Page 23 of A Perplexing Regency Romance (The League of Meddling Butlers #5)

The last thing Hugh had heard before he was flung off the boat was Seddie shouting, “Hold on, Finstatten. We’re making our move.”

He had not the first idea of what the move was. No move had ever been discussed. Furthermore, Seddie had not said ‘coming about,’ which would have alerted him to the fact that the boom was about to swing his way.

Once again, he’d been flung off the boat.

As he’d tied the life ring around his ankle, it was supposed to come with him.

He might have congratulated himself on his foresight, had not the life ring caught on a cleat attached to the gunwale.

As it had, he found himself dragged along by the rope round his ankle.

Seddie had looked behind him and yelled, “Just let me get round the buoy and then I’ll get you back onboard.”

Hugh used his arms in some sort of backward paddle to keep his head above water. He was going to kill Seddie. As soon as he got out of this mess and got the feeling back in his arms, the man was as good as dead.

They reached the buoy and Seddie shouted “coming about” to no purpose whatsoever, as he was only signaling himself to duck at this point.

Hugh was swung through the water as other boats were heading toward him fast. He paddled furiously as the bow of another of the sloops managed to miss his head by inches.

They rounded the buoy and the sails were let out for the downwind leg.

Seddie reached behind him while keeping one hand on the tiller and starting to haul him in by the rope.

Hugh reached the gunwale and clutched at it. He hung on and used the last of his strength to pull himself over the side, rolling to the bottom of the boat. The operation had slowed them down and now two other boats passed by them.

Seddie let out a long sigh. “We’ll never win now.”

Hugh sat up, coughing to clear his lungs. “You know what else is a never? I will never, and I mean never, set foot on a boat with you again.”

Seddie seemed surprised to hear it. “I told you we were making our move.”

“You did not say what the move was or that you were coming about,” Hugh said.

“I thought that was obvious.”

“Not obvious,” Hugh said, untying the rope from around his ankle.

“I meant to go over the whole plan before the race started,” Seddie said. “But then we were running late.”

We were running late. That was rather rich.

“I attempted to make a quick turn to cut in front of Barstow.” Seddie shrugged. “It might have worked, but with the drag behind the boat…”

It was extraordinary. Somehow, Hugh was responsible for failing to get ahead of Barstow.

This whole day had been one disaster after the next.

That shopkeeper where he’d bought the shawl had sworn it was yellow.

Sunny yellow, he’d said. Hugh presumed the fellow did not have a yellow shawl to sell but when he realized Hugh could not differentiate the colors, he’d been happy to pawn off a green one.

If that was not bad enough, Seddie had once more managed to dump him in the Thames and then had the unmitigated gall to blame him for slowing down the boat.

As for whose fault it was that he was dragged by his ankle, well that was probably Seddie’s fault too, as Hugh would never have tied himself to a life ring if he’d not been knocked off the boat the first time.

“I can see you are aggravated,” Seddie said as they drifted downwind.

“That does not begin to describe it,” Hugh said wringing out his coat. The day was not as cold as the first time he’d gone swimming, but the water of the Thames was. He was freezing.

“Now, I will just remind you that I did not hold a grudge that time you burnt my eyebrow off and it took months to look right again.”

Hugh felt like he might have to pay for that particular crime forever.

Seddie mentioned it for any and all occasions.

They’d been ten years old and chasing each other with lit candles, what else could have been the result of it?

At first, they had not even realized what happened, but when Seddie took a cloth to wash off the soot, his brow came with it.

Seddie had looked highly ridiculous for months and had been teased mercilessly over it.

Some of the village boys had begun calling him “One Brow Bromley.” Seddie’s mother had been distraught and examined the area of the missing brow every day for evidence of growth, as she’d been worried the hair would not grow back.

On the other hand, Hugh still remembered Browning’s silent look of amusement over it, as he had not liked Seddie even back then.

Barstow had pulled far ahead. He would win the regatta once more. They were set to come in fourth out of six. Hugh supposed he ought to be just grateful that he was still alive.

“Here,” Seddie said, handing him his dry coat and a flask. “I brought the good brandy for just such a situation.”

Just such a situation. Hugh could not help but laugh. If he did not wish for a friend who would dump him in the Thames on occasion he should never have connected himself to Seddie. He had nobody to blame but himself.

He put on the coat and took a long swig of the brandy. “I may have to kill the shopkeeper who sold me a green shawl, claiming it was yellow.”

“It was supposed to be yellow?”

“Yes, Miss Fernsby said it was her favorite color.”

“Ah, I hadn’t really paid attention. Are you set on a pursuit, then?”

Hugh nodded. “I did not expect to meet a lady I wished to wed. I’ve been looking and looking. And then, there she was.”

“I am of the same mind regarding Lady Genevieve. There she was.”

“We’ve known Lady Genevieve since we were children.”

“Yes, but she was a girl. Then all of the sudden she turned into a lady and there she was.” Seddie suddenly got a faraway look, as he often did when he was trying to remember something. “Wait a minute, this green shawl might be a bigger problem than it looks.”

“Why?”

“French verte. Remember? Packington said Lady Violet’s color was French verte before you made up that story about the duchess telling you what color to fly. Verte is green. Lady Violet is going to think you flew her color.”

Hugh took another swig of brandy in honor of another problem. At least he’d thrown the French verte over the side and into the Thames.

In the meantime, his ankle was beginning to throb and swell.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Mr. Browning had woken far too early that morning.

That, combined with having a terrible time getting to sleep the night before, made him exhausted.

Of course, he knew the cause. It was a guilty conscience!

He had betrayed the duke! The yellow shawl had been switched to green.

Lady Gaddington had done it, but he’d stood by and allowed it.

He was complicit in the crime. He was a criminal. A rogue butler-criminal.

He reasoned with himself that he’d had no choice in the matter.

He had always acted in the duke’s interests, and he did so now.

Even when the going got difficult, he would act in the interests of the Finstattens.

He had explained the whole thing to God when he’d said his prayers, those prayers primarily consisting of a request not to get caught.

Though the idea that he acted in the interests of the Finstattens somewhat soothed him, he spent the day pacing the front hall.

The plot of the switched shawls was going forward.

What was happening at the regatta? If there was one downside to being a butler, it was that one could rarely be on the scene, unless the scene was in the house and the butler pretended to be doing something nearby.

Anything could be happening. Sir Edward might take another run at killing the duke.

The duke might somehow realize that Mr. Browning had been involved in switching the shawls.

The regatta would be over by now. Whatever was to happen had happened.

What had gone on? He did not like a mystery, he did not like to be in the dark.

He glanced at the other mystery, which was a letter lying on the hall table.

A letter from Carlton House had arrived only a few minutes ago.

A letter from the prince, himself. The prince was not in the habit of writing the duke.

They traveled in very different spheres.

The duke did not mind the prince so much, but he did find most of his inner circle irritating, especially Mr. Brummel.

The duke and Mr. Browning were in firm agreement over Mr. Brummel, though Browning had never alerted the duke to this meeting of the minds.

That fellow thought too highly of himself and who was he?

Just a fellow who tortured his valet by taking half the day to get dressed.

But why had the prince sent a letter unexpectedly, on the very day of the regatta? A letter sent the very day the prince was to host a party for the regatta? Could it be a coincidence? There was no such thing as coincidence. Something had happened.

Perhaps the duke and Sir Edward had won the regatta? No, that was absurd. Sir Edward had been at the helm. They had a better chance of sailing off the edge of the world.

Did the prince send letters of condolence? Was the duke dead? Was he drowned at the hands of the incompetent and careless Sir Edward?

Mr. Browning knew he needed to calm himself, as his thoughts were taking a dark and not very sensible turn.

He lived in terror that the duke would die before producing an heir and it influenced his thoughts terribly.

He knew he should stop pacing. The footmen were becoming alarmed.

They were used to calm Mr. Browning who faced every situation with equanimity.

Now they were faced with pacing and mopping his brow Mr. Browning. It would not do.