“There’s a joke there, but I don’t have it completely formed yet. Owls are known for wisdom, but that is hardly something you can ascribe to Parliament.”
“Definitely not.”
Fletcher picked up a plate with a little cake on it that was decorated with a pink frosted flower. He picked up a fork and took a bite. He was disappointed to find the cake was dry.
“A group of crows is called a murder,” said Louisa.
“To what can I attribute this vocabulary lesson?”
“My fiancé, the amateur ornithologist. He may not be passionate about much, but he can talk for hours about birds, which he is doing right now with Claypoole.”
Fletcher followed Louisa’s gaze to where Rotherfeld seemed to be enthusiastically gesticulating in front of Lord Claypoole, who looked on with amusement.
“I can’t tell a starling from a magpie,” said Fletcher.
“I know.”
“You can’t either.”
“The little ones are starlings.”
“Thanks.” Fletcher rolled his eyes and finished his cake. Just as he was looking for a place to put the plate, a servant appeared and relieved him of it.
“How was the cake?” Louisa asked.
“It looked prettier than it tasted.”
She nodded. “The Duchess of Buckingham seems to think food is ornamental more than anything else. Little here tastes good.”
“I liked those little sandwiches.”
“How was your discussion with Eliza Harding?”
“Enlightening.” Fletcher had a thought to get a rise out of Louisa now. “We discussed Hercules in both his constellation and mythical form at length.”
Louisa patted his arm. “Have you proposed yet?”
“No, but I can be quite charming. I believe if I bring up telescopes and the planet Mars, she’ll be putty in my hands.”
“You do have your charms, Fletcher.”
Fletcher smiled and decided to take the compliment, even though he thought Louisa was mocking him again.
“This party is a bit underwhelming, though,” Fletcher said. “What can we do to liven it up?”
Louisa shook her head. “I don’t care for the look in your eye.”
“These cakes are not really edible. We could put them to better use. Perhaps leave one on a chair for an unsuspecting lady or gent to sit on.”
“That is a child’s prank,” said Louisa, although she was smiling.
“You’re right, I can do better.” Fletcher looked around, assessing. His desire to put one over on Rotherfeld was great, but he struggled to come up with something that would work. “We could hide a cake in a shrub and tell your fiancé that it’s a rare bird.”
“That does seem rather harmless. These cakes are an unnatural shade of pink, though. I don’t see you mistaking one for a bird.”
“Or I could just spill some lemonade and see if someone slips in the puddle.”
Louisa laughed and shook her head. “The Buckingham servants are too alert for that. I do appreciate your attempts at levity, but I do not think this party can be saved.”
