Page 22 of A Perplexing Regency Romance (The League of Meddling Butlers #5)

It came as no surprise to anybody that Barstow had ensured he was well situated for the start. He was already on the other side of the bridge and tacking to the north side of the Thames.

“We follow Barstow,” Seddie said.

“Why?”

“Because he knows what he’s doing.”

Hugh thought that was as good a reason as any. He scanned the barges looking for Miss Fernsby. At first, he did not see her. They followed Barstow’s lead and came about when Barstow did, heading toward the south side of the Thames.

Barstow’s valet attempted to stare them down, clearly figuring out what Seddie was doing. Hugh presumed he meant it as some sort of condemnation, but Seddie only waved, to the valet’s evident disgust.

“Coming about!” Seddie shouted.

Hugh ducked and dragged his life ring to the other side of the boat.

As they got closer to the north side of the river, there she was.

Miss Fernsby. The duchesses’ bargeman had secured one of the prime spots.

He should have known that was where they would be—the Duchess of Ralston would not settle for anything less.

He could see well enough that the wind had pulled a few curls from under Miss Fernsby’s bonnet.

She looked lovely. He hoped she’d noticed the yellow shawl.

“There is Packington,” Seddie said. “And Miss Fernsby and Lady Violet too. I wonder why they’re on a barge together.”

Hugh had been so taken up with the view of Miss Fernsby that he had not noticed who she was anchored with. It was very odd for Packington and his sister to be on the duchesses’ barge. He did not think there was any particular connection there.

“I doubt Lady Violet will be pleased to see that we display Miss Fernsby’s green,” Seddie said.

Green?

“But wait, was not Lady Violet’s color green too? French verte? Maybe that’s another shade of green.”

Hugh stared at the shawl. “That shawl is yellow. Miss Fernsby’s shawl is yellow.”

“No it isn’t, it’s green. Coming about!”

Hugh ducked and dragged his life ring to the other side. “The shopkeeper assured me it was yellow. Is it really green?”

“Green as grass,” Seddie said.

Hugh launched himself to the front of the boat, wrestled the shawl off the mast and threw it overboard.

“Hold on, Finstatten! We’re making our move!”

What move?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Finella had left her breakfast when she’d heard Lord Bestwick fire his gun for the start. She’d raced to the gunwale of the barge and squinted her eyes. The racers were still very far away so she could not see much.

The boats tacked back and forth, growing ever closer. She noted the Duke of Barstow in the lead as she’d already been informed that particular duke would show a red silk for his red-haired duchess.

And then following him, Sir Edward and the Duke of Greystone.

Yes, there they were, and they carried a shawl wrapped around the mast. Finella blinked back a sudden burst of water that had made its way to her eyes.

There was no yellow shawl. It was green.

Very clearly green. As green as green ever was.

“Goodness,” Lady Violet said, “Your Grace, it seems we chose the same color as our favorite.”

“Lady Violet?” the duchess said.

Lord Packington answered for his sister. “I mentioned to the duke that my sister’s color was French verte, but he apprised me that you had asked him to fly your own color, Your Grace. Of course, green is a rather common color even when you call it French verte.”

Finella felt frozen. First the duke would fly a color for the duchess though she’d not heard the duchess even mention a color, and then he showed Lady Violet’s color. What he had not shown was yellow.

She felt humiliated over what she’d thought, embarrassed by what she’d hoped.

Why was she always allowing her imagination to run wild?

She’d reined herself in and forced herself to be realistic and practical.

Then she’d seen the duke in the park and she’d allowed her imagination to go off on a gallop again.

She really must be full of herself to have done it.

It was an odd thought, as she’d always thought she had a lack of confidence.

Even the duchess had thought so. But deep inside, she must be very impressed with herself to have imagined the duke had asked her about her favorite color for any particular reason.

The poor gentleman had just been making conversation and she’d made so much of it, mooning over it with Lucy. It had really been very conceited.

“Miss Fernsby,” the duchess said, “come with me to the bow. I believe we will have a better view there.”

Despite not being addressed, Lady Violet had nodded at the suggestion. Lord Packington grabbed his sister’s arm and held her back. Finella was grateful for it, as the last person whose company she would seek out just now was Lady Violet’s.

They proceeded to the bow and looked over the Thames. Finella gripped the gunwale until her fingers turned white. It was rather painful, which was a welcome distraction. She attempted to look interested in the regatta. The sailors had passed them by and were heading toward the turnaround buoy.

“Miss Fernsby,” the duchess said, “I cannot quite imagine what has happened here. I have never indicated a particular color to the duke and I do not know why he should tell Lord Packington that I did. Further, I was certain he was set on showing a yellow shawl.”

Finella found herself in better control of her feelings than she would have imagined. She supposed that having been both insulted several times and recognizing her own foolishness several times since she’d come to Town had in some way toughened her up.

“It is no matter, Your Grace. The duke is free to display whatever color he chooses. Perhaps it is not for us to wonder why.”

“Well I do wonder why,” the duchess said, sounding unconvinced.

“I believe I know what’s happened. The duke asked about my favorite color just to make conversation.

Yes, I really do think that is all that happened.

After all, it was Sir Edward who talked about showing colors on the boats, not the duke.

Perhaps it is Sir Edward who shows the green for a lady.

Or perhaps the duke shows the French verte. Whatever the case, it matters not.”

The duchess was shaking her head throughout. She suddenly stopped her headshaking and pointed. “What in the world?”

Finella followed the duchesses’ pointing.

It was, at first, hard to make out what was happening.

The Duke of Bartow’s boat had rounded the buoy and let out its sails to head downwind for the finish.

The other five boats trailed behind, all aiming for that buoy, though she did not see how anybody would catch up to the leader at this point.

Nor did she care who won this stupid regatta.

Then she saw what had captured the duchesses’ attention. The second boat had rounded the buoy. It was Sir Edward and he was standing up in his boat. The Duke of Greystone was nowhere to be seen.

Until she saw him.

He was in the water. For some reason, Sir Edward was continuing to sail and was towing the duke behind him.

The duke was on his back and it appeared as if there were a rope around his ankle, attaching him to the boat.

All evidence of the green scarf was gone and Finella presumed it had gone over the side with him.

“I wonder why they are doing that,” Finella said.

“I would wonder, but with Sir Edward at the helm, any ridiculous thing is possible,” the duchess said. “Look there, the duke was nearly run over by one of the other boats.”

Finella knew she should feel very concerned at what she was viewing. But somehow, she felt a quiet satisfaction.

“Serves him right,” the duchess said.

That was her thought exactly.