even bloody.
Peter's face was clinically detached, as it usually was when he was looking at something he desperately didn't want to look at; he was examining the boots, so she picked up the billfold from the nearby table and sorted through it, carefully handling it around the little silver fingerprint marks all over it.
"Anything of interest?" Peter asked, working his way up the trousers.
"Not really. Was there a reason Charles wanted us to look at this body?"
"He thinks I could handle it more discreetly than he. I thought you would appreciate the mystery it presents, from a writer's point of view."
She watched him straighten, and glance over at the face. A small frown curved the corner of his lips, and she slipped her hand into his, squeezing gently before returning to the billfold.
"I'm glad I came along, then," she said.
"Me too," he replied, in the same even voice he might have remarked on a soup stain on the body's necktie.
Harriet wasn't fooled. She rarely was, when it came to Peter, and she smiled a little over the billfold as he continued the examination.
Keeping Track. PG-13
They were neither without their demons, whatever the Dowager Duchess or Bunter wanted to believe about things; if it pleased Peter's mother to think that Harriet had cured Peter of his nerves, let her think it. Bunter, Harriet suspected, was merely happy that he got along so well with her. She liked him, really. He was precise without being fussy, proper without being snobbish.
None of them knew Harriet very well though, certainly not as well as they knew Peter, and they weren't there when she woke dreaming she was still in prison, when she had the nightmares about the rope around her throat, and Peter's careless arm draped over her in sleep was the most comforting thing in the world. When Peter's eyes were a little wild sometimes, people saw her calm them; when she shivered inside on reading the accounts of murderesses in the paper, rarely did anyone see Peter's shoulder bump against hers, and his sidelong smile.
"Don't I rather owe you an awful lot?" Peter said to her one day, curled up with a book nearby. She looked up from her writing desk. "If we were to be keeping track, I mean. I know we don't, but if we did."
"No," she said, returning to her writing. "If we were keeping track I'd say we both owe Bunter."
She liked hearing Peter laugh.
Warnings: None.
Part of the Wimsey of Ficlets podfic anthology by the lovely
blueyeti!My Price: G.
Over the years, his accent had mellowed; the impact of intelligent, well-bred company was never lost on Mervyn Bunter. His intellect had sharpened because Lord Peter challenged it, and because Lord Peter didn't like stupid people and didn't want them in his employ. His skills with the camera were comparable to any professional photographer, especially in the area of fingerprinting, and Lord Peter had given him that, too -- he would never have been able to afford the equipment on his own salary, generous as it was.
Once, one of Lord Peter's acquaintances had (while Bunter was listening at the door for the proper moment to bring in the wine) offered Lord Peter six hundred pounds a year for Bunter, which was a three hundred pound rise in pay. The young Lord had looked baffled, and replied that he ought to ask Bunter himself.
"You couldn't buy me away from Lord Peter," Bunter had said, when the man asked him in person.
"Come, man, everyone has their price."
Bunter had looked gravely at him for a moment, and contemplated in his mind's eye an amiable face, pianist's fingers, and a library full of first-edition books. Finally, he spoke.
"You couldn't pay me enough to buy another Lord Peter, sir, and he's my price."
Centre Of Attention. G.
"Oh dear," said Harriet Vane, known under alias as Lady Peter Wimsey, "I think Peter's feeling rather left out."
"Don't mind him, dear," the Dowager Duchess replied. "It's good for the character. Do go on with what you were saying."
Harriet glanced at Peter, who was indeed looking just the tiniest bit sullen, although clearly he was trying to hide it; it wasn't her fault, after all, that nobody who read mysteries cared as much about Lord Peter as they did about Harriet Vane.
When the first annual meeting of the Womens' Mystery Writers Of Great Britain (Harriet Vane, Guest of Honour) had dissolved, Peter brightened a little, and held her coat for her as she slipped into it.
"I thought you were marvelous," he said, earnestly.
"You thought they all should have been mooning over you," she replied, grinning at him as they stepped out into the crisp winter evening.
"Nothing of the sort."
"Admit it, Peter, you were sulking."
"Well, a chap gets used to being the centre of attention in a roomful of intelligent women," he confessed. Peter wasn't a particularly expressive man, in public, but now he wrapped his arm around her waist, possessively. "But I was more proud of you, you know."
"Do you love me very much, Peter?" she asked, laughing.
"I happen to," he replied gravely. "I would happily spend the rest of my life being ignored by women for you, Harriet."
She leaned closer, and sighed happily. "I do so enjoy your piffle, once in a while."
Ascot Opening Day. PG
All the dukes and earls and peers are here;
Everyone who should be here is here...
Lord Peter Wimsey liked Ascot's opening day because he honestly liked horses; he could have done without the women, swanning about in oversized hats, and the men, talking conservative politics. He went in equal parts to see the races and please his mother, who asked very little of him, really, in the grand scheme of things.
"Have you met her?" asked Freddy Eynsford-Hill as he dashed up to him just before the second race. He didn't bother saying hello, and Peter adjusted his monocle, leaning forward slightly.
"Met who?" he asked.
"That divine girl! There she is!"
Peter followed Freddy's gaze and his eyes lighted on a woman in one of the usual black and white dresses, unusually accented in red, standing near good old Higgins (who hadn't bothered with the usual pastel grey suit).
"She's splendid, she is," Freddy said, and Peter smiled gently. "I gave her my wager ticket. I do hope seven wins."
"Seven?" Peter asked in alarm. "Freddy, did you wager on Dover?"
But Freddy was already off to join his newest love, and as the horses raced past Peter was suddenly intent on the Eynsford-Hills and their companions. Just as the last straggler passed, he saw the girl lean forward and shout, to the general shock and amazement, "Come on Dover! Move yer bloomin arse!"
Caught by paroxysms of laughter, Peter managed to stumble over to where Freddy was standing.
"I think you've picked a winner after all," he said through his mirth. "Beware she doesn't run off without you!"
Examination. PG
The body was dead, which was a relief in some ways; Harriet could deal with dead bodies, and this one wasn't even bloody.
Peter's face was clinically detached, as it usually was when he was looking at something he desperately didn't want to look at; he was examining the boots, so she picked up the billfold from the nearby table and sorted through it, carefully handling it around the little silver fingerprint marks all over it.
"Anything of interest?" Peter asked, working his way up the trousers.
"Not really. Was there a reason Charles wanted us to look at this body?"
"He thinks I could handle it more discreetly than he. I thought you would appreciate the mystery it presents, from a writer's point of view."
She watched him straighten, and glance over at the face. A small frown curved the corner of his lips, and she slipped her hand into his, squeezing gently before returning to the billfold.
"I'm glad I came along, then," she said.
"Me too," he replied, in the same even voice he might have remarked on a soup stain on the body's necktie.
Harriet wasn't fooled. She rarely was, when it came to Peter, and she smiled a little over the billfold as he continued the examination.
Keeping Track. PG-13
They were neither without their demons, whatever the Dowager Duchess or Bunter wanted to believe about things; if it pleased Peter's mother to think that Harriet had cured Peter of his nerves, let her think it. Bunter, Harriet suspected, was merely happy that he got along so well with her. She liked him, really. He was precise without being fussy, proper without being snobbish.
None of them knew Harriet very well though, certainly not as well as they knew Peter, and they weren't there when she woke dreaming she was still in prison, when she had the nightmares about the rope around her throat, and Peter's careless arm draped over her in sleep was the most comforting thing in the world. When Peter's eyes were a little wild sometimes, people saw her calm them; when she shivered inside on reading the accounts of murderesses in the paper, rarely did anyone see Peter's shoulder bump against hers, and his sidelong smile.
"Don't I rather owe you an awful lot?" Peter said to her one day, curled up with a book nearby. She looked up from her writing desk. "If we were to be keeping track, I mean. I know we don't, but if we did."
"No," she said, returning to her writing. "If we were keeping track I'd say we both owe Bunter."
She liked hearing Peter laugh.
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Reviews R Us, Livejournal delivery edition
Bunter has class.
I don't know what a Kentish accent sounds like; is it as noticeable as that?
"Centre of Attention"
I *love* watching Peter trying hard not to sulk here. It's funny and it's such a very human reaction, and he *would* have the grace to try to control it. On reflection, it puts me in mind of the time he tried to appreciate the spectacle of Harriet dancing with Mrs. Weldon's son in HAVE HIS CARCASE.
I would happily spend the rest of my life being ignored by women for you, Harriet.
I'm with her ladyship on the subject of piffle. This is a splendid line. :)
"Ascot Opening Day"
I should not be surprised that I live in a world that can produce MY FAIR LADY / Lord Peter Wimsey crossover fic. :)
I've long thought that the choreographer should've received a medal for that scene in the film, never mind any Acadamy Awards. It's so beautifully done, such as the two ladies who are obviously going to murder their milliner for selling them copies of the same hat. :) Then there's the actual scene: "Henry, what a disagreeable surprise!"
"Examination"
The body was dead, which was a relief in some ways
Hmm. *That* is intriguing. Is Harriet thinking that someone alive but badly hurt would've been worse, or what?
"Keeping Track"
This story makes a *very* good point that Harriet may well have her demons too. Very vivid, the little scenes you flash up here - that other people see Harriet helping Peter, but those close to them don't know her well enough to see that he helps her too.
Re: Reviews R Us, Livejournal delivery edition
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You have gotten it right.
I'm delighted.
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The Whimsey/My Fair Lady crossover made me laugh out loud, but I adored the others as well -- just more quietly. I really really liked "My Price" and "Examination".
Thank you!
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Brilliant, all of them.
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