Page 12 of A Perplexing Regency Romance (The League of Meddling Butlers #5)

“I will have tea. Lemonade for the lady. Bring us the dry cake. If you turn up with buttered bread, I’ll hit you over the head.”

Finella was shocked to her shoes at how he spoke to the young man.

The footman himself seemed acquainted with Sir Roger, as he did not look very shocked.

Nor did he look intimidated. He narrowed his eyes, turned on his heel and stalked off.

She was also taken aback that Sir Roger had just decided she ought to have lemonade rather than tea without even asking her. It was very high-handed. Rude, even.

“Got to know how to manage these fellows, else you’ll end with the stale bread. They say there’s butter on it, but I challenge that claim.”

“Oh I see,” Finella said noncommittally.

“I suppose you’ll want to know about my estate,” Sir Roger said.

She did not wish it in the slightest. She did not care if Sir Roger lived on the moon.

“Norfolk. Two thousand acres, give or take. Roomy house. Dower house, too. My mother lives in it. It’s a mile away from the main, which is still too close. Unpleasant woman. I’m a baronet so my son will inherit the title. Not like some ridiculous knight. Never saw the point in a knight.”

It slowly began to dawn on Finella what this conversation was about. Sir Roger viewed himself as a suitor. It was preposterous. She might not be the belle of the ball, but she was not going to consider a man her own father’s age. She’d rather be a spinster if it came to it.

“As for my philosophy on how things are meant to be done,” Sir Roger said, “I hold my servants to task. There is no relaxing the rules, no days off for holidays. I provide them a livelihood and bed and board and they ought to be grateful for it. Give a servant an inch of room and they’ll drag you along for a mile.

I won’t have it. Bad enough they’ll all be lying around doing nothing while I’m in Town and they’re in an empty house.

Well for you to know how things are done. ”

Finella did not wish to know anything about it.

Now that she did know it, she felt very sorry indeed for Sir Roger’s staff.

Her father was far more liberal. The baron’s idea of holidays was for the staff to make sure he did not starve by setting up a cold sideboard and leaving bottles of hock and claret, then they could do what they liked.

On the eve of Christmas, they always had a very good roast, but on Christmas Day it was a cold ham and rolls while the servants celebrated with the baron’s wine below stairs.

On top of Sir Roger being far too old, she really did not like this man.

“Sir Roger,” she said, “if you will excuse me for a moment.”

“Retiring room? Weak stomach, have you? Inconvenient.”

She nodded. She could not care less if he found it inconvenient.

Anything to put him off. Finella hurried from the dining room and down the corridor to the retiring room.

Going through the door, she entered another long corridor with a series of doors running along it that led to small compartments.

A girl was in attendance on a small stool with a table containing all manner of pins, needles and thread, and other accoutrements a lady might require.

Finella passed her by with a friendly nod and went to the last door at the end of the corridor. She let herself in and closed the door.

It was comfortably appointed with a table and a looking glass, a hair comb and pins, an elegant little stool, and a small sofa covered in grey velvet. And of course, a chamber pot with a carved wood lid.

She sank down on the sofa and weighed whether or not the duchess would be annoyed that she’d left Sir Roger to sit alone in the dining room.

Considering the lady’s reaction when she’d heard that Sir Roger was on Finella’s card, she thought not.

It was rude to leave him sitting alone, to be sure.

But then, her experience of Sir Roger so far was that he was rude too.

She very much hoped his servants were enjoying themselves during his absence.

She heard the outer door open and the chattering of two ladies as they came in. Perhaps she was not the only one to have made an escape to the ladies’ retiring room from an unpleasant gentleman.

“Pins, girl, I need pins,” lady said.

“Quick, now,” the other lady said.

“Yes, your ladyships,” the girl said.

Finella did not know who the ladies were, but they seemed rather bossy. They must have got the pins and let themselves into one of the compartments as she heard a second door close.

“Sit at the glass and do your pins while I lounge on the sofa. I am off my feet from dancing,” the second lady said.

“I hardly know how my hair is mussed, I did not even dance this evening.”

The other lady laughed. “Gaddington did not care to take you for a spin, Lucinda?”

“You know him ,” the lady Finella now knew was Lucinda said. “He just stands around like a block of wood. I knew how it would be, but dancing is not why I came this evening.”

“I suspect you have something to tell me. And I suspect I know what it’s about.”

“Have you seen her, Meg? Have you seen Miss Fernsby?”

Finella froze. Who were these ladies? Why should they be talking about her? Who were Meg and Lucinda?

“I saw her, and I noticed that your brother took her first.”

Her brother? This lady, this Lucinda, or Lady Gaddington as she would be known, was the duke’s sister?

“He is so outrageous,” Lucinda said. “I told him, he cannot just go about doing whatever strikes his fancy. He is a Finstatten, for heaven’s sake.”

“I suppose he’s not inclined to follow that advice,” Meg said.

“He is maddening, he really is. She is a mushroom. I cannot even believe the patronesses have let her in.”

“The Duchess of Ralston sponsors her, that’s why.”

“But a mushroom!”

“A short mushroom,” Meg said laughing.

“Come, let’s go back. Gaddington will be toe-tapping by now and I’ve got to get him home.

If he does not have a brandy in hand within the hour he will get especially cross.

When he gets especially cross, he starts looking at the bills.

There are several bills I would prefer he does not examine too closely just now. Harding and Howell, you know.”

Finella heard the ladies make their departure. She felt she could not move. She was frozen in place. She had never in her life heard a conversation about herself. Is this what everybody thought? Had she been delusional to have been pleased by how things had gone? It seemed so.

The events of the evening had almost made her forget herself. She’d almost forgotten how she would measure up to the tall and elegant ladies she was surrounded by. Now she was reminded. She was a mushroom among lilies.

She had thought herself a mushroom when she’d arrived to Town and now she had heard it said.

Tears sprung up and she brushed at them. Crying was unacceptable. She would not do it.

She must put things in perspective. All that had happened was the duke had been kind in asking for one of her dances.

She had helped him in his hour of need and he had thanked her for it.

His sister did not think she measured up and the lady was entitled to her opinion.

Lady Gaddington had not known she was being overheard.

She was having a confidential conversation with a friend.

Anything at all might be said in such conversations. Finella was not meant to hear it.

In any case, nothing that was said was not true. She had deluded herself over the duke’s kindness.

Finella heard the outer door open once more and she prayed she was not to hear anything more about herself.

“Miss Fernsby?”

It was the duchess. Finella grabbed at a stack of small cotton squares and dried her eyes. “Your Grace,” she said in as cheerful a manner as possible.

She opened the door and came out to the corridor. Finella put on a sanguine expression. At least, she hoped so.

“I have taken a guess that you hide here to be away from Sir Roger,” the duchess said.

Finella nodded. “I am sorry,” she said. “I do not like him and he began to talk about things that were, well they were uncomfortable.”

“Do not be sorry, I do not care for the man myself. He’s been a confirmed bachelor all these years and I think that’s what he should stay. However, I suspect it’s just occurred to him that he needs an heir.”

Finella physically recoiled. “Your Grace, I would never consider it. Not under any circumstances. I’d rather die alone.”

“Yes, yes, well I do not think it will come to dying alone. Let us go. Sir Roger can wonder about where you disappeared to all he likes. He will not dare say anything to me.”

Finella nodded. She kept her thoughts on the present minute and away from the past minutes.

That was the only thing she could do—walk forward, minute by minute.

She wished the duchess never knew what had been said.

She did not wish to let the lady down. She would swallow this and there would be time later to cry on Lucy’s shoulder.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Mr. Browning refilled the brandy decanter and brought two glasses into the drawing room.

His Grace had just returned from Almack’s and, as was his habit, he’d brought Sir Edward with him.

Both gentlemen would have had a dry night, as Almack’s refrained from serving wine.

They would be in a hurry to remedy the deficiency.

“You ought to go to bed, Browning,” the duke said.

Mr. Browning nodded. “Thank you, Your Grace. I will just take care of a few things before I retire.”

There were no “few things.” Mr. Browning would hardly leave a task undone until two o’clock in the morning. No self-respecting butler would be so careless. He’d left several items in the hall that he could put away so that he might dally and overhear whatever news there was about Almack’s.

“Make it a large one,” Sir Edward said to His Grace. “Almack’s tea does nothing for me and drinking it in the company of Lady Violet does even less.”

“Here you go. She was tedious, I imagine.”

“She was as determined a minx as I’ve ever encountered. She’s galloping on the hunt and you are the fox she’s after.”

“I presume she did not come out and say so.”

“Oh no, you know how a lady goes about such things. She smacked me with her fan a hundred times and demanded to know what shocking thing you said about her to the Countess of Westmoreland. Then she accused me of being shocking for not being able to repeat what was said.”

“A complete fiction she managed to invent for herself. If I had anything shocking to say, I would hardly say it to the Countess of Westmoreland.”

“Yes, well, I got tired of the endless nagging and innuendo, so I said if I recollected it correctly you told Lady Westmoreland that you despised Lady Violet with the heat of a thousand suns.”

Raucous laughter took over the drawing room.

“I am sure you should not have done that,” His Grace said. “I would not like any problem to develop with Packington. Did she storm off?”

“She did not. She laughed and said I was very naughty and sooner or later she would discover what was really said.”

Mr. Browning did not know too much about Lady Violet.

He’d seen her once, passing by in a carriage, and he knew she was the Earl of Packington’s sister who was just out this season.

She was an earl’s daughter and she looked elegant.

He really did not think Sir Edward had the right to be rude.

Nor should the duke laugh about it. She was, as far as he could see it, an eminently suitable lady.

At this rate, His Grace would never find anybody to wed, and he must wed. He must wed this year.

“I noticed Sir Roger took Miss Fernsby into supper,” Sir Edward said.

“What is that old fellow thinking?” the duke asked.

“I imagine he is thinking he’d best get an heir and a spare on the ground lest his title travel elsewhere.

It is a thing he should have been thinking about twenty years ago.

But then, I suppose he was as much of a curmudgeon then as he is now.

Perhaps he tried and could not find anyone to agree to putting up with his sour face forevermore. ”

“No doubt,” the duke said. “But to think he could measure up to Miss Fernsby? It’s entirely absurd. By the by, did you find out where she is going regarding entertainments?”

“She doesn’t know much. The duchess has a tight rein on the calendar.

She knows she is going to the poetical tableau at least. However, she only knows about that because Lady Thurston happened to come up in conversation and the duchess mentioned it.

That’s how she found out about the regatta too, it was just mentioned in conversation. ”

Mr. Browning had heard enough. The duke was becoming fixated on Miss Fernsby. Why? She had nothing particular to recommend her.

What was he to do about it? He was meant to be leading this matchmaking adventure.

His fellow butlers were depending upon him to steer the duke in the right direction, and they considered Miss Fernsby the decidedly wrong direction.

From what he’d heard, he considered Miss Fernsby the decidedly wrong direction too.

The duke’s whole future was at stake. The name of Finstatten was at stake.

The glorious history of the family was at stake.

If the old duke were here, he’d put a stop to it.

The old duke was gone though. That left Mr. Browning with the problem on his hands alone.

There was only one thing to be done at this moment. He would retire to his rooms, pour himself a generous glass of sherry, pick up his book, and try to forget all about it. Tomorrow was a new day and, with any luck, something would occur to him to get this ship sailing toward the right port.