Page 28 of A Perplexing Regency Romance (The League of Meddling Butlers #5)

Hugh was once more wheeled away with no say in where he was going. And not slowly, either. He held on to the arms of the chair as they flew down the corridor.

It was lucky he was holding on, too. If he had not been, he most certainly would have been thrown to the floor when Packington made a hard stop in the main reception room.

The prince had gone on to award he and Seddie the Order of the Golden Foot. It was all highly ridiculous, but the prince did like to have his jokes. If there were one pleasing aspect to it, it was that Seddie had been ordered to display it in his drawing room.

After that nonsense was got over, it really should have been the moment when he could speak to Miss Fernsby. But no, then he’d been wheeled away to have dinner with the prince, which he would really rather not do.

It had been tedious and long. If he’d been able to walk, he might have slipped out in the middle of it to find Miss Fernsby with the excuse that he was going to relieve himself.

The prince was inordinately proud of his water closets and never minded a person visiting them so they might wonder at the modernity of his designs.

As it was, he had been stuck. It had been an odd party.

Seddie was much abashed and did not say much, the prince and Mrs. Fitzherbert did not seem overfond of one another at the moment, Brummel was sullen, Hugh’s ankle was throbbing, and the Duke and Duchess of Barstow were more interested in each other than anybody else.

If it weren’t for jolly Lord Alvanley, they would have been entirely sunk.

When he could finally make his escape, the duchess and Miss Fernsby were gone from the house. So were Packington and Lady Violet, he’d noticed. He assumed it was only a matter of time before he heard from Packington about Hugh’s conversation with his sister.

What a stupid, stupid day. He did not know what tomorrow would bring, but he did know that he’d be facing it in a dowager’s wheeled chair. Browning claimed he would do something with it until the new one was ready, but Hugh did not know what he could possibly do.

Hugh suddenly had an idea. He’d not carried a yellow shawl on the boat as he had planned.

Perhaps he ought to send yellow flowers to Miss Fernsby.

He could include a note that somehow hinted at what his intentions had been.

Indeed, he could do that. Yellow daffodils would communicate a new beginning.

If anybody in the world needed a new beginning it was him.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

When the duke had left for the prince’s party and the house grew quiet, Browning had marveled at his luck. He was tasked with writing a stern letter to Handel’s to rebuke them for selling the duke a green shawl while telling him it was yellow.

The duke blamed the shop! He would not be caught!

The relief was palpable. He’d celebrated with a glass of sherry and then set off for the attics.

He was determined to find some sort of material to re-cover the duke’s chair.

His Grace was to be in it for a month and a Finstatten could not be seen going round in a chair covered in pink satin.

He found an old leather wing chair pushed in a corner.

That would do very well. All he need do was get a knife and cut off the leather.

It would be much more suitable. He was certain he could get some paint somewhere.

He thought the coachman might have some for touching up the outside of the carriage.

He would paint over the ghastly green and pink paint on the back of the chair.

He’d returned after explaining to one of the footmen why he was climbing into the attic with a sharp knife and assuring the lad he did not mean to do a harm to himself.

Which reminded him that he had perhaps appeared unsettled to his staff over the past weeks.

He cut the leather into the approximate right-sized pieces.

Then he’d had another glass of sherry to celebrate that he would not be caught!

When the duke returned to the house he was in a dark mood. Sir Edward had wheeled him into the drawing room, and they’d had their usual brandy.

From their conversation, he understood that the duke had never had a chance to speak to Miss Fernsby. More good news!

Also apparently, he did have the chance to speak to Lady Violet and, as he termed it, “set her straight.” That was not as good news.

Both the duke and Sir Edward agreed that Lord Packington would be steamed over it.

Browning was rather steamed over it too.

Lady Violet had everything recommending her.

Why did not the duke gravitate toward suitable ladies?

It was mystifying. He might be blind to color but how was he also blind to elegant looks?

That had never been a Finstatten distinction, the old duchess was elegant from head to toe.

Nevertheless, Mr. Browning had not been caught over the shawl switch and the duke had not spoken to Miss Fernsby! That was the thing to remember.

Now he settled himself into his League meeting, prepared to astonish his fellow butlers. They had given up, but he had persevered.

Mr. Penny, as was his habit, poured the tea and passed round the cups. Mr. Browning sipped his tea and set down his cup.

“Gentlemen,” he said gravely, “prepare to be astounded.”

“Astounded?” Mr. Feldstaffer said. “No, I do not like the sound of that. The last time I was astounded was the time I caught sight of my countess wearing a bright green silk turban. It was a new style she very suddenly adopted. I was not the only one astounded—the earl was positively flabbergasted. It turned out all right though. She saw his expression, cried, and took it off. Her lady’s maid has it now, and she looks just as ridiculous when she puts it on. ”

“Aside from Lady Copperstone’s dalliance with a turban, I believe we have been astounded by more recent events,” Mr. Harkinson said with a snort. “There is not a person in this town who has not heard the story of the duke being dragged behind Sir Edward’s boat.”

“There is a print going round about it,” Mr. Rennington said. “One of my footmen showed it to me. It is a sketch of the sloop and the duke flailing in the water behind it. Which, I thought, it would be very amusing…if it were not about a duke connected to us.”

“Accidents do happen,” Mr. Penny said, nodding sympathetically.

“There is a nickname going round too,” Mr. Wilburn said, “the overboard lord.”

“Oh, I heard the Duke of Grey-drowned,” Mr. Rennington said.

“Flailing Finstatten,” Mr. Feldstaffer said, “that’s the other one. Flailing. Nobody ought to do it, in my experience.”

“And then the duke and Sir Edward were awarded the Order of the Golden Foot. It is a small statuette of a plaster foot covered on gold leaf,” Mr. Harkinson said. “Sir Edward has been ordered to display it in his drawing room.”

Mr. Browning had heard nothing about a foot statue, though he could not be opposed to it if it inconvenienced Sir Edward. But why were they all talking about this nonsense? It was not to the point. Further, it was not even the duke’s fault—it was all Sir Edward’s fault, as it always was.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “society’s tedious gossip about problems Sir Edward causes are hardly our concern.

Sir Edward has always and will always cause a catastrophe wherever he goes.

He is a one-person epidemic of trouble. Unfortunately, he is the duke’s oldest friend and cannot be got rid of.

Believe me, I have prayed for it. Allow me to steer your minds to the actual problem at hand that needs to be solved and can be solved. Miss Fernsby.”

He than related how the yellow shawl was switched for green and how the duke did not perceive it as he had the Finstatten distinction of being blind to those colors.

He entirely omitted the part where Lady Lucinda had come with the green shawl, as that was irrelevant to the story.

Miss Fernsby did not see her yellow shawl displayed. A firm message had been communicated.

“And the duke never discovered the ruse?” Mr. Wilburn asked.

“He did discover it,” Mr. Browning admitted. “I believe Sir Edward told him it was green.”

“But when I saw the duke, when he was in the water, you understand,” Mr. Harkinson said, “there was no shawl at all visible on the boat.”

Why were they focusing on the details of the thing?

“He threw it overboard,” Mr. Feldstaffer said. “I wondered about that when I heard it, now it makes more sense.”

Mr. Browning had not known that. He was not sorry to know it, though.

The evidence of the crime was gone, drifting down the river until a scavenger spotted it and fished it out.

“The point is,” he said, “Miss Fernsby has not been encouraged. She did not see a yellow shawl. It is a critical turning point. Had she seen it, I do not know how the thing would have been turned round.”

Mr. Penny shrugged. “It seems as if the duke could clear the whole thing up in a moment, though.”

Mr. Browning looked with incredulity at Mr. Penny. Clear the whole thing up? He did not want anything cleared up!

“He’ll say something,” Mr. Feldstaffer said. “Then she’ll know.”

Say something? The duke could not be allowed to just go round saying something.

The duke and Miss Fernsby were to turn away from each other, saying nothing about the cause, as any normal person would do.

They were to both simmer privately, never mentioning the other again, as any rational person would do.

What was this idea about clearing things up by saying something?

“And then, what was this I heard about Lady Violet?” Mr. Harkinson asked. “I have a cousin on Portland Place, butler to Lord Hoppington, it is the next door over to Lord Packington’s house. He says there was a big to-do on the street last evening with Lady Violet and her brother.”

Mr. Browning was far less eager to talk about that particular situation. Nevertheless, he felt rather cornered. “It seems the duke does not prefer Lady Violet. And told her so.”

“He told her?” Mr. Feldstaffer said. He shook his head sadly. “That was a mistake. A person ought not ever tell a lady a thing she does not care to hear. They get mad about it. The countess did not speak to the earl for a week over the green turban and all he did was frown at it.”

Thank you for stating the obvious, Mr. Feldstaffer.

“I wonder if there will be trouble between the duke and Lord Packington over it,” Mr. Wilburn said.

Why could not his fellow butlers keep their minds on the topic at hand?

The point was to ensure that the duke wed a suitable lady.

The Duchess of Finstatten must be everything elegant.

She must be stately, a remarkable hostess, a fascinating conversationalist with a reserved and dignified wit, she must be what the old duchess was.

She would become a Finstatten, what else could she be?

Nowhere in there was Miss Fernsby to be found.

Mr. Browning left the meeting feeling very like how he’d left the last one. He was on his own. He was a rogue butler.