Page 31 of A Perplexing Regency Romance (The League of Meddling Butlers #5)

Mr. Wagner had just brought in another letter for Secrets Exposed. From the duke.

Finella did everything she could to avoid falling off her chair. As it was, she leaned back and peeked out the window. Sir Edward stood next to the duke’s carriage, while the duke himself sat inside it. The duke caught her eye and waved. She weakly waved back and shut the curtain.

“He’s right outside,” she whispered.

“Where else would he be?” Lucy asked.

Wagner had watched this whole ridiculous operation expressionless. He bowed and let himself out of the room.

“Let me get a look at this wrecker of plans,” Lucy said, leaning over her to peer out the window. “Well, he’s fine-looking, I’ll give him that much.”

“He is the finest man in England, everybody knows it,” Finella said.

“Everybody knows it, do they?” Lucy said with a snort.

“What is he doing now?” Finella asked.

“Talking to a gentleman that I imagine is Sir Wolfsbane and looking at the window.” Lucy took that moment to wave.

“Oh Lucy, do stop!” Finella said.

Lucy sat back down. “By the by, he waved back. He seemed very jolly about it, not like that Sir Roger what hates to hear from a maid.”

“Of course he would be jolly,” Finella said. “The duke is everything kind and friendly, which is how I allowed my imagination to run away with me to begin with.”

“Well, there is nothing for it,” Lucy said, “what kind of flower is the duke? We could make him Wolfsbane too, for killing you with kindness and friendliness.”

“No, the duke cannot be a poison. Despite my injured feelings, which is entirely my own fault, we must think of something that really represents him as a gentleman.”

“It’s gonna be hard for me to think of anything cheerful as he is the wrecker of my plans. You know me, I got a charitable disposition, born with it, but wrecking my plans is a step too far. He’s Wolfsbane to me.”

Finella unfolded the paper. She must think of something on her own.

She thought about the duke, his handsome looks, his kindness, his cheerfulness.

Then of course, whatever she wrote would be confidential, she would never be identified as the author.

She could just write what she really felt with nobody the wiser.

She dipped her pen in ink. The duke is a daffodil, all smiles and sunny temperament.

It was not a work of genius, but it would have to do.

“Well?” Lucy asked.

“I named the duke a daffodil.”

“I suppose he’s daffy enough to not perceive your worth,” Lucy said, “so I’ll agree to it.”

Finella sealed the letter. Yes, she was right to describe him so.

He was a very kind sort of person. She would not be at all surprised to discover that the duke had visited her this day because he was afraid nobody else would.

He really was that kind. He’d probably talked Sir Edward into it for the same reason.

She could not fault him for being kind. She could only fault herself if she ever again allowed herself to read something more into it.

As the time ticked by, getting ever closer to four o’clock, nobody else came. That rather confirmed to Finella that the duke had taken pity on her. It was uncomfortable to know it. To understand that a gentleman felt sorry for her.

Nevertheless, she could not in any way denigrate the duke’s kindness. She was not meant to understand that he’d come so that she would not be humiliated. He was a good man, he was simply not her man.

What a shame that was.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It occurred to Browning that he was getting rather used to going rogue. Roguish ideas came to him faster now. They seemed to almost fall into his lap. It was as if they’d always been there, unseen, and now his roguish eyes made them apparent.

It was a longstanding habit that he managed the duke’s calendar, just as he had managed the old duke’s and duchesses’ calendar.

They had never seen the need to employ a secretary when Browning was so reliable.

He would alert the coachman that he would be needed and when, he would inform the valet of what type of evening it was, and he would alert the cook of what was wished for.

From the kitchens, sometimes what was wanted was nothing at all, sometimes it was a light dinner before departing, sometimes it was a cold plate left for the duke’s return.

All information flowed through Browning.

He was the lifeblood of the house. He was the lifeblood of the Finstattens.

Mr. Browning was, of course, well aware that the Duchess of Ralston’s Secrets Exposed party was this evening.

He’d already told Cook to prepare a light plate of food for the duke to consume before he left, as the duchess would not do a sit-down dinner.

As well, the duke’s valet was prepared to dress him, which these days took two footmen to help.

Getting the duke into his clothes and down the throne chair and out to the carriage was a regular military campaign.

What Browning had not done, however, was alert the coachman that the carriage was wanted.

The stables would think nothing of it. They might know about the party through the usual household gossip, but Sir Edward so often came and took the duke places, and Browning was so reliable, that they would not question it.

It was a very roguish thing to do. It did take some time to hitch the horses, after all.

He had come up with a plan to delay the duke’s departure to the very house Miss Fernsby resided in.

Further, the plan did not implicate the coachman as being at fault.

After all, he might be a rogue butler, but he was not the devil.

The duke had come downstairs via his Henry VIII throne chair. Mr. Browning made a great show of opening the front door and looking about. Then he’d turned and said, “The carriage is not yet outside.”

“I wonder what’s keeping him,” the duke said.

As well he might wonder it. The duke’s coachman was never late in arriving.

Mr. Browning then dramatically clutched at his chest. “It is my fault,” he cried. “I’ve forgot to tell him!”

The duke stared at him strangely and Mr. Browning began to wonder if he’d overplayed the performance. He did not have any experience treading the boards on Drury Lane. It was hard to know how it came off.

“All right, all right,” the duke said, “no need to have an apoplexy over it. Go tell him now, as quick as you can.”

“Yes, Your Grace, deeply sorry.”

Mr. Browning hurried out the doors and shut them behind him. Then he very leisurely walked down the mews to alert the coachman that he was wanted.

He felt as bold as any highwayman. Any rogue highwayman.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Hugh had been dubious over whether he’d get a glimpse of Miss Fernsby that afternoon.

He had, though. He’d met Seddie coming out of the house and while his friend was outlining all the reasons he thought Miss Fernsby would be kind to him, Hugh had seen a curtain flutter.

Then she had peeked out. He’d waved. She’d waved back.

She’d pulled back as if she were embarrassed by her own daring, the darling lady. Then another face had appeared; a maid he presumed. She’d been so forward as to wave at him and he’d waved back because why not? She’d seemed amused by it. His mother would have called the girl “pert.”

“I will call on Lady Genevieve, what do you think she will say about me?” Seddie asked. “It’s a risk, I know, but then if I do not go to her, it might look cowardly. She’ll think so anyway.”

“You’d better face it,” Hugh said distractedly.

He was too busy wondering if Miss Fernsby and her maid sat in the room with the daffodils he’d sent to pay much mind to his friend.

He wondered what she thought about it. Did she keep the note?

He understood ladies kept such things if they were favored.

Hopefully, she’d somehow understood the meaning of his note regarding a new start and had not concluded he was unreliable and prone to a changing mind.

“Yes, I will go to Lady Genevieve’s house,” Seddie said. “And who knows, maybe she’ll say something complimentary. She has to give up eventually.”

“Don’t you ever worry that Lady Genevieve will wed somebody else?” Hugh asked.

“No, we’re meant for each other. Always have been.”

As the curtain in the window did not flutter open again, Hugh had left Seddie ginning himself up to visit Lady Genevieve.

He’d gone home and wiled away the hours with a book.

The time had finally come to depart for the Secrets Exposed party and somehow, his carriage was not ready.

Browning was acting so strangely these days.

Hugh had already seen him fall on the floor, and now he’d forgotten to alert the coachman of his calendar.

It was not at all like Browning and Hugh hoped he was not beginning to suffer from old age.

He seemed young for it, but those sorts of mental maladies could strike younger than expected.

He could not imagine another butler in the house.

Browning might be grim-faced on even the best days, but he was a veritable Finstatten institution.

Hugh suspected the house ran as smoothly as it did because nobody who worked in it wished to come up against Browning’s grim face.

He was especially good at looking disappointed, so much so that Hugh himself preferred to avoid causing the expression.

Finally, the carriage had arrived to the front of the house.

The coachman was scowling so Hugh imagined Browning had got an earful over his not being informed ahead of time.

There had been the whole operation of getting him into the carriage and his chair tied to the back.

Frederick, the senior footman, climbed into the carriage after him, looking very alarmed to be on his way to a party in a house owned by a duchess.

To put him at his ease, Hugh had said, “Frederick, there is not much of a trick to this. Just wheel me in the direction I say to go.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”