Page 13 of A Perplexing Regency Romance (The League of Meddling Butlers #5)

Finella had put a brave face on things in the carriage with the duchess. They’d left Almack’s and left Sir Roger with no explanation for why Finella had disappeared.

The duchess deemed this perfectly acceptable. She said when a gentleman does something affronting, it was fine to be quietly rude. A woman must have her weapons.

Finella was affronted by Sir Roger. She realized that her feelings of insult were not so much what his behavior said about him, but what it said about her.

Sir Roger seemed to think she would be a willing lady, else he would not have launched into a description of his assets so quickly.

Not just willing, even. He viewed her as a lady whose acquiescence was assumed, as if she could not have any other option.

She was taken for a lady who did not need to be wooed.

That said something about her worth, or lack of it.

She did not suppose Sir Roger would have the effrontery to approach a lady like Lady Violet in the same manner.

After all, Lady Violet was not a mushroom. As had been so recently pointed out to her.

Finally, blessedly, Finella bid the duchess good night and retired to her room. Lucy took one look at her, went into her own room, and brought back the jar of biscuits.

She handed it over and said, “What’s happened? I can see it all over your face. Did the duke fail to turn up?”

“No, no, he was there,” Finella said, chewing on a biscuit. “The duke was very kind.”

“What then?”

Finella poured out the story of escaping into the ladies’ retiring room to escape Sir Roger, only to hear the duke’s sister name her a mushroom.

“A mushroom? What is wrong with that lady?” Lucy asked.

“It is not what is wrong with her, Lucy. It is what is wrong with me. Now, you are not to feel sorry for me. Not everybody in the world can be a beauty. Or as they say in Town, a diamond of the first water. I am not a diamond of any water. The important thing is that I accept myself for myself. That is all. I’m not the least bit upset over it. ”

Finella took that moment to sob and entirely discount the idea that she was not the least bit upset.

Lucy patted her hand until she could somewhat recover herself. “I would have hit that lady over the head with my parasol. That would have taught her a lesson.”

“I did not have a parasol, and if I did, I would not hit anybody with it.”

“You could have used your reticule. Not as effective but it might have left a mark. Now, I know just what is needed.” She slipped out of the room. Finella heard her go down the stairs and hoped she was not raiding the kitchens for more biscuits. It was the sort of thing the cook would notice.

After some minutes had passed, Lucy returned with a glass of water. She did not imagine there was anything soothing in a glass of water, but she appreciated the thought. Especially since the duchess had their good neighborhood well water from home brought in via cartloads of bottles.

Finella sipped it and then choked on it. “Lucy, what is this?”

“Gin, I’ve seen where the cook hides his supply.”

“It’s terrible.”

“It will settle you, though.”

As Finella was far more used to settling herself with a biscuit rather than gin, she managed another sip and that was it.

Lucy got her undressed and tucked the blankets round her, cursed the head of Lady Gaddington, and then took the glass of gin to bed with her.

Finella supposed the gin would settle Lucy instead.

She’d lain awake long into the night. She came to the conclusion that it would have been preferable to never have encountered the duke on The Strand.

She’d come to London with modest ideas. Appropriately modest. Then she’d met the duke, the friendly duke, and all her common sense had flown out the window.

She’d lost her modest ideas and had begun to take on ideas far above what they should have been.

She blushed to recall that she’d even thought the idea of Finella Finstatten. She was embarrassed for herself!

Perhaps she should be grateful that Lady Gaddington had popped the bubble of her irrational imaginings.

She would wed, hopefully. And it would not be to the likes of Sir Roger, either.

She need not lower herself that far. However, she must think more realistically.

When she’d been at home, she’d imagined a middling sort of gentleman, he might even be as highly placed as a viscount, though she’d be satisfied with less.

There was nothing at all wrong with a mister, as long as he was a gentleman.

She’d lost her wits to think she might have attracted a dashing duke. It was entirely absurd.

Her feelings had been hurt, but nobody in the world but Lucy knew it.

She would keep it that way. She would hold her head high and stop wishing or pretending to be anything other than what she was.

Just Finella Fernsby, the short and Rubenesque daughter of a newly-titled baron.

She was not for everybody, but she must have faith that she’d be for somebody.

She did not need an army of admirers, just one.

After all, did not Mrs. Pumpernick like to say there was a proper cup for every pot of tea?

She must just find her pot of tea and all would be well.

She and her pot of tea would live quietly, they would not be leading society or even much in it.

Finella would be very satisfied with her lot in life.

For now, until her pot of tea turned up, she was determined to conduct herself well and be a credit to her father. He was made a baron, and she was his sole representative in Town. She would not let him down with any foolish notions.

The days that followed were quiet. They had no plans to go out in the evenings and they had no plans to receive visitors.

Their sole activity outside the house was a carriage ride.

The duchess liked to be driven round the park in the afternoons.

She had a finely made brougham with blue velvet seats and all manner of conveniences.

There was even a small, folded table attached to the back that could be used for a picnic though they never did any such thing, as the duchess thought eating out of doors was barbaric.

As they drove through the park, the duchess would inevitably spot a barouche and then explain what a nonsensical notion it was to have a carriage with the top down in a country where rain might strike at any moment.

While the duchess was talking of the mistake of purchasing a barouche, Finella would gaze out the window, hoping to see the duke.

She reasoned with herself that it was perfectly fine to wish to see him on horseback.

After all, she only hoped to see him. Anybody might see anybody else with there being nothing in it.

She was certain the duke was admired wherever he went.

She was just one more admirer. A very many people wished to see him with nothing in it.

Just a simple admiration, as happened every day.

She never did see him, though.

As they were living so quiet for a few days, Finella became much more acquainted with the duchess.

She had of course known her while she’d lived at home.

But she had not really known her. The duchess had always been their very grand neighbor and they were occasionally invited to a dinner at the house, along with a select group of the other neighbors.

It was not until her father had been made a baron that the duchess had paid more attention to Finella.

She found the lady very to the point and full of good sense.

The duchess did not fan herself over something gone wrong, nor did she blame the staff when a thing was not quite right.

Just two days ago a plate of fairy cakes had come up for tea and they were discovered to be inedible.

It was finally figured out that a new kitchen maid had accidentally put salt in the sugar bin, then realized her mistake, panicked, told nobody, and just tried to get the salt out. With limited success, apparently.

When the fairy cakes came back down to the kitchens, the poor girl did not even wait to be found out.

She screamed it was all her fault and then sprinted to the servants’ quarters to pack her bags.

Wagner had stopped her from leaving by explaining that it was careless, but not the crime of the century.

The duchess had laughed so hard she had tears in her eyes when Wagner told her the tale.

Now they were biding their time in the drawing room in the quiet of the late afternoon. Finella had picked up a book, as it was the sort of thing one could look absorbed in without really being absorbed.

Somewhere near four o’clock there was a knocking on the front door.

A minute later, Wagner entered the room and said, “Your Grace, a certain Sir Roger Brimley has arrived and inquired if Miss Fernsby is at home.” Wagner’s tone hinted that he could hardly believe that events had forced him to say such a thing.

Finella felt rather frozen. She had not expected to have to fend off Sir Roger while she was inside the duchesses’ house.

“Miss Fernsby is certainly not at home,” the duchess said briskly.

Wagner had nodded and not looked very surprised. He shut the drawing room doors behind him and went to give the heave-ho to Sir Roger.

“He’s a persistent old fool,” the duchess said.

“Perhaps he meant to press me on where I disappeared to when I left him at the table at Almack’s,” Finella said.

“You owe him no explanation,” the duchess said. “If he persists in making himself a pest, I will have a direct word with him.” The lady suddenly laughed. “Gracious, does Sir Roger imagine he measures up to the Duke of Greystone?”

Finella did not answer, as there was not a thing to say. If the duchess meant to hint something about the duke, well, it was ridiculous. She would see that in time. She was very kind to imagine it, though.