Page 29 of A Perplexing Regency Romance (The League of Meddling Butlers #5)

When Mr. Browning had returned to the house, the duke informed him that he wished to send yellow daffodils to Miss Fernsby and had handed him the note that was to accompany the arrangement.

At that moment, Mr. Browning had been torn. On the one hand, he was accustomed to carrying out the duke’s every direction to the letter. But on the other hand, he was now a confirmed rogue butler.

He hurried to his quarters and unfolded the note.

I hope for new beginnings. Greystone.

Mr. Browning had refolded the note and tapped his chin with it.

He’d paced back and forth. He’d stood stock still for several minutes.

He’d glanced up to the ceiling, wondering how the old duke and duchess would view it.

He’d negotiated with God, explaining why the idea circling his mind was actually a good thing.

Could it even be a pious thing? No, he probably could not go that far. Righteous, then.

Then, in a fit of daring, a fit of roguishness, a fit of utter insanity, he’d hurried to the florist and arranged to have the daffodils sent to Lady Violet.

He’d left that shop and collapsed into a hackney, his hands shaking as he heaved in breaths.

Going rogue was not for the faint of heart.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The moment Finella really dreaded in the season was creeping ever closer.

The duchesses’ Secrets Exposed party was on the morrow.

Gentlemen of the duchesses’ choosing would receive seven folded and sealed papers.

They were to choose which ladies they would visit from a list of twenty ladies selected by the duchess.

Each lady visited would unseal the paper, answer the question posed, and reseal it with her own house stamp.

At the party, the duchess would reveal the answers she found most amusing.

The ladies were not to know what the question was until the first paper arrived. Of course, Finella was living in the duchesses’ house and so had already been told.

If this gentleman was your husband, what flower would he resemble and why?

It made Finella blush to think of it. At first, her worry had been that no gentleman would hand her a paper. It would be a double humiliation. Any lady would be humiliated to be ignored, but she would have to do it sitting in the duchesses’ own house. She was terrified of letting the duchess down.

But then Lucy had pointed out that would not be the case, as she did sit in the duchesses’ house. There would be at least some gentlemen who would come to garner the duchesses’ approval, or at least not attract the lady’s ire.

That was an even worse situation! She would be a pity visit, or a duty visit. It was so embarrassing. And then, what in the world would she write? She was not clever or full of wit like some ladies were.

If she were to write her real feelings on a note, it would read something like “I do not care, my heart is broken though it is my own fault, now go away you stupid asparagus.”

Finella had never even believed in the idea of a broken heart.

It had always been her opinion that if one’s heart was involved that deeply, then the other person’s heart would be too.

She had brushed off the idea of unrequited love as foolishness and assumed that sort of thing must be only an infatuation that would be quickly got over.

How in the world would she ever get over the duke, though?

She suspected that she would eventually wed and that she would be very fond of the gentleman, whoever he might be.

But she would never feel this. She would always think of the duke.

Much to her dismay, it seemed she’d been wrong about unrequited love. She could not stop thinking about the duke. She’d tried and tried but she could not do it. It would forever be her terrible, and exceedingly idiotic, secret.

Lucy said she was like Juliet, except her Romeo was uncooperative and being wheeled round in a chair by Lady Vile. Finella had scolded Lucy several times over calling Lady Violet Lady Vile, but Lucy claimed that Shakespeare would have approved the moniker.

Finella had also told Lucy she ought not be so pleased over the duke being confined to a wheeled chair as they did not know how serious the injury was. Lucy did not care how serious it was. The duke was the wrecker of her plans and therefore ought to suffer for it.

Finella fretted about it, though. One was not confined to a chair unless a serious injury had occurred.

She would wonder if he were paralyzed, but then her common sense told her that if he was, it would be the talk of the town.

Something was probably broken though, and that was serious enough.

He seemed in good health at the prince’s party, but he might take a turn!

People took turns all the time. Taking a turn was a common thing.

All she could hope for was that the duke’s physician was skilled.

The house was in a frenzy of activity, preparing for the party.

Even Wagner, so usually composed, seemed a bit harried.

The food and drink would be set up in a reception room lined with the duchesses’ idea of interesting art.

Unlike the rest of the house, that room did not have old ancestors staring down at a person.

There were whimsical paintings done by various children in the duchesses’ sphere, a rather terrifying mask from Brazil, and the most interesting picture of all—the paw print of Intrepid, the cat who’d sailed with Captain Cook.

Wagner had been directed to pull the best wines from the cellars.

Aside from the usual meats, cheeses, and sundry other items, the duchesses’ sideboards would feature mushroom vol-au-vents, which Finella understood the lady was renowned for.

The secret, the duchess had told her, was the choice of the German sauterne Cook used in the recipe.

Ladies were forever asking her the secret and it amused her to tell them it was a Riesling so they could never get it quite right.

It would all be very exciting if it were not for the Secrets Exposed part of evening.

To take her mind off the whole thing, Finella just now tied on her bonnet.

Lucy was to accompany her on a stroll round the square.

There was a charming path that went all the way round and it was pleasantly shaded by mature trees.

It was the duchesses’ opinion that it was the prettiest square in Town.

They had made it a habit to take the walk as it felt to Finella that none of her problems could follow her there. Walking under the trees made her almost feel as if she were at home again.

Gracious, she used to think her day-to-day life in her father’s house was boring.

She had not appreciated the peace and regularity of the days following one another with no surprises in store.

She might drive her curricle into the village and wave at all the same people and visit the haberdasher and examine all the same ribbons she’d examined the week before.

In the evening, she would dine with her father.

On Sunday, her brother and his wife would come over from their patch, and Finella would listen to the two men drone on about farming problems. As anyone who’d ever owned a farm knew, there was always a problem.

When the night drew to a close, she would settle in a particular velvet covered chair in her bedchamber with her latest novel, a cup of chocolate, and her jar of biscuits.

Now that she reflected on it, she’d had a lovely routine at home.

Everything had changed once her father was made a baron.

Finella did not understand the exact ins and outs of how it happened, but it revolved around her father owning a lot of land and people needing votes in parliament.

Her father was supposed to come to Town for parliament this year, but he’d put it off until next year as he had to employ a steward.

Whatever had gone on, the duchess seemed to know all about it and viewed it as very usual.

“I think you ought to say something cutting to him,” Lucy said, walking by her side round the square.

Lucy was determined on some kind of revenge over the green shawl that had been displayed on the duke’s boat. She was determined the duke pay for it in some manner.

“Even if I wished to,” Finella said, “which I do not, I am not skilled at those sorts of things. I would only end sounding foolish.”

“Asparagus,” Lucy said, shaking her head.

“That’s it, exactly. I cannot be depended on to say anything sensible, much less witty and cutting, in the heat of the moment.

One time, Clara Hilldale told me I looked dumpy in my dress and I said I preferred it.

While I was walking home from that encounter I thought, why didn’t I tell her I despised her shoes?

I didn’t really, but it would have been something to say.

In any case, I do not want to say anything terrible to the duke.

He has not done anything to me. You and I have been foolish in our imaginings. That is all that has happened.”

Lucy snorted. “Maybe we ought to say something witty and cutting to ourselves then. I suppose we’ve been a couple of asparagus.”

Finella laughed. “I believe we have been two asparagus. Of maybe it’s asparaguses.”

“Miss Fernsby!”

That voice, that male voice, was behind them and Finella knew exactly whose it was. “Walk faster,” she whispered to Lucy.

They picked up their pace, but it was no use. Sir Roger was shortly caught up to them. “Miss Fernsby,” he said.

“Sir Roger. I am just on my walk with my maid.”

“Yes, I know, I’ve been watching the house for several hours.”

Finella recoiled at the idea.

“Watchin’ the house?” Lucy said, sounding very outraged. “Who are you, the London Monster? I thought he was hung in the nineties.”