Page 4 of A Perplexing Regency Romance (The League of Meddling Butlers #5)

“Dead? No, he ain’t dead. If he were dead, I’d a left him floating for the scavengers to come along and go through his pockets. I ain’t a scavenger or a mudlark, mind. Let them empty the pockets of a drowned man. I’m a bargeman.”

Mr. Browning sank down into a chair, having been told far more than he ever wished to know about the disposition of dead bodies in the Thames. “What is his condition?”

Mr. Quindler shrugged. “How should I know? I left him with the barber-surgeon. I’m a bargeman.”

“A barber-surgeon was called?” What could that mean? Was the duke even now being worked on in some terrible manner?

“Aye, he lives close by, so we sent a boy to fetch him. That fella knows what he’s about.”

“Mr. Quindler, are you telling me that a part of His Grace is, well is it, what I mean to say is—”

“Getting sawed off? I don’t reckon so. At least, I didn’t note nothin’ that looked like it needed sawing off.”

Mr. Browning pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. He staggered to his feet. “I must go to him. He must be brought home.”

Mr. Quindler shrugged again, which was really an insufficient reaction to the disaster unfolding. It seemed Mr. Quindler shrugged at all the world.

“Jimmy!” Mr. Browning shouted.

Jimmy had the door open in a trice and had likely been listening on the other side.

“Send for Sir Henry. Track him down. I do not care what lady he is treating for nervous flutterings. Tell him His Grace has been in an accident, and we require his services this very minute. He is to meet us at the docks…” Mr. Browning paused and turned to Mr. Quindler. “What docks? Where are they?”

“I wouldn’t go sendin’ your fancy doctor down to the river. Sir Idiot is to accompany the duke here. You see? You’d go there and they’d be here.”

Of course he saw. This bargeman was irritating to say the least. “Jimmy, bring Sir Henry here. I will prepare a sickroom. We must be quick!” He turned to the bargeman. “Thank you for bringing me this news.”

The bargeman stared at Mr. Browning’s hands. Seeing nothing in them, he began to glower.

“Jimmy, pay the gentleman a pound on his way out.”

“And extra coin for a hackney, mind,” Mr. Quindler said. “Three shillings six, both coming and going.”

“Very well, see to it Jimmy and then be off to Sir Henry in all haste!”

Mr. Browning hurried from the room. He staggered up the stairs toward His Grace’s bedchamber. Once inside, he looked blindly round, hardly knowing what to do. Was this it? Had Sir Edward finally succeeded in killing the duke?

Montrose, the duke’s valet, hurried into the room. “Mr. Browning?” he asked.

The butler held on to a bedpost. “The duke has been injured in some manner. Sir Edward.”

Montrose cursed under his breath, as no further explanation than “Sir Edward” was needed.

Mr. Browning felt as if the world was crumbling around him.

If the duke died, there was no heir! The direct family line was finished.

He was finished. If he was not butler to the Finstattens, who was he?

He was nobody! He would like to kill Sir Edward.

He would do it too, if he was not so terrified of weapons, confrontations, jails, and being hanged.

“The duke must live!” he said to Montrose. “We must ready the chamber to receive him. Preparations must be made. Everything must be done. Leave no stone unturned!”

Mr. Browning hurried over to a side table and poured himself a brandy from the duke’s stock. It was as good a first step as any.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

When the Duchess of Ralston had whispered “What in the world,” upon viewing her dresses and bonnets on the bed, it had very naturally created some concern in Finella’s mind.

Were there too many dresses? Too many hats?

Not the right hats? Perhaps it was the hat with the little porcelain cherries on it?

She really had been hesitant about that one as the cherries bounced around when she walked.

Mrs. Helwig had been certain it drew attention to her eyes, so she’d left it up to the dressmaker.

Now, the duchess circled the bed and said, “My dear Miss Fernsby, these dresses, these bonnets, are exceedingly…decorated.”

Finella nodded. “Indeed, they are. Mrs. Helwig, she was the dressmaker, explained that I would need the bows and frills in order to distract.”

“Distract from what?” the duchess asked.

Finella found herself a bit perplexed by the question.

Then it occurred to her that the duchess was an older lady.

Her eyesight might be very impaired. Yes, of course that was it.

Had she not seen the lady positively look through the vicar when he asked when he could rejoice in her presence at a church service?

It was as if she did not even see him. Or hear him, for that matter.

“Oh I see,” she said in a sympathetic tone.

“Your eyesight is fading and you cannot see me properly.”

“I can see you quite well, my dear.”

Was the lady fooling herself? Trying to be kind? Finella was not entirely certain.

“What she means, Your Grace,” Lucy said, “is that she’s a bit short and a bit round. That’s why she wants all the distraction.”

Finella nodded sadly. “That is indeed the case. I’ve been told that gentlemen prefer somebody taller, more statuesque.”

“Some do,” the duchess said, “but you require one who does not.”

Finella had not considered that idea. Were there gentlemen who preferred someone like her? If there were, there could not be many. It would be a veritable needle in a haystack.

After all, she did not herself even prefer it and she was living inside of it.

When she’d been younger, she’d routinely hung from a beam in the barn to make herself taller, before falling into the hay when her arms gave out.

Then she’d decided if she could not be taller, she must have a slimmer silhouette.

There had been an entire week of eating only potatoes, as had been recommended by Peggy Justwin, with no progress at all.

No matter what she did, her person remained how it always was.

She’d ginned up the temerity to mention it to her father once, but all he said about it was, “You were a sturdy baby, everybody said so.”

“My dear,” the duchess said, “all these decorations will do nothing beyond make you look like a walking fairy cake. No, we cannot have this. Your mode of dress must have a restrained hand. It must not speak for you. Or in this case, shout for you. I must take some blame for this. I should have overseen what was being done in regard to your wardrobe.”

Finella sighed. “I’ve gone wrong. I really did not know how to go about composing a wardrobe and Mrs. Helwig seemed to know what she was doing.”

“Oh yes, if you were a farmer’s daughter looking to slay the local butcher, I dare say he’d be bowled over by ribbons upon ribbons.” Seeming to notice Finella’s dejection, she said, “Chin up, Miss Fernsby. What has been applied can be removed. Mistakes are rarely fatal.”

Finella was not certain what the duchess had in mind, but as the good lady did not seem defeated by the problem, it cheered her a bit.

“Lucy,” the duchess said, “pack all this back in its trunks and boxes and tell Wagner we require the carriage. We depart for Madame Beaumont within the hour.”

Lucy bobbed and hurried from the room.

The duchess said, “Stay in what you are wearing. Your simple traveling clothes will do very well until we arrange for what you’ve brought to be corrected.”

Finella was rather downcast over causing the duchess so much trouble.

But on the other hand, she had rather felt herself blindly stumbling through a dark wood when it came to preparing for her season.

She’d turned this way and then that way, hoping she was on the right path.

It was a great comfort that she was in the duchesses’ hands, and they were very capable hands.

She would follow that lady’s advice in everything.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

After he’d been fished out of the Thames, Hugh had really begun to wonder if he was to be the first victim of a nascent reign of terror—part two, English version.

The bargeman and the barber-surgeon seemed to wish to be rid of him as fast as possible and appeared to view his title in a decidedly grim fashion.

In an instant, he’d gone from Your Grace to Fancy Man.

As it turned out, the barber-surgeon was worried about being blamed for his condition and the bargeman had been fixated on the idea that he might be forced to pay for Hugh’s coat.

They’d agreed they were to return him as they’d found him, with no treatments from the barber-surgeon and not a farthing for the coat.

The bargeman had set off to alert his household on Grosvenor Square.

Hugh told the bargeman to say the message was from Sir Edward as his butler would know it was not a hoax. He did not know if the bargeman would remember it though, as he and the barber-surgeon seemed to hold it further against him that he had a butler.

The surgeon yelled directions to some fellows on the banks including, if he was not mistaken, Seddie.

A litter was brought eventually and Hugh was very glad to see it.

He’d tried one more time to rise on his own but had been just as fast pushed down by Willie Tankard.

Seddie had come along with the litter, looking as sheepish as he always did when things went awry.

“Bad luck, old boy,” Sir Edward said by way of apology.

The barber-surgeon turned and stared until Seddie blushed up to his ears.

Hugh was moved off the barge lying on the litter. He relaxed and resigned himself to his fate. He was certain he could walk to the nearest hackney. He could probably ride his horse. But Willie Tankard was having none of it so he might as well enjoy the ride.

Though he was looking up at the grey clouds racing across the sky, he could hear very well the sounds of traffic coming nearer. They’d reached The Strand.

“There’s a hackney,” Willie Tankard said. “Careful boys, getting across the road.

There was a sudden tipping and jostling and a shout of “Hold up!”

For the second time in one day, Hugh was flung out of something. He hit the ground with a thud and landed in the mud.

“For the love of God,” Willie Tankard said.

As he rolled on his back, a softer voice, a kinder voice reached his ears. “Heavens, what has happened to this poor man?”

Hugh looked up to see a positively lovely lady peering down at him. She had plump cheeks and he could guess they were dimpled though she was not smiling. She had bright blue eyes and her fair hair peeked out from a simple straw bonnet.

She grasped his hand and he delighted in it. It was such a small hand and he wagered it was very soft underneath her glove. “Are you in a deal of pain, Sir?”

“I hardly know at this point,” Hugh said.

Another voice, still feminine but perhaps not as soft and delightful, stepped in. He’d recognize that particular voice anywhere. The Duchess of Ralston.

What was this charming little lady doing with the duchess?

“That, Miss Fernsby, is not a sir. That is the Duke of Greystone.”

Miss Fernsby. That was her name. Charming Miss Fernsby.

Just then, charming Miss Fernsby dropped his hand. “Goodness gracious, I am sorry, Your Grace.”

“Don’t be sorry, Miss Fernsby. I am not sorry.”

Her plump cheeks blushed very prettily.

The duchess said, “What have you got yourself into, Duke?” Then her eyes drifted to Sir Edward. “Or perhaps I should not bother to inquire.”

Seddie had the good sense to say quiet and just whisper, “Your Grace.”

“I fell off a boat, very stupid of me,” Hugh said. “I can walk perfectly well, but this fellow, Mr. Willie Tankard, has insisted I stay prone.”

The duchess turned to Mr. Tankard. He shrugged and said, “Didn’t want to get blamed for his condition, Your Grace.”

“What a situation,” the duchess said. “Duke, get on your feet and get into the hackney. I’d take you home myself, but Miss Fernsby and I are on an important errand.

Sir Edward, pay these men generously and then follow the hackney home with the duke’s horse.

Mr. Tankard, I absolve you of all responsibility in this matter and thank you for your efforts. ”

The duchess speedily sent everyone in their right directions and Hugh saw the last of Miss Fernsby. Who was she? Where had she come from? Would she attend Almack’s? She must attend the opening ball. The Patronesses could never overlook such a charming person.

What a morning. He’d nearly drowned, wondered if he were to be actually drowned by a bargeman and barber-surgeon, been dumped on the road, and met a lady who…well she was not cold and all sharp points. No, she most definitely was not that.

He might be thinking about her little hand in his for quite some time.