Page 27 of A Perplexing Regency Romance (The League of Meddling Butlers #5)

Lord Alvanley had just announced that the prince was soon to hand out the trophy for the regatta.

“Ah, I’d best go find Barstow,” his duchess said to her and Lady Souderton. “I must be on hand to cheer him on for his glorious win. I am his most fervent admirer.”

The crowd all turned to the prince and Lord Alvanley. Mr. Brummel stood to the side looking discomfited. Finella wondered if he was always unhappy. She supposed one might be, if one were to dislike people all the time. Especially if one were to be taken down a peg by a duchess on account of it.

The prince said a few words in honor of the regatta and in congratulations to the Duke of Barstow, who had won several years in a row.

Though the prince noted that it was beginning to seem routine that the duke would win, the duke himself seemed happy enough about it.

His duchess looked delighted. What a handsome pair they were.

“Now,” the prince said, “we cannot allow this moment to pass without noting a rather original occurrence at the regatta. It is not every day that one views a duke of the realm being dragged behind his boat. At least, we hope it is not every day. Where is Greystone? I see Sir Edward, where is your friend?”

“I’m not entirely sure, Your Royal Highness,” Sir Edward said, standing on his toes and looking around.

Someone in the back of the crowd called out, “He was last seen being rolled down the corridor by Lady Violet.”

Finella saw Lord Packington mutter something under his breath. “I’ll find them, Your Royal Highness.”

“Do,” the prince said. “I do not like to be kept waiting.”

Lord Packington hurried down the corridor. The duchess returned to Finella’s side. “What in the world,” she said quietly.

“I am not certain. I only saw Lady Violet wheeling the duke down the corridor.”

“That brazen little vixen,” the duchess said. “She is going to get herself in a lot of trouble if her brother does not do something.”

Finella was rather shocked by the duchesses’ assessment. She was not sure what the lady meant by it.

Just then, she spotted Lord Packington pushing the duke back down the corridor at speed. Finella hoped the duke was not flung out of his chair. She really did think he’d taken enough falls recently.

Lord Packington came to an abrupt stop and the duke held on to the sides of the chair to keep himself in it. The prince said, “There you are, Duke.”

“I apologize, Your Royal Highness, I am not presently in control of where I go. Or at what speed,” the duke said, glancing up at Lord Packington.

“Very well,” the prince said, nodding graciously.

“I was commenting on the idea that we’ve witnessed some entertaining moments at Bestwick’s regattas, but this is the first time we’ve seen a duke dragged by one foot behind his boat.

For that reason, we are happy to confer on the Duke and Sir Edward the Order of the Golden Foot.

As the crowd laughed, Lord Alvanley pulled a cloth to unveil a plaster foot covered in gold leaf sitting atop a pedestal.

“I would ask that Sir Edward display this golden foot in a prominent place in his drawing room so that every person who steps into it will ask him to explain the circumstances of it.”

“Yes, Your Royal Highness,” a very abashed Sir Edward said.

Finella noted the lady standing by Sir Edward fold her arms and look exceedingly exasperated. On the other hand, the duke had a look of vindication, so she imagined whatever had occurred on the boat was being laid at Sir Edward’s door.

“Greystone, Alvanley, Barstow and his duchess, Mrs. Fitzherbert, Brummel… and I suppose Sir Edward, we will have a small dinner in the blue velvet room. The rest of you, tables have been set up in the ballroom. Enjoy.”

“This is new,” the duchess said. “He has not offered a dinner in other years. I think we will not stay. The prince’s food is generally high-flown, but my cook suits me better and I have seen all I wish to see this evening. We will just wait for the prince’s exit and then make our escape.”

Finella had nodded as she was worn out from what she had viewed. The evening was as she had expected, but thinking about something and actually seeing something were two different matters. It had been like watching a lovely dream float away, even though she knew it was a dream to begin.

Sir Edward was wheeling the duke behind the prince and Lord Alvanley. Finella could not help but to take a look at him, as he really was so glorious. He was her dream, floating ever further away.

He caught her staring and smiled and waved. She hardly knew what to do so she waved back. She was sure she looked foolish doing it.

Finella sighed. There he was, being friendly again. There she was, fanning herself over it again. She would very much like to go home and chew on a biscuit to soothe herself.

The prince’s party walked by, the rest of the crowd began to head to the ballroom, and Finella and duchess took their leave.

When they got home, the duchess ordered a dinner of sorts. Cold ham, a generous block of cheddar, rolls, the good butter brought in from her estate, and a bottle of hock.

“I am very disturbed by Lady Violet,” the duchess said.

“Because she might have been alone in a room with the duke?” Finella asked. “But then, other people might have been there as well.”

“She is too forward by half.”

“Well, I suppose if the duke encouraged her…”

“Encouraged her? That was a kidnapping, if I’m not mistaken.”

Finella chewed on a piece of ham. She was grateful beyond measure that the duchess would think so.

However, she was certain the duchesses’ views were being warped by her fondness for Finella.

She simply could not see things for how they really were.

She sympathized, as it had taken her some time to see things how they were.

When Finella retired to her bedchamber, Lucy was no better. She deemed Lady Violet a wrecker of plans, as the lady was wrecking her plans. Along with the duke, of course, who was the chief wrecker of plans.

Finella fell asleep wishing the season would end and she could just go home. Her sensible, happy self was at home.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Hugh had finally got back to the house after being hauled in and out of a carriage and up the stairs.

He lay in bed with a glass of brandy, staring out at the moon through his windows.

The day had been a disaster from start to finish.

First, Seddie had managed to throw him overboard again and this time he’d come away with a fractured ankle.

Second, he’d been given a ludicrous wheeled chair and had no choice but to use it.

Third, try as he might, he had not had the opportunity to speak to Miss Fernsby about the green shawl.

And fourth, the terrible fourth, he did have the opportunity to speak to Lady Violet.

He was sure he was going to have trouble from Packington over it.

Lady Violet had wheeled him away against his will. At first, he’d tried to be polite about his resistance to it. It was the plague of a gentleman that he must always be polite to a lady, even when he would like to throw something at that lady’s head.

Then he’d out and out asked to be wheeled back to the drawing room, but she’d just laughed it off as if he were joking. And then came the part of their exchange that was likely to cause problems with Packington.

She’d wheeled him into the music room and thank the stars there were other people already in it. Lord and Lady Hankin were cozy on a sofa. They were recently wed and Hugh had the idea they could not care less where they were, and even less about the prince’s prize for the regatta.

“I think, at this point,” Lady Violet said as she parked him next to a harp, “I ought to call you duke. Using ‘Your Grace’ is too formal.”

“I do not think it is,” Hugh had said. He was not going to allow her to claim an intimacy that was not there. She did not have the right to call him duke and he would not be run over about it.

She’d reacted to that statement with a…was it a giggle? He did not know. It sounded childish, whatever it was.

“Very well,” she said. “Your Grace. By the by, everyone is talking about the green shawl. French verte, if I am not mistaken.”

Hugh sighed. Here it was. He would have to be blunt, as no amount of hints would put off Lady Violet.

He said, “Lady Violet, I am blind to certain colors. I went to the shops and purchased a yellow shawl, or so I was told. I did not know it was green until Sir Edward informed me of it. I then threw it overboard.”

“Yellow?”

“Yellow.”

“Why?”

Why? Was she really going to press him on this? The lady knew no bounds. “Miss Fernsby indicated her preferred color is yellow.”

“Miss Fernsby!” Lady Violet all but spat out the name, as if she’d never heard anything so outrageous in her life. “The Miss Fernsby that stays with the Duchess of Ralston. That Miss Fernsby?”

Hugh thought it rather a ridiculous question. How many Miss Fernsbys could there be?

“Your Grace, Miss Fernsby? What about my brother’s house party?” Lady Violet asked. “You were very attentive to me.”

This seemed to arrest the attention of Lord and Lady Hankin. They leaned forward from their position on the sofa.

Good God, was Lady Violet attempting to accuse him of leading her on?

Did Packington think it? He could not think so.

Hugh had done everything possible to keep Lady Violet at arm’s length.

There was nothing for it, politeness would have to go out the window and the truth be told.

He would not be trapped into anything by this girl.

“No, I was not attentive. You followed me all over the house and I was forced to take up reading in my room.”

Lady Violet went white as snow. Packington chose that moment to hurry into the room.

“Duke, the prince is asking for you,” Lord Packington said. “Let us hurry.”