It began, as these things so often did, with a bottom.
Not Honoria’s, which was widely agreed to be both pert and philosophically unassailable, but the alabaster posterior of the Duke of Bellington, recently immortalised in marble by one Miss Lavinia Crimble—sculptress, troublemaker, and owner of the most expensive collection of scandal in Sussex.
The statue, titled Man in Repose, had been commissioned for the gardens at Brimwell Abbey, and depicted His Grace reclining against an improbably convenient vine, entirely nude save for a suggestion of toga and an expression that suggested deep thought or mild constipation.
Lady Honoria, attending the unveiling for the champagne and a chance to ogle the nobility in daylight, leaned toward her companion and whispered, “Well, someone’s been chiselling more than the truth.”
Her companion, the Honourable Benedict Prym (debutante-snubbing bachelor, collector of obscure beetles, and renowned for once seducing an heiress with nothing but a butter knife and a minor chord), did not laugh.
He was looking at the statue’s rear, which, unlike the rest of it, had been… partially removed.
Not broken. Removed. As though by expert hands and inappropriate curiosity.
“Who steals a duke’s arse?” Honoria murmured.
“Someone with ambition,” Benedict replied wryly.
Later that evening, as the Duke thundered about breaches of dignity and Lavinia Crimble sobbed into a lace doily about “the sanctity of form,” Honoria did what any sensible woman with a fan and a fondness for intrigue would do: she went snooping.
Her inquiries took her to the servants’ quarters, where she was offered a sherry and an unsolicited view of the butler’s left breast; to the sculpture tent, where Lavinia was found passed out atop a bust of Queen Caroline; and finally to the tool shed, where Benedict was already waiting, holding a lantern and looking suspiciously competent.
“You,” she said, stepping inside. “Of course.”
“I might say the same to you.”
“Did you do it?”
He blinked. “Do I look like a man who abducts buttocks?”
“You look like a man who gets bored before dessert.”
He ignored this. “The piece is symbolic.”
“Of what? The fragility of dignity?”
“Of legacy,” he said, stepping closer. “What we leave behind. Or, in this case, what gets taken.”
Honoria stared at him, aware of the close air, the faint smell of turpentine, and the odd fact that someone had left a half-eaten crumpet on the workbench. Benedict leaned in, his hand brushing hers—perhaps by accident, perhaps by plot.
“The question,” he murmured, “is not who stole the posterior, but why.”
There was a beat of silence.
“I was really hoping for a kiss,” Honoria said. “You’re ruining the moment with amateur philosophy.”
"Kissing is for grandmothers and children, grown-ups make love."
And then, bliss. Or at least, heat. Mouths met. A little too many teeth for Honoria's liking which she put down to Eton and the boys practicing on each other.
And then, bliss. Or at least, heat. Mouths met. A little too many teeth for Honoria's liking which she put down to Eton and the boys practicing on each other.
The lantern wobbled. Somewhere, something wooden creaked in protest. Honoria’s fan fell to the floor like a wounded dove. And, in the background, the sound of distant shrieking as the Dowager tripped over the missing sculpture part, which had been hidden, poorly, behind a geranium.
In the commotion of the accident all lost sight and care for the half buttock which disappeared into to oblivion of forgotten drunken celebrations.
By morning, the theft was hushed up.
The Duke’s dignity was reassembled with a hand file and discreetly repositioned to avoid viewers coming up the rear.
Lavinia claimed artistic intent.
And Honoria… well, she didn’t marry Benedict either. He left to document horned beetles in Madagascar and sent her a telegram every Christmas that simply read: Still thinking about that shed. Last news reached England that he had found love with a girl from Bath who had protruding teeth. A match made in heaven, surely.
She kept the fan, of course. A lasting memory of another near escape with an old Etonian. Behind a velvet curtain in her library, another keepsake, a marble half-buttock that she swore was just “a bookend with character.”
THE END.
By morning, the theft was hushed up.
The Duke’s dignity was reassembled with a hand file and discreetly repositioned to avoid viewers coming up the rear.
Lavinia claimed artistic intent.
And Honoria… well, she didn’t marry Benedict either. He left to document horned beetles in Madagascar and sent her a telegram every Christmas that simply read: Still thinking about that shed. Last news reached England that he had found love with a girl from Bath who had protruding teeth. A match made in heaven, surely.
She kept the fan, of course. A lasting memory of another near escape with an old Etonian. Behind a velvet curtain in her library, another keepsake, a marble half-buttock that she swore was just “a bookend with character.”
THE END.
© 2025 Sarnia de la Mare
