Page 32 of A Perplexing Regency Romance (The League of Meddling Butlers #5)

“And if you hear the name Lady Violet, wheel me away immediately.”

Frederick’s eyes widened. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Hugh supposed his footman was now wondering what went on at these parties his employer was always going to, what a Lady Violet might be, and why they were to run the other direction if they encountered her. Poor Frederick was at an age where all women seemed mysterious and possibly dangerous.

Hugh remembered embarrassingly well how he and Seddie had gone through it.

Lady Genevieve had been just a girl. They encountered her often at this event or that in their tightknit neighborhood.

They’d ignored her as she did not like to do fun things like build something or shoot something.

And, if he were forced to admit it, they’d considered themselves superior because she was just a girl.

But then during the term break one summer, she had been different.

Very different. She was no longer just a girl.

She was turning into a lady. He and Seddie had approached the situation with a very false bravado, trying to act like grown gentlemen, with very little success.

He still felt red in the face when he recalled the lawn party at Genevieve’s father’s house where he and Seddie spent the entirety of it talking loudly of various conquests of the shooting birds variety.

To hear them tell it, they had shot every bird in England out of the sky.

Seddie called it the year they’d tried out a Corinthian savoir-faire and managed only to produce boyish grandiosity.

Lady Genevieve referred to it as the summer they were insufferable.

Now, Hugh finally arrived to the Duchess of Ralston’s house very late, on account of Browning failing to alert the coachman that he was needed.

Had it been any other moment, he could have just saddled his horse and been off, but that could not be.

For the next month, everything he did took an inordinate amount of time.

He tried not to be aggravated over it, as that would solve nothing. Nevertheless, it was aggravating.

After the wheeled chair had been untied from the back of the carriage and he’d been helped into it, Frederick wheeled him in.

There was nobody in the great hall but a footman. The festivities must be underway already. Hugh directed Frederick down the corridor and into the ballroom.

The duchess stood on a raised dais at the top of a crowded room. Everyone was turned toward her with their backs toward Hugh. Being low in a chair, he could not see much. He did not know where Miss Fernsby was. She was short and he was even shorter at the moment. It was impossible.

“Frederick,” he whispered, “look for a lady short in stature with marvelous blond curls. She has dimples too, but look for the hair, you cannot miss that lovely hair.”

The footman looked terrified to asked to look for a lady with lovely hair. Nevertheless, he stood on his toes and peered round. As the footman was tall to begin, he must have a very good view. He bent down to Hugh and whispered, “Will she be the shortest lady in the room?”

“Yes, very likely.”

“She is near the front and to the right.”

“Excellent. Get me there.”

Frederick nodded, though he looked dubious over how to get him there.

“Be bold, Frederick,” Hugh said.

Frederick began to weave him round people, whispering, “Excuse me, pardon me, His Grace coming through.”

At the front of the ballroom, the duchess said, “I always do hope to be amused by the responses I receive from our chosen ladies, and this year has been particularly good. You are all to know that the question posed to the ladies was if this gentleman was your husband, what flower would he be and why?”

There was general laughter over the question, Hugh supposed from those people who had not been roped into the duchesses’ entertainment. He could not imagine what flower anybody would think him. But then, the duchesses’ question was always nonsensical.

“The first offering is this: This husband would be holly, pretty to look at but coming to a sharp point.”

The crowd laughed. Someone called out, “It is Lord Farragut, surely.”

“But it might also be Sir Richard,” someone else called.

“Come now, it must be Brummel.”

“Brummel was not even included in the game, though.”

“It still must be Brummel,” the accuser said laughing.

Frederick continued weaving him through the crowd, his strategy seemed to be bumping a gentleman with the chair until they turned around, much to the annoyance of everybody.

Hugh did not care. He must get to Miss Fernsby. He would not be put off it. As for the husband who would be holly, it seemed that there were more than a few gentlemen who were pleasant to look at but had a sharp point. He was satisfied that he had not been named amongst them.

The duchess said, “Here is an interesting one. He is Wolfsbane because he almost killed the duke.”

The crowd roared with laughter. One after another, people called out “Sir Edward.” Hugh was not surprised someone had written it, though he was surprised that they’d included the identifying information.

It was tradition that the lady should attempt to cover anything that would lead directly to the gentleman in question.

The answer might have been constructed as something like, the gentleman is Wolfsbane, as he can be dangerous to his friends.

That would lead everyone to guess, rather than make it so obvious that it was Seddie.

On the other hand, Seddie had well-earned it.

“Pardon me, excuse me, His Grace coming through,” Frederick whispered.

He’d just bumped Lord Garrity, who gave Frederick a very dark look but moved aside.

Finally, he saw Miss Fernsby just ahead.

Frederick leaned down. “Is that her?”

“That is her,” he said. All he could see was her back, and her glorious fair curls. She wore a soft velvet dress the color of claret, everything about her was soft. He had a great urge to come up behind her and hug her around the waist. Which he would never, ever do. “Forward, Frederick.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Frederick said, bumping Lord Harvey as the last person to get out of the way.

He rolled up to her side and said, “Miss Fernsby.”

She practically jumped and he supposed he ought not have snuck up to her like he had.

“Your Grace,” she said in a tremulous voice.

Hugh thought he instantly understood the situation. Miss Fernsby was not the type of lady that would glory in all these mocking jokes. She was too much of a soft touch to enjoy someone else’s discomfort. This particular party must be difficult for her to enjoy.

There was a sudden jostling to his other side. Hugh looked in that direction and gritted his teeth. Lady Violet had managed to push her way to his side.

Why? He had been more than clear with the lady.

“Your Grace,” she said.

“Lady Violet,” he said, and he did not think his tone sounded very friendly.

Upon hearing the name Lady Violet, Frederick jerked his chair back. Hugh had forgotten he’d instructed his footman to go the other direction if he heard the name. He held his hand up to stop him. “It is all right, Frederick,” he said over his shoulder.

Lady Violet gave his footman a strange look, as if she wondered why he needed to be reassured in her presence.

Hugh was trapped. If he took himself away from Lady Violet, which he very much wished to do, he would be taking himself away from Miss Fernsby, which he was not going to do.

“Ah,” the duchess said, “I did chuckle over this one, and I did find it very apt. This gentleman is a cuckoo flower, as he has just as much sense.”

“That must be Sir Edward too,” someone called out.

Hugh imagined that was right and probably written by Lady Genevieve.

“No need to debate,” Seddie called from the other side of the room. “I’m sure it’s me and equally sure I know who wrote it, Lady Genevieve.”

This prompted laughter throughout the room. Hugh took the opportunity to say, “Miss Fernsby, how do you get on since the regatta?”

Why had he asked that question? Why could he not think up a graceful way to mention the mistaken color of the shawl?

Why would Lady Violet not go elsewhere, as it would be far easier to talk about it if she were not there.

He was already waiting for Packington to say something to him about what he’d said to the lady at the prince’s party.

A brother would not like to hear of a slight to a sister.

Anything he would say now about positively not intending to show French verte would seem to her another slight she could take back to Packington.

“Now here’s one,” the duchess said. “The duke is a daffodil, all smiles and sunny temperament.”

“Hah! We do not even need to guess who that is then. I believe only one duke was included in the exercise,” Lord Harvey called.

Hugh supposed it had to be him, though he could not complain about being called a daffodil. It was better than Wolfsbane, holly, or a cuckoo flower.

“Speaking of daffodils,” Lady Violet suddenly said loudly, “perhaps that same duke has sent exactly that to me, requesting new beginnings. Naturally, I will consider it.”

What on earth was she talking about?

To his right, Miss Fernsby moved quickly away, disappearing into the crowd. “I did not send daffodils to you,” he whispered to Lady Violet.

“Yes, you did,” she said, staring at him.

By her expression, he did not get the feeling she was lying. And then it dawned on him that she could not know the contents of the note if she had not received it. What had Browning done?

“Lady Violet, I did not intend to send those flowers. I believe my butler has gone mad. I apologize on his behalf for this unforgivable mistake.”

“I see,” she said coldly. “I will, naturally, inform my brother of this mistake .”

Hugh thought he would be very lucky if he did not face Packington on a green at this point. “Frederick, wheel me in pursuit of Miss Fernsby.”

Frederick stood on his toes and looked around. “I can’t see her, Your Grace, on account of she’s so short.”

Lady Violet laughed bitterly. “Indeed, she is.”

“Wait,” Frederick said, “I think I just saw the top of her head.”

“Forward, in all haste. Lady Violet, my deepest apologies regarding this unfortunate confusion.”