Page 24 of A Perplexing Regency Romance (The League of Meddling Butlers #5)

Then he heard it. A carriage. Browning flung open the doors, determined to understand what he was up against. If the duke was dead, he must know. If his participation in the shawl switching was known, he must own it. Or at least plausibly deny it. That which could not be avoided must be faced.

He paused in the doorframe. Sir Edward was helping the duke walk. The duke hopped on one leg and he was soaked through. Again! He was at least alive, and no thanks to Sir Edward he was sure.

“Your Grace,” Mr. Browning said, hurrying forward. “What has happened?”

“Just the usual, Browning,” the duke said. “Seddie knocked me into the Thames again, except this time, I had a rope tied round my ankle and was dragged behind the boat.”

“He tied the rope on his ankle, not me,” Sir Edward said.

Mr. Browning stared at Sir Edward with a look that he dearly hoped said, “You are a menace, Sir.”

He took the duke’s other arm and shouted for his footmen. “Jimmy, set off for Sir Henry this instant and inform him that the duke has been injured in the company of Sir Edward. Again.”

“I’m not certain my name needs to be mentioned,” Sir Edward said.

“I would argue against calling on Sir Henry,” the duke said, “but I would like to know if there are any broken bones.”

“I should say so, Your Grace,” Mr. Browning said. “One cannot be dragged through the Thames and imagine there has been no damage.” He leaned back to look around the duke at Sir Edward. “Damage,” he said grimly, “to the duke’s person.”

Sir Edward determinedly avoided his eye, which said all Mr. Browning needed to know about this latest disaster.

They got the duke into the house and up the stairs, all the while Sir Edward claiming six ways to Sunday that there couldn’t be any broken bones, and he did say they were going to make their move, and no sailor ties a rope around their ankle, and he did get the duke back onboard as soon as they had rounded the buoy.

Mr. Browning could not imagine the shocking scene that had transpired. For all of London to see, too.

The duke’s valet arrived and between him and Mr. Browning, they got the duke out of his wet clothes, into dry nightclothes, and onto the bed.

The coat the duke wore was relatively dry, unlike the rest of his clothes.

Once he was informed that the coat was in fact Sir Edward’s, he threw it on the floor as a statement.

It was done as if he did not pay much attention to it, as if he was all eyes on the duke.

But Sir Edward would perceive the message.

Then he accidentally stepped on it for good measure.

A butler must have his methods of expressing his feelings.

Mr. Browning directed the valet to gently lift the duke’s leg, and he slid a pillow underneath his ankle.

He was no physician, but he did at least know that if an extremity was injured, that extremity ought to be propped up.

It looked terribly swollen and Mr. Browning prayed the duke was not to be left with a permanent limp.

He would very much like to push Sir Edward out the nearest open window. He could not do that, he did not think, as it would be hard to say it was an accident. He turned to Sir Edward and said coldly, “Sir Edward?”

“Ah yes, well I’ll be off then,” Sir Edward said. “Finstatten, shall I come by at seven to pick you up?”

“Pick him up?” Mr. Browning said, incredulous.

“For the prince’s party, Browning,” the duke said. “I think I’d better skip it, considering.”

At the mention of the prince’s party, Mr. Browning recalled that there was a letter from the prince waiting downstairs. With any luck, the letter was to cancel the party. Perhaps there had been a flood or fire at Carlston House and the party would not go forward.

“Your Grace, that reminds me,” he said. “A letter from Carlton House arrived here not too long ago. Benjamin, do go down and fetch it for His Grace. I imagine something has happened and the party is called off.”

“What could happen?” Sir Edward said.

“Unexpected things do happen,” Mr. Browning said. “I certainly had not expected His Grace to be thrown off a boat. Twice. Or dragged behind a boat. As examples of the unexpected.”

The duke snorted. Sir Edward said nothing, but Mr. Browning was satisfied that he’d made his point in a particularly pointed manner.

The footman, meanwhile, had set off to fetch the letter. While he was gone, Sir Edward went to great lengths to claim the duke’s ankle did not look “that bad” and the chance of anything broken was “very remote” and the swelling looked like it was “going down.”

Browning counted on his expression to communicate his utter disdain for every single one of Sir Edward’s opinions.

Benjamin carried in a silver salver with the prince’s letter and presented it to the duke. His Grace opened it and read through it. “Blast,” he said.

“Blast, Your Grace?” Mr. Browning asked.

“Here you go, Browning. Read it aloud for Seddie, so he can really take in the royal impressions of his seamanship,” the duke said.

Browning took the letter, with high hopes that Sir Edward was moments away from being pulverized by royal disapproval.

Duke—

We had the pleasure of attending Lord Bestwick’s regatta today.

Never have we viewed such original seamanship.

We certainly had never imagined an interesting swim being included in the display.

We were, at first, rather affronted. But then we realized we ought to be of good cheer, remembering that you and Sir Edward have nothing whatsoever to do with our fine English navy.

Had that not been the case, I am confident we’d all be speaking French by now.

The captain and crew of The Contessa will be in receipt of a special award this evening.

Be in attendance to collect it. That is a command.

George R.

Jimmy burst into the room breathless. “Sir Henry is on his way, Mr. Browning.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

After she’d noted the green scarf on the duke’s boat, the rest of the time spent on the barge had been deeply uncomfortable for Finella.

She’d watched Sir Edward haul the duke back on the boat, still with no idea how he’d got into the water in the first place.

Though she had at first felt a quiet satisfaction over the duke in the water, that had faded and worry had taken its place.

What if he had breathed in water? She understood that could be very dangerous.

She and the duchess eventually rejoined Lord Packington and Lady Violet.

That lady had her own theory about what happened.

She posited that the shawl around the mast had come loose in the wind and the duke had made a valiant effort to retrieve it, thereby flinging himself into the Thames. Lady Violet found it very gallant.

Finella supposed that might have been the case, though it did not explain how the duke ended up being dragged through the water, courtesy of a rope around his foot.

By her tone, Finella guessed that Lady Violet was supremely confident that the shawl the duke had displayed had been French verte in her honor. She was enormously flattered that he’d jumped in after it, though she could not know for certain that was the case.

Finella did not know if the lady was right to be flattered, but she did think French verte was a stupid name for a color.

They had disembarked the barge and began to make their way back to the waiting carriages. It was crowded on the pier. People may have straggled early in the morning but now that the regatta was over, everybody seemed in a hurry to leave.

She did not know where he’d come from, but suddenly Sir Roger was by her side. The duchess was ahead of her as Lord Packington had leant his arm to go up the stone steps. "Miss Fernsby. Did you enjoy the regatta?” he asked, holding out his arm when they reached the bottom step.

She did not really require his arm, but it would be rude to ignore it. She laid her gloved hand as lightly as she could on the sleeve of his coat. She had no wish to feel his arm.

“Yes, it was very nice,” she said vaguely.

“I suppose for the ladies the interest is in noting what colors the gentlemen carried.”

She did not answer that, as what was there to say? She’d said yellow and he’d flown green.

In a lower voice, Sir Roger said, “I understand Lady Violet advertised far and wide that she favored some kind of French green. Seems like the duke took her up on it.”

Finella did not answer that either.

“Well I suppose as an earl’s daughter she can shoot that high. The rest of us, though…”

Was that a hint to her? That she ought not shoot too high? Perhaps she ought not shoot too high, but she would not shoot too low either. The too low was most definitely Sir Roger.

Fortunately, they’d reached the top of the stone steps. The duchess had sent Lord Packington and Lady Violet on their way. She turned around and frowned. “Sir Roger,” she said.

And with that simple statement, she sent Sir Roger on his way too. It seemed to be the power of a duchess that she could send a gentleman on his way just by saying his name in a certain tone. Sir Roger had whispered, “Your Grace,” and then scurried off like a mouse in view of a cat.

During the carriage ride home, the duchess had said, “I do not know why the duke had a green shawl on his boat, but I do know one thing—it was not in honor of Lady Violet. The man positively fled from the girl in the park. She deludes herself to think otherwise, poor soul.”

Finella supposed that could be true, but what did it matter?

It was not a yellow shawl. There might have been a dozen ladies who told the duke they preferred green.

She’d very stupidly allowed herself to imagine she might see a yellow shawl and she had not.

Perhaps she should be grateful. If he had flown a yellow shawl she would have leapt to the conclusion that it had been in her honor, but there might be a dozen other ladies who’d claimed yellow as their favorite.

She was all but certain she would have embarrassed herself in some manner.

When they’d arrived home, Lucy took the news of the green shawl rather hard. Far harder than Finella had thought she would. She’d imagined Lucy would think her silly for thinking she might see a yellow shawl. She had not thought Lucy would view herself as personally injured.

“He’s ruined everything,” Lucy said, throwing Finella’s gloves on the bed.