Page 3 of A Perplexing Regency Romance (The League of Meddling Butlers #5)

Hugh had been sent flying into the Thames by the boom when Seddie had suddenly changed direction. He was fairly certain he’d swallowed some water before being roughly hauled onto a bargeman’s boat. In the distance, Seddie was swinging around wildly with no seeming destination in mind.

As far as he could piece it together, Seddie had turned the boat one way, the boom had swung over his ducked head and then his friend had leaned or fallen against the tiller and turned the boat again, swinging the boom back as a surprise.

However it had unfolded, Hugh had ended up in the water.

He could not say how long he’d been flailing around in the Thames, but his drenched clothes had felt like he wore lead.

The cold seeped into his bones and he was beginning to lose feeling in his legs and hands.

It had mercifully ended when a bargeman had got hold of his coat with a grappling hook and hauled him up.

The bargeman had looked him over as he lay on the deck and told him not to move, as there was no telling if something was broken.

Hugh did not imagine any of his limbs could be broken, as he’d landed in the water.

Though, they certainly were frozen and he could feel a bump emerging on the side of his head courtesy of the boom.

It had been hard to follow the bargeman’s directions and lay still, as he’d never been so cold in his life.

One of the sailors on the barge seemed to perceive his shaking and threw a canvas sail bag over him.

And so, in that dignified manner he’d made his way back to shore.

He’d begun to wonder what had happened to Seddie, but then the bargeman had leaned over him and said, “It looks like your stupid friend is aiming for land, can’t say he’ll get there though.

I never did see the like of it—he ought to be barred from the Thames and made to stay off every boat in England.

” Hugh did not argue the point as it happened to be a very good point.

Since then, the barge had docked, and he’d been again ordered by the bargeman to stay still.

They sent for a barber-surgeon, which Hugh was a bit leery about.

He was not sure he needed treatment at all, particularly not from a barber-surgeon.

If he must be looked over, he would prefer it to be by his regular physician, Sir Henry Halford.

He’d rubbed his hands to get the feeling back into them while he waited.

Willy Tankard, the barber-surgeon in question, had taken one look at him and folded his rather impressive arms. “Quindler, you’ve gone and fished out a swell.”

“How can you tell?” the bargeman asked.

“The cut of the clothes. A pile of coin was paid for that coat.”

“That coat’s got a hole in it now,” the bargeman said. “Grappling hook.”

“They can’t make you pay for it, I reckon.”

“I ain’t payin’ for nothing.”

“Who are you, anyway?” the surgeon asked Hugh.

“The Duke of Greystone,” he said from his prone position, as the two men stared down at him.

As a usual thing, the people he encountered were happy to meet with a duke. To his surprise, the bargeman and the surgeon exchanged glances and started talking rapid fire.

“Worst luck,” Willy Tankard said.

“Oh aye,” the bargeman said. “Mind you, how was I to know he was a great muckety-muck when he was drowning?”

Willy Tankard nodded his head. “Nothin’ you could’a done but fished him out. You couldn’t have known.”

“I swear if there is a way for bad luck to come a’crashin’ into my day, bad luck will find it.”

“I often think the same for meself.”

“Let’s get ‘im off our hands quick.”

“Aye. I don’t have nothin’ to do with them what strut around with titles.”

“Same. How could we? We got actual work to do all day, unlike them that do nothin’ but sleep and eat.”

Hugh was beginning to think that being a duke was an unhappy notion to these fellows.

His father had often spoken of the French nobility and how none of them had seen what was coming, none of them had believed it possible that the French people would turn against them.

They assumed they were adored and admired until their heads rolled.

Was this something like that? In which case, he hoped his person was not to be shortly rolled back into the sea.

“There’s nothing for it,” Willy Tankard said, “we’ve got to get rid of him. Carefully, mind.”

The bargeman nodded sadly.

Hugh was becoming more and more wary. Get rid of him, how?

He attempted to rise, but Willy Tankard pushed him down again. Where was Seddie?

“Gentlemen,” he said, “there is no need for violence.”

“Violence?” Willy Tankard asked. He shook his head. “We got a regular delicate daisy here if he thinks that was violence.”

“I reckon they’re all delicate what live in luxury,” the bargeman said. “Look at his hands—white as snow. He ain’t never picked up a tool.”

“Aye,” the surgeon said, rubbing his chin. “Where do you live, fancy man?”

Fancy man? This really was beginning to be alarming. Never in his life had he been addressed with such mockery.

“He probably don’t know where he lives,” the bargeman said. “These rich types are carried round by their servants and don’t got a need to know their own address.”

“Grosvenor Square,” Hugh said. He did not give the house number as he’d begun to wonder if they were planning to take him there so they could rob the place. Or dump him back in the Thames and then go rob the place. If so, he did not like Browning’s chances of fighting them off.

“’Course he lives on one of them squares,” the bargeman said. “You won’t find a fella like that wanderin’ round the Seven Dials.”

“Or survivin’ for long in them environs,” the bargeman said with a snort.

“I know what we’ll do,” the surgeon said. “You’ll go to his square and tell ‘em what’s gone on, they can call on some fancy-vest doctor what treats the rich. That way, I don’t get blamed for nothing. I’ll arrange a litter to get him to his stupid friend’s carriage.”

The gentlemen seemed to have a very poor impression of Seddie’s seamanship. Hugh, himself, had developed a poor impression of Seddie’s seamanship. Of course, there was not a carriage attending them, belonging to his stupid friend or otherwise.

“There is no carriage,” Hugh said. “We came on horseback.”

“For the love of heaven,” the bargeman muttered. “I’ll go tell his people. Use a litter to get him up to The Strand and get a hackney from there. Maybe his stupid friend will even help out if he can manage to aim for dry land on one his go rounds.”

The surgeon nodded. “That’s best. No treating ‘im for anything, no jostling, no lettin’ him try to walk, no way for a duke’s relations to be screamin’ that I done something to ‘im. We return the fancy man as we found ‘im.”

“Except for the coat, what’s got a hole in it. I ain’t payin’ for it.”

“I’ll back you if they try it,” the barber-surgeon said.

Hugh felt the two gentlemen were obsessed with his coat, though he was not sure why they thought they’d be asked to pay for it.

If anybody was going to pay for it, it was Seddie.

“Tell my butler that the message comes from Sir Edward,” Hugh said.

He knew very well that if Browning got a message about an accident and Seddie’s name was attached to it, his butler would spring into action.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

As terrible news often has a habit, it arrived when nobody was expecting it.

The first hint that something had gone terribly wrong was a knock on the door by a very rough-looking individual.

Mr. Browning had expected his footman to send the wretch packing, with a proper scolding about the audacity of coming to the front doors to help walk him out of the neighborhood.

However, Jimmy came looking for him and said, “I’ve put that man in the small saloon, Mr. Browning.

He says he has a particular message from Sir Forward.

I’m pretty sure he meant Sir Edward. At least, I asked him if he meant Sir Edward and he shrugged and said, “Whatever his name is, he’s an idiot. ””

Of course it was Sir Edward. That fellow was an idiot. Further, no message from Sir Edward could possibly be good news.

Mr. Browning suddenly staggered under the weight of what it could mean. Sir Edward had dragged His Grace from his bed and taken him to sail on the Thames. Heavens above, there had been an accident. He could feel it in his bones.

Had they sunk the boat? Had there been a drowning? It would be very like Sir Edward to take an unseaworthy boat out and drown the duke! He’d already tried it once when they were boys and had only been stopped when the duke heard about it.

Despite feeling rather faint, Mr. Browning had hurried to the small saloon. There, he found a disheveled individual of indeterminate age. His face was weathered and his clothes were faded. He had all the hallmarks of a person working out of doors for his living.

“You the head man, then?” the man asked.

“Aside from His Grace, I am the head man,” Mr. Browning said, working to keep any trembling from his voice.

“Me name’s Quindler, I run a barge on the Thames and I fished your fancy man out of it this morning.”

“Fancy man? Fished him out?” Mr. Browning said, horror overtaking him.

“That’s what I said,” Mr. Quindler said, “Saw the thing going on, sailed over there, and fished him out with a grappling hook. Got him over the gunwale as easy as you please. I ain’t payin’ for the coat!”

“A grappling hook?”

“Aye, I hooked it through his coat.”

“A grappling hook? Through his coat ?”

“Right through the coat I ain’t payin’ for. If you don’t mind me sayin,’ for the head man, you seem a little slow off the mark,” Mr. Quindler said, eyeing him critically.

Mr. Browning took a deep breath, preparing himself for what he was to discover next. “I must know the worst of it. Is he dead?”