Page 6 of A Perplexing Regency Romance (The League of Meddling Butlers #5)

Mr. Browning had sent Jimmy to the duke with the backgammon set to attempt to entertain His Grace. Somehow Jimmy had returned having drunk an excessive amount of brandy and had to be sent to his bed.

They’d managed to keep the duke contained for the requisite time, but once that expired he’d shouted for his valet and gone straight to The Devil’s Den.

Now, Mr. Browning had come to The League’s headquarters in Cheapside precisely on time. He prided himself on being precisely on time, every time. If necessary, he’d been known to stop his hackney a street away and wait for a few minutes before proceeding on to arrive precisely on time.

He was not alone in the habit. All his fellow butlers made it a point to arrive precisely punctual. Except for Mr. Rennington, who often arrived early to calm his nerves and had once run late by a few minutes to gravely shaking heads.

They could not leave the square all at the same time without attracting notice, so they staggered their departures and then delayed or hurried to arrive on time.

They filed up the stairs, nodding to one another, and Mr. Browning unlocked the door to the headquarters.

As always, it was in good order with not a speck of dust to be seen. They all paused reverentially and took a moment to gaze at their motto, hanging above the mantel.

Cum Virtute. With Valor. Those were the words they lived by.

Mr. Browning turned the gold band on his finger whose inscription on the inside said just the same.

It was the constant reminder they all carried with them to remind themselves that they were not just butlers.

They were at the tippy-top of the mountain.

They were the butlers of The League . They were elevated and they acted with valor in all things.

Mrs. Belkey, the landlord’s wife, bustled in with a tea tray, as she would have been expecting them. “Sirs, welcome back to London,” she said, “I hope you find everything in order.”

Of course they assured her that they had.

Mrs. Belkey was extremely reliable about keeping the place up.

Mr. Browning imagined she felt the honor of being even tangentially connected to such a vaunted institution as The League of Butlers .

While she might not know the details of their club or what their meetings entailed, she would instantly perceive the tone of things by their motto so prominently placed.

Assuming she understood Latin. Well, if she did not, she’d probably asked somebody about it.

Mrs. Belkey shut the door behind her and Mr. Penny poured out the tea. That gentleman smiled and said, “Mr. Rennington, do you hear how Lady Thurston gets on?”

Mr. Browning kept his expression neutral, but what a season it had been last year.

Lady Thurston, née Lady Eleanor, had been so obsessed with her idea of being a lady-botanist that she’d taken a boat ride alone with a gentleman in order to break into the back doors of The Royal Society, all to hear a lecture.

At the time, Mr. Browning had understood their preferred suitor, the baron, had been outraged over it.

Then Mr. Rennington had spun a story of mixed-up sachets and the lady ingesting something that had affected her wits.

Then the baron became not so outraged, even when he discovered it was not true.

Then they had wed. It had all been very strange.

Mr. Rennington, who was looking far more calm these days, said, “Lady Thurston writes the earl and countess that she does very well. Of course, they inform me of it, as I have known Lady Thurston since she was a baby. She and Lord Thurston are in the midst of planning a rather extensive apple orchard. They’re quite taken up with it. ”

“I suppose your Mrs. McFarland has gone back to her old tricks though,” Mr. Harkinson said.

Mr. Browning frowned. Ever since Mr. Harkinson had got through his own season, which had been positively hair-raising, he was intent on being amused by another member’s difficulties.

Mrs. McFarland, the housekeeper in Mr. Rennington’s household, had been harassing him for years.

There had been some notion at the end of the last season that he’d finally stood up to her, but none of them had known how long that would hold.

By all reports, she was a tough old bird.

“Hah!” Mr. Rennington said, sounding delighted. “How would I know what tricks she’s up to? She’s gone, she married a grocer she can boss about it. In her place, Mrs. Hugson has arrived and she is exceedingly deferential. Very pleasant woman, Mrs. Hugson.”

Predictably, Mr. Harkinson looked a little let down to hear it.

“Excellent news all round, it sounds to me,” Mr. Penny said. “And then, Mr. Browning, it seems as if you will sail into a church with ease this season.”

Mr. Browning was, naturally, pleased to accept the compliment. Though, he could not ascertain if it was a general compliment or about something specific.

“I have heard the encounter mentioned twice within my hearing,” Mr. Wilburn said. “I imagine it got round as it’s also said that the duke inquired of a patroness whether the lady was offered a voucher.”

What encounter? What lady? How had a patroness got involved in it?

“To think,” Mr. Rennington said, “there he was, near drowned on account of Sir Edward’s terrible seamanship, and the lady was suddenly by his side.”

What lady? Who? Nobody had mentioned a lady to him.

“She stays with the Duchess of Ralston,” Mr. Penny added.

“Of course, if there was anything of concern…” Mr. Harkinson said.

“I knew it!” Mr. Feldstaffer said. “It was too good to be true. It’s always too good to be true, everybody knows it.”

“Do you hint at the title, Mr. Harkinson?” Mr. Wilburn said.

Mr. Harkinson nodded. “For one thing. It is very new.”

Mr. Browning realized he would never get to the bottom of all these comments by nodding and pretending he knew what they were talking about. He said, “Gentlemen, I am entirely in the dark. What encounter? What lady?”

The butlers turned to him in surprise. Mr. Wilburn said, “The talk is of a Miss Fernsby leaping out of the Duchess of Ralston’s carriage to render aid to the duke. Then he makes inquiries about whether she will attend Almack’s.”

What was this about a Miss Fernsby? The bargeman had said nothing of a Miss Fernsby.

The duke had said nothing about a Miss Fernsby.

He supposed the idea that the lady had been in the Duchess of Ralston’s carriage was encouraging, but who was she?

It did not bode well that she was a miss and not a lady.

“Her father’s title is new,” Mr. Harkinson said. “The ink is barely dry. Miss Fernsby’s father is the first Baron Dunston, and it has been recently given. Before that, he was just another of the gentry class.”

Mr. Browning did not think that ideal. No, not at all.

The Finstattens were of old blood. This lady, whoever she was, could not have the proper breeding that came with a long history as a member of the ton .

How could she possibly have the elegance and sophistication that would be required of the duke’s future duchess?

Would she have any experience hostessing, or even attending, sophisticated dinners?

Did she have the necessary witty repartee that would be expected?

Did she have that certain savoir faire that came with the best houses?

Did she understand how to run an elevated household? Did she know how things were done?

This Miss Fernsby might be a climber, what some in the ton called a ‘mushroom’ for their ability to spring up where they were not wanted.

They attempted to fit in but it was not authentic.

It was as if they wore a mask to attempt to fool people.

In Mr. Browning’s considered opinion, they were the worst sort of person.

Well perhaps not the worst. There were murderers to think of. But if not the worst, then very, very bad.

“I suppose the lady must be very comely to have made such an impression on the duke,” Mr. Penny said in his usual cheerful manner.

Mr. Harkinson suddenly guffawed. Mr. Wilburn bent down and stared at the collection of biscuits on the tea tray.

The rest of the butlers were silent, staring at them.

Mr. Wilburn cleared his throat. “As to that, I have seen her in the company of the Duchess of Ralston. They were making a call at the next door.”

“That’s when I saw her too,” Mr. Harkinson said. “I had stepped out to take the air.”

“There is nothing particularly wrong with the girl, is what I say,” Mr. Wilburn said.

Nothing particularly wrong? Where were the descriptions of her beauty and grace? Her gentle manners? Her elegant bearing? Was a Finstatten to be mentioned in the same sentence as “there is nothing particularly wrong with the girl?”

“Nothing particularly wrong,” Mr. Feldstaffer said. “That sounds a bad business. Yes, I am convinced of it. When a person says there is nothing particularly wrong, what they mean to say is there is nothing particularly right."

Mr. Harkinson was nodding in approval over Mr. Feldstaffer’s assessment.

“Mr. Wilburn?” Mr. Browning asked. He would not bother inquiring of Mr. Harkinson, as that fellow was always a bit too delighted over something going wrong for somebody other than himself.

“Well,” Mr. Wilburn said, looking over Mr. Browning’s head as if the words he sought might be found there, “she has a pretty face, yes, that did strike me. And very fine hair, fair curls. As to anything else…perhaps the lady is just the smallest bit…on the short side of things.”

“So short,” Mr. Harkinson said, shoulders shaking.

Mr. Browning surmised that Miss Fernsby was rather petite. He supposed it was not the worst thing in the world. Her lack of history in the ton was rather more concerning.

“Some gentlemen prefer it, I understand,” Mr. Penny said. “Lady Melberry is quite renowned for being short.”

“So is Lord Melberry,” Mr. Feldstaffer said. “He didn’t have much choice. They’re a regular pair of leprechauns, those two.”

“Horrible little creatures,” Mr. Rennington said. “Just as well England is not plagued by them.”

Mr. Browning covered his surprise. This was the first he was hearing that Mr. Rennington gave any credence to leprechauns.

Mr. Wilburn put his attention on his tea. Mr. Harkinson said, “Mr. Wilburn, you’d best tell the whole of it.”

“I knew it! There’s more,” Mr. Feldstaffer said.

“There is not a lot more to tell,” Mr. Wilburn said. “Mind you, I only had a very glancing look. If one were to rely on my exceedingly glancing view—”

“She’s a bit squat,” Mr. Harkinson said. “She is short and too round and her father has a very new title.”

Short and round. A new title. That title was only a baron. This did not at all sound propitious. Mr. Browning must find a way to put a stop to it, if in fact anything were developing. He found it rather hard to believe that there could be anything developing.

Then he had a thought. “How did this encounter with Miss Fernsby occur?” he asked. “What are the details? Where were they?”

“The duke had just been accidentally rolled off his litter on The Strand,” Mr. Wilburn said. “Miss Fernsby rushed out of her carriage and knelt by his side.”

Mr. Browning breathed a sigh of relief. “That is the answer, gentlemen. The duke was injured, he was prone, and Miss Fernsby was kneeling, thereby disguising her…well, her.”

“Oh, I see,” Mr. Rennington said. “He did not get a proper view. He works on false assumptions.”

“No doubt, Mr. Rennington, if he even has any assumptions,” Mr. Browning said. “If he does have assumptions, the duke might think her very tall, rather than very short. How is one to tell when a lady is kneeling? Yes, that would explain it.”

“But,” Mr. Penny said in a hesitating tone, “might it not be the case that the duke might prefer Miss Fernsby’s sort of silhouette?”

“A Finstatten? I would not think so,” Mr. Browning said with a raised brow.