Page 8 of A Perplexing Regency Romance (The League of Meddling Butlers #5)

“Lucinda,” Hugh said, taking on a more irritable tone, “this town is full of magpies carrying gossip round and you are the leader of the mischief. Furthermore, Miss Fernsby did seem charming and as I do not subscribe to your mushroom ideas, I do not see how her father’s new title makes the slightest bit of difference.

Now, you really should be off. Seddie will be here soon and the two of you are like oil and water. ”

Lucinda had taken herself off, as he thought she would.

Seddie liked to tease, and his sister did not like to be teased.

They’d known each other forever, as Seddie was a childhood friend, and they’d disliked each other forever too.

She would never forgive Seddie for the various nicknames he’d christened her with over the years.

Frowning Finstatten and The Peevish Miss, being two of them.

She’d gone, though Hugh did not imagine that it would be the last of her meddling. In the meantime, Seddie was not set to arrive. He would see his friend at Almack’s this evening.

He supposed he’d see Miss Fernsby too. He did not give a toss if she was a mushroom.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Madame Beaumont had heeded the duchesses’ direction regarding having a dress ready for Almack’s.

She’d sent over of a few day dresses too.

Finella had no idea whatsoever what the dressmaker was to do to her clothes that would transform them in some manner that would meet with approval.

She had not really understood what was wrong with them in the first place.

Now she stared at the dresses. All the decorations that Mrs. Helwig had painstakingly added were gone.

The dress for Almack’s was to be the dark blue silk that had been so prettily decorated with sequined butterflies.

The butterflies were off the dress and piled inside a paper bag pinned to the hem.

In place of the sequined butterflies, the neckline of the dress was lined with embroidered butterflies in the exact same color as the dress.

They were not even noticeable unless one looked closely.

“I really do not think it draws the eye,” she said to Lucy.

Lucy examined the dress with her arms folded. “Maybe that whole idea of drawing the eye this way and that way was not right from the beginning.”

“It sounds right though, does it not? Draw the eye to where you want it to go?”

“Maybe the thing is to just be as you are and let other people’s eyes go where they feel like going.”

“Lucy, have you seen the ladies of this town? Every time I go out in the carriage with the duchess, I am further struck by it.”

“Aye, I’ve seen ‘im. One nose higher than the other.”

“I’m very sure gentlemen prefer that sort of thing,” Finella said dejectedly. “I know the duchess said I must find a gentleman who will prefer me, but how many gentlemen of that stripe could there be?”

“Maybe more than you think. Sometimes I think you do not see yourself as you are. Plenty of ladies would trade their height for that pile of blond curls, I reckon. In any case, I don’t see that you got much choice in it. Who else could you wed but a fella who prefers you?”

“Well I do not know. I was perhaps hoping that I might change myself a bit. In the meantime, while I was getting that done, my dresses would distract and draw the eye.”

“The duchess ain’t gonna approve it if you’re set on trying another potato diet.”

“Oh no, no, that did not work. But I could just starve myself for a few weeks? I did think about it while I was at home and then…I just put it off. You know how hard it is with Cook making so many cakes. But now I really feel I can do it.”

Lucy’s eyes drifted to the near-empty jar of biscuits at the bedside.

“Yes, take them,” Finella said. “Take them to your room.”

The jar of biscuits would not be going very far, as Finella had ginned up the nerve to tell the duchess she had nightmares, and it would comfort her to have Lucy nearby.

The duchess, not wanting to be woken herself from whatever that entailed, put Lucy in the next room over.

Still, Finella felt that even if the biscuits did not go far, getting them out of her own room was a very good start.

Yes, it really was. It showed her will and determination. She was not even sad to see the biscuits go. Or at least, not very sad.

“You’ll be thinkin’ about that duke what you fell on the ground over.”

“I did not fall on the ground. I knelt beside an injured man. And no, I am not thinking about the Duke of Greystone at all. Why would I think of him? What would be the point of Finella Fernsby thinking about the Duke of Greystone?”

“That’s a lot to say, just to say you ain’t thinkin’ of him,” Lucy said with a snort.

“It’s not a lot to say. I just wanted to make my point. My clear point. That I am not thinking about the Duke of Greystone. I am not such a ninny as that. Clearly.”

“Or maybe, you just think you shouldn’t be thinkin’ of him. Thoughts are a strange thing, in my experience. They go where they want and don’t care where you want them to go.”

Finella sighed. Sometimes, Lucy was very wise. She had been thinking about the duke, even though she knew she should not. It really was very hard not to. Even as he lay there in the mud, she could see how glorious he was. Far too glorious for the likes of her.

She supposed she’d been so struck by how friendly he’d been.

Her father had warned her that they stood near the bottom of the steps when it came to lords and ladies.

At the top of the steps stood the dukes.

Neither of them had met a lot of dukes before, they only had the Duke of Ralston to compare to.

He was long dead, but when he’d lived, he’d been a very formal sort of gentleman.

They’d gone on the assumption that all dukes would be very reserved, particularly to someone whose father had just managed to get on the steps.

The Duke of Greystone had not seemed at all reserved.

“Well now,” Lucy said, “I reckon it’s time you get into that dress the madame has sent you. Wear the dress and hold your head high, that’s my advice.”

“Hold my head high to show that I am confident?” Finella asked.

“Aye, if you prefer. I was more thinkin’ it would make you look taller.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Mr. Browning did not listen at doors. Certainly, he would never stoop to such a debased habit.

On the other hand, there were many reasons why he might be going up and down a particular corridor that passed the library doors while Lady Gaddington was in there with the duke.

It must also be noted that Lady Gaddington spoke rather loudly.

So it had happened that he did hear bits and pieces of the conversation behind those closed doors. He had not liked what he heard. Lady Gaddington did not know this Miss Fernsby individual, but she seemed to know plenty about her. Her family’s new title was mentioned more than once.

And then she said it. Miss Fernsby was a mushroom.

Unlike the duke, and as much as it pained him to agree with Lady Gaddington, Mr. Browning did take the idea seriously.

As should everybody in England. Every person had their place, and they needed to stay there.

People could not just wander out of their place to pick a new place.

Was he, Matthew L. Browning, to be on the same level as a grocer?

Or perhaps he ought to expect a voucher to Almack’s?

He could swan in and ask the Duchess of Devonshire for a dance.

It was absurd. People could not go round thinking they were equal to everybody else! What kind of world would that be?

That was precisely a mushroom’s philosophy though.

If one had the funds for a London house and the funds to entertain lavishly, one must automatically be admitted into the ton .

These people boldly imagined that money was everything.

They imagined they did not require breeding and manners and history.

They all found out in time that the best houses would never allow a mushroom through their doors.

Inevitably, mushrooms settled into their own second-class society.

They ran round pretending their existence was glorious and threw their parties.

All along, though, they knew. They did not quite measure up.

Were Mr. Browning himself to ever be invited to one of these entertainments put on by a mushroom, he would decline in the most blistering terms.

Just last year, one of the leading mushrooms, a certain Mr. James Calder, from New York, of all places, had thrown a masque.

It was said that all sorts of shocking and debauched behavior occurred.

Of course that was how it was—they were mushrooms!

They did not know how to properly act. They did not have the instincts for it.

Miss Fernsby, as far as he knew it, did not even have the excessive funds of a usual mushroom. She was a poor mushroom. Else, why would the duchess need to sponsor her?

Who ever heard of it? A mushroom with no money.

What was perhaps even more disturbing had been the duke’s defense of Miss Fernsby. It seemed the only thing that mattered to His Grace was that she was found charming and she might have dimples.

Mr. Browning was holding tight to the idea that the duke’s second look at Miss Fernsby would put an end to any notions of her charm. After all, anybody might seem charming when a gentleman was lying prone in the mud of The Strand. Let him see her at Almack’s and he would think differently.

The butler comforted himself in the idea that the mushroom who was Miss Fernsby was likely to turn up to that storied institution in some sort of gauche dress. She would not know any better. The duke’s inherent instincts would form a revulsion to it.

Yes, that was what was needed. A natural revulsion of Miss Fernsby.