Page 17 of A Perplexing Regency Romance (The League of Meddling Butlers #5)

Mr. Browning settled himself in a meeting with his fellow butlers in Cheapside as Mr. Penny took on pouring out the tea.

He found himself wishing he did not know as much as he did.

Something had happened at the poetical tableau that had caused the duke to save Miss Fernsby from broken glass by way of picking her up.

He did not know what the other League members knew. He suspected they knew quite a lot, considering all the head shaking that Mr. Feldstaffer was just now engaged in.

Mr. Penny handed him his cup and said, “Well gracious, I suppose we’ve all heard.”

“Of course we’ve all heard,” Mr. Harkinson said. “People living in the wilds of America have probably heard. They’re probably talking about it around a campfire in the west as we speak.”

Mr. Browning stared at Mr. Harkinson. He did not know why pioneers of the American west were to be brought into it.

“It is my understanding that Miss Fernsby had dropped her glass and shattered it on account of the shock of Lord Thurston rising out of the coffin nobody knew he was in,” Mr. Wilburn said.

“Broken glass, bad business,” Mr. Feldstaffer said. “If there’s a shard of glass anywhere, I’ll step on it.”

“It does show a delicacy of feeling, to my mind,” Mr. Penny said. “What I say is, a delicacy of feeling to be so shocked at the appearance of a man coming out of a coffin.”

“I’d wonder at anybody who wasn’t shocked,” Mr. Wilburn said.

It did not show a delicacy of feeling to Mr. Browning.

She had not fainted, which is what a delicate lady would do.

She’d dropped her glass. It showed clumsiness if it showed anything at all.

Sir Edward had smashed glasses all over the duke’s house and nobody accused him of a delicacy of feeling.

Furthermore, there had been no need for the duke to rescue her from her own clumsy mistake. Why could not Sir Roger have done it?

“Well, after all,” Mr. Rennington said, “I suppose Miss Fernsby is not so bad.”

Not so bad? Is that what they had come to?

“Perhaps not the brilliant match you were hoping for, Mr. Browning,” Mr. Rennington went on, “but it won’t cause talk beyond some jealous matrons who did not land the duke for their own daughter. Miss Fernsby is perfectly acceptable.”

“Perfectly acceptable?” Mr. Browning said. “Perfectly acceptable is in no way acceptable for the Duke of Greystone. Gentlemen, he is a Finstatten.”

Mr. Browning really thought that one simple sentence should say it all. The Duke of Greystone was a Finstatten. They were speaking of one of the oldest families in England. Only the highest standards would do.

“Nothing to be done about it, though,” Mr. Feldstaffer said.

“You’re stuck lowering your standards, Mr. Browning,” Mr. Harkinson said, not appearing at all sad about it.

The very idea of a lowering of standards was anathema to Mr. Matthew L.

Browning. He served in one of the most elevated households in England.

He could go no higher unless he served the palace.

He had known, even as a young man, that he was meant for such a refined environment.

He had been lucky enough to be sponsored by his parish and had gone away to school.

Mr. Browning had turned up with rather rough manners, as he’d not seen anything different.

Then he did see something different. The headmaster, Mr. Russell Manchin, was a stickler for manners and protocol.

Mr. Browning learned about proper dress and table settings, he refined his accent and his manner of eating.

He developed a discerning taste. When he’d returned home between terms, his father had accused him of acting like a prince.

He’d not answered his father aloud, but he’d thought, “Thank you, sir, that is the goal.”

He had come so far. He would not allow Miss Fernsby to drag him down!

“I really feel,” Mr. Penny said, “that there is no lowering of standards here. After all, Miss Fernsby is the daughter of a baron, new as the title may be. Now, while she might not be the image you had in mind, you know, being on the short side—”

“And the round side,” Mr. Harkinson said rather gleefully.

“Rubenesque, is how I would describe it,” Mr. Penny said. “If that is what the duke prefers…”

“I agree with Mr. Penny,” Mr. Rennington said. “As well, if this were the Renaissance, Miss Fernsby would be very much the style.”

If this were the Renaissance? Mr. Browning could hardly understand what had happened to his fellow butlers.

There was a time when they would go to any lengths to secure the right match for the lords and ladies in their purview.

Now they were to approve Miss Fernsby because she might have been the style two hundred years ago?

“The important thing is that the duke seems satisfied with the direction things are going,” Mr. Penny said, sipping his tea.

The important thing was the duke was satisfied?

The duke’s satisfaction had nothing to do with it!

He might be satisfied today, but what about tomorrow or next year or in ten years?

This was just like the rickety boat he’d built with Sir Edward to launch on the River Orwell.

The duke must be saved from his own ideas.

“It seems things are settled, then,” Mr. Wilburn said. “Perhaps not how we all saw things unfolding, but settled well enough.”

Mr. Browning felt as if his spine had turned to iron.

Nothing was settled. His fellow butlers might be willing to give up easily, but they were not the butler to the Duke of Greystone.

This butler did not roll over at the first difficulty.

This butler did not lower standards. This butler did not settle.

There was nothing for it. He would have to go it alone. Mr. Browning was going to have to go rogue.

As soon as he thought up a roguish idea, he would act on it. He would save the name of Finstatten at any cost. The old duke and duchess would be depending on him from their perches in heaven. He would not let them down!

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Finella had arrived home from the poetical tableau to find Lucy sprawled in one of the chairs of her bedchamber looking very sleepy. As there was a glass by her side that seemed to have a little bit of water in it, Finella was very afraid that her maid had stolen more of the cook’s gin.

Whether she had or had not, she became far less sleepy as Finella told her of all the events of the night. The very first thing that she’d relayed was having to face Lady Gaddington. Lucy was the only person in the wide world who would understand why that had been such a trial.

Lucy finished the glass of water, or gin, and said, “So you thought about callin’ her an asparagus. In the end, though, you didn’t call her an asparagus. A‘course, I would’ve called her a twice-pinched harpy. Shame, that.”

Finella was not quite in agreement there, though she was gratified by Lucy’s support. She moved on to tell of the tableau, Lord Thurston leaping out of the coffin, the broken glass, the duke sweeping her up, and Sir Roger following her out to the carriage.

“So you been in the duke’s arms now,” Lucy said. “How was it?”

“How was it? Lucy, I am not to think of how it was. It’s not very ladylike. I don’t imagine.”

Lucy waved her hands as if to dismiss her comments. “If a woman ends up in a man’s arms, she’s dotty if she don’t reflect on it.”

“Well I suppose it was very nice,” Finella said. “Though it was just to save my feet from stepping on glass.”

That was, of course, a complete fib. It was far more than very nice.

She would dream of that brief moment for the rest of her life.

Though it all happened so quickly, she had already examined every second of it.

If she had been told beforehand that it was to happen, she would have been dubious over the idea that the duke could sweep her up as he had, as if she were not at all heavy.

He must be very strong! And then, when he did sweep her up, she’d breathed in the scent of him, the coriander soap, both the citrus and warmth.

She had felt the rough wool of his coat against her bare arm. It had been positively thrilling.

“Lolling around in the duke’s arms was just very nice, was it?” Lucy said, with a snort. She rose and began to help Finella out of her dress and into her nightclothes. “Well now, I reckon you’ll have sweet dreams about that very nice embrace.”

Though Finella demurred, that was exactly what she did.

The day following the poetical tableau, the duchess was determined that they go out in a carriage so that Finella might take in the air as a restorative.

They set off at five o’clock, which was far later than they usually went out.

As a habit, the duchess usually liked to set off around two o’clock.

The park would not be too crowded at that hour and that was how the duchess preferred it.

She had no need to go flouncing around the park to be noticed.

She was the Duchess of Ralston, she was already sufficiently noticed.

The change in time came about when the duchess decided that she was not doing enough for Finella. While the duchess had no need to be noticed, Finella did. The duchess had set out to sponsor her, she’d promised the baron that Finella was in expert hands, and she must do the job creditably.

Though the duchess had repeatedly insulted anyone foolish enough to own a barouche, she began to see that it might be advantageous to ride in a carriage with the top down in order to show off a young lady.

She’d rented one, decided it smelled like other people, and sent it back.

Then she’d borrowed one from their neighbor, the Earl of Westford.

Apparently, whatever the earl smelled like, which seemed to be a lot of leather, was deemed acceptable.

As the horses walked the barouche down the carriage road, the duchess clasped her bonnet. “Gracious, I do not like all this blowing about.”