“I hope Grandmother’s fine.” Fiona bit her lip. “She didn’t look that well when we left.”
Percival didn’t want to agree with her.
His grandparents had all passed away, and he hadn’t even had the benefit of any close relationships with them. He supposed that unfavorable comparisons to his cousin didn’t really count for a close bond, however instructional his grandparents had intended their unsought advice to be. His brother Arthur had escaped much of their condemnation, perhaps because they’d grown feebler, but more likely because there was never much chance he’d be tasked with the dukedom. And Arthur had of course always been ridiculously charming, as had Percival’s younger sisters.
He wouldn’t allow her to be unhappy. “The servants will call you if there’s any need to return,” Percival assured her. “She has a whole swarm of people looking over her. She seemed more excited about the ball than you. Come, you need to get some stories to bring her.”
He leaned toward her, and for a moment he almost pecked her cheek, before he had the good sense to halt himself. That action would be inappropriate for an actual fiancée, much less a pretend one. He may have vowed to himself that Fiona would always have a place in his life, but that moment hadn’t been formalized yet.
***
“There he is—Lord Mulbourne!” Fiona swiveled her head toward Percival. “He’s made an appearance. I almost believed he wouldn’t be here. I must—”
Percival smiled. “Go ahead. Dazzle him. I know you can. Your ideas are marvelous.”
Fiona spread her lips into a wide smile. “Th-thank you.”
The phrase did not suffice in crediting him with everything he had done, but it would have to do for now. The words hardly conveyed the burst of emotion that blazed through her when she thought of him. The man toppled all her pre-conceptions of the ton. He’d defended her to her uncle. He’d even stayed longer with her, refusing to journey to London from Harrogate. He’d cared about Grandmother. He even . . . he even seemed to care about her.
He wasn’t simple handsome. The man was magnificent: intelligent and far kinder than he desired to display. She forced away the strange flutterings that beat against her chest with frequency whenever she dwelled on him.
The ball was everything she hated, everything that had impelled her retreat from society, and yet it hardly seemed to be the hellish spot she’d imagined it to be.
Some women whispered, and though they might be gossiping about her and her unlikely attendance, they might not be.
“Excuse me . . .” A woman halted her. The woman’s eyes peeked from an ornate oriental fan. “Your clothes—”
“Yes?” Fiona paused, bracing herself for some insult, though she doubted that even the harshest one would affect her very much.
“It’s lovely.” The woman smiled.
“Lovely?” She repeated the word.
“You look quite beautiful. You must give me the name of your dressmaker.”
“Oh.” Warmth spread through Fiona. It didn’t matter whether the woman thought her beautiful or not, but pleasure still coursed through her nerves. “Thank you. You look lovely as well.”
She peered over the crowd. Madeline’s husband, the baron, stood in the corner of the ballroom. No one else had approached him, and the man seemed content to fix his gaze on the various dancers as they leaped and jostled through the patterned dances, the women’s gowns swishing and the men’s brightly colored waistcoats shimmering.
“Lord Mulbourne!” She called out, and he turned to her.
“Miss Amberly.” His eyebrows lifted somewhat, and Fiona sighed. Everyone was right. She could have been more social. It wasn’t good for the husband of her former best friend, the husband of her very own cousin, to express shock at their meeting. “It’s a pleasure to see you.”
“You too.”
“You’re looking well.”
She smiled. “I’m feeling well.”
“Ah . . . The merits of youth.”
She nodded, but for the first time it occurred to her that this man, the one whom Madeline had boasted so much about, was perhaps not perfect. Perhaps he was not the ideal match Madeline prided herself in making, and perhaps Madeline had made her own sacrifices to follow the rules of the ton. Lord Mulbourne was rather on the wrong side of thirty-five, and grey speckled his thin hair, the pale flecks emphasized by the man’s ivory cravat.
“Are you looking for my wife?” He smiled politely.
“No!” Fiona stammered, and then took a breath, forcing her voice to remain calm. “I mean—I wanted to speak to you, though I must speak to Madeline at some point, for I must thank her for this delightful party.”
“She mentioned it was a struggle to get you to accept her invitation.”
Fiona offered him a sheepish smile and peered around. Though there were some clear couples at the ball, there were also groups of unmarried women sitting on the outskirts. Perhaps they were wallflowers, but despite the term and its decided bluntness and absence of flattery, the women seemed to be enjoying themselves, chattering and sipping mulled wine. “Then I was a fool.”
“Is that what you came to tell me?” Amusement filled Lord Mulbourne’s voice.
“No—” Fiona smiled. “I wanted to speak with you about something quite different.”
He raised his eyebrows, and Fiona forced her voice to not shake. “I rather believe I’ve discovered a Roman palace buried beneath an apple orchard at Cloudbridge Castle.”
Lord Mulbourne tilted his head. “That is rather an incredible statement. Or perhaps not so incredible.” He swung his gaze around the room. “Where is my dear wife now?”
Fiona shook her head. “I’ve come to speak with you. Not her.”
“I see.” Lord Mulbourne nodded, but his smile wobbled somewhat, and the easy rapport between them seemed to have all but disappeared. “I’m afraid you don’t quite understand—”
“I do,” Fiona hastened to add. “I understand perfectly. I’ve read everything you’ve written about Classical Civilizations.”
“You have?” Lord Mulbourne’s face seemed a trifle paler than before, and he craned his neck again to peer out over the crowds. His hand flickered up. “There she is.”
“And your work is brilliant,” Fiona added. “Absolutely brilliant. So very insightful.”
Lord Mulbourne relaxed his shoulders somewhat as he gazed at his wife. “I’m pleased.”
“As you know, much talk is devoted to digging up Roman sculptures and bringing them over here. Now that Napoleon is gone, it’s of course once again easy to get to Italy.”
The baron flashed her a tight smile.
“And that’s wonderful,” Fiona continued, “But I’m convinced there are treasures within Britain as well.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“You must have an opinion on it,” Fiona leaned forward, and her heart hammered. “What do you think? Your good word would mean everything in giving me permission from Uncle Seymour to dig up the apple orchard.”
“I—” Lord Mulbourne stammered and stepped away.
For one moment Fiona thought he’d abandoned her. She peered into the crowd, and for a wild moment she even thought she recognized Graeme, the mail coach driver, but the thought was absurd. Drivers didn’t attend balls such as this one.
Lord Mulbourne returned soon, dragging Madeline behind him.
“Miss Amberly was telling me that she believed a Roman palace might be buried underneath her estate. And she wanted to know my opinion on the possibility of it.”
“Indeed.” Madeline sipped her drink.
“I know the subject has some controversy,” Fiona said. “Lord Mulbourne’s article on the Roman soldiers’ influence on Britain was fascinating.”
Madeline’s face rosied in obvious pride of her husband’s accomplishments; perhaps Fiona’s negative judgement of her had been inappropriate.
“But then you will believe,” Madeline said, “My husband’s opinion that the Romans left n
o art of any significance here, and that we must go to the Mediterranean to find the true treasures of the Roman Civilization.”
Lord Mulbourne cleared his throat. “Yes, yes. Just what I was going to say. You always do manage to take the words straight out of my mouth, my dear.”
Madeline’s lips flickered up, as if they were sharing a marital secret.
Fiona smiled. It must be nice to know someone so well. She flickered her gaze across the room to Percival, and warmth spread through her. As she spoke to Lord Mulbourne about her findings, she reflected that she’d never found anyone as wonderful as Percival.
This morning’s activities had been more than she’d ever imagined, and though she should feel a flurry of unrest that the man was leaving, he’d hinted that there would be more between them.
Life was magnificent.
Chapter Nineteen
“I’ve come to rescue you, Your Grace!” A deep voice boomed in Percival’s ear, and he spun around, tightening his hand on his cane.
Blue eyes peered at Percival from dark hair that curled in locks resembling his own. The man’s complexion was more bronzed, the cheekbones more chiseled, and Zeus help him, the man even had stubble, even though whiskers were firmly relegated to the most provincial people, and even though this Christmas ball demanded a certain degree of refinement.
Only one person in his life was so frustrating.
Arthur.
Percival tightened his fingers around the goblet of mulled wine he’d taken for Fiona. The warm metal stung his hand, and the compilation of cinnamon and sugar that wafted upward suddenly seemed sickening as he stared at his younger brother. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“Being heroic.” A smile spread over Arthur’s face, the sort of smug grin that had earned him his reputation as a rogue.
“But—”
“I found him!” Arthur’s voice, unfailingly strong, bellowed over the sound of the violins. “My brother is safe.”
“Wonderful, m’lord,” another voice boomed from another corner of the room.
Percival swung around. He widened his eyes at the sight of a man in a red uniform with gold epaulets.
“Did you call the army?” he whispered to his brother. Dread soared through him.
“And the magistrate.” Arthur’s smile widened. “Some people might ignore local law enforcement, but I always say, the locals know the situation on the ground best.”
“I—”
“Find the Scarlet Demon,” Arthur shouted. “Stop the music! We’re looking for a female, red-headed criminal. She may be dangerous.”
“Oh, my!” The surrounding women shrieked, clutching their pearls.
“You better go on the floor,” Arthur said. “The floor is safest. She’s been known to carry a knife!”
Men and women threw themselves on the ground with a vigor he hadn’t seen since the war.
“Arthur!” Percival shouted. “You mustn’t!”
“Mustn’t what?”
“You don’t know what you’re doing.” Percival glanced at the glossy fabrics crushed against the marble tile. He raised his voice. “False alarm! It’s fine. No trouble!”
“Percival!” Arthur swung his head to him. “I’m saving you.”
“I don’t need to be saved.”
“Ah… You already incapacitated her. Where is she? Tied up behind a curtain somewhere? Good work.” Arthur slapped Percival on his back, so he tottered somewhat on his leg. Arthur stretched out his arm to better Percival’s balance. “Er . . . Sorry.”
Percival’s eyes narrowed, and he placed his hands on his hips. He fixed his eyes on his brother and spoke very slowly. “Tell them not to worry.”
“But—”
“Now.”
Arthur sighed and turned to the other guests. “Apparently the criminal has already been apprehended. You may all dance freely. And . . . er . . . rise.”
Slowly some of the people stood, their eyes still wide, their gazes still fixed on Percival and his brother.
Arthur reached over and grabbed Percival’s drink, noisily slurping the mulled wine. “You don’t appear to be in such dire straits, brother.”
“You shouldn’t be here,” Percival growled. “What on earth are you doing?”
“Me?” Arthur scowled and swung his gaze around the crowded ballroom. “Right now I’m limited to admiring the outstanding decor. Who knew a place could have so many red ribbons?”
Percival scowled.
“And those chits in their white satin dresses. Lovely!” Arthur continued, his voice carrying over the violins. “But you know we have pretty women in London too.”
A few ladies glanced in their direction and covered their smiles with their French fans. At least Percival hoped it was smiles they were covering.
Percival searched for Fiona. He should be rescuing her. He gripped hold of his cane and headed toward her, brushing through the swarm of finely attired people.
“You would think a wooden leg would slow you down,” his brother grumbled beside him.
“What brought you here?”
Arthur shrugged. “I got your note and like the dutiful brother I am, I dropped all of London’s pleasures, galloping over the countryside in true familial fashion.”
Percival sucked in a deep breath of air. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. And of course the mail coach also sent notification.”
“Indeed?”
“You shouldn’t have insisted on the coach going without the guard.” Arthur shook his head. “Your forceful capture was a big to do. Would have been in all the newspapers, I’m sure, if they hadn’t been so incredibly embarrassed that they’d lost hold of the mail for a few hours. Not good for their reputation.”
“Right.” Percival bit his lip.
“I spoke with the driver on his way over here as well. The man seemed rather light on his gun if you ask me,” Arthur said. “The thing’s not there for bloody decoration. I told the magistrate and army to look out for a woman called the Scarlet Demon.”
“Look. About that letter—”
“In which you told the dowager that a highwaywoman had kidnapped you?”
“Er . . . Yes.” Percival swallowed hard. “Turns out the situation was not so calamitous.”
Arthur rolled his eyes. “Well. Obviously.”
Percival raised his eyebrows.
Arthur banged down the empty mulled wine goblet. Or not so empty. The baroness’s white lace tablecloth now had distinct crimson splotches on it, not that that was the sort of thing his brother would care about. Instead his brother picked up a glass of negus. The citric smell wafted over Percival, and his tongue prickled.
“The dowager is furious,” Arthur said.
“Oh.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen her eyebrows draw quite so closely together.”
Percival shivered. He’d imagined their aunt being worried, and he’d struggled to word the letter gently.
“You mean—”
“You were supposed to be in London to propose to Lady Cordelia. The dowager wants the perpetrator to be punished.”
This time Percival grabbed a drink. He sloshed down the liquid, but the mixture of spices failed to soothe anything, and he hobbled toward the wall.
“Percival.” His brother’s voice was low. The man ambled beside him. “It’s not your fault you were kidnapped. These things happen.”
“It was just a case of mistaken identity.”
“Ah? Wrong victim. Suppose a duke’s not quite fine enough for these Yorkshire folk? More into wealthy American heiresses, hmm?”
“Er . . . More like she wasn’t really a highwaywoman.”
Arthur laughed. Loudly. “You got captured by accident? You mean she wasn’t even really trying?”
A few finely dressed women craned their necks toward them. The turban of one middle-aged mama tilted to such an extent that Percival marveled it didn’t topple off.
He clenched his teeth together and
focused on his younger brother. “Please lower your voice.”
Arthur stared at him hard, and Percival almost wavered under the man’s assessing gaze.
“Just—” Percival inhaled. “I’m sorry I sent you all this way. I’m not ready to go.”
“You don’t have a choice.”
Percival scowled and scanned the room. But he didn’t see any red hair, and though there were other red dresses, none of them were hers.
It was too late.
The ballroom was too large, too crowded. The generous draping of greenery, the sparkling ornaments, and the vast amounts of red ribbons, tied with large bows to anything that had a handle, now only served to hide Fiona from him. “You can go now. I’m safe. And I need to speak with Fiona.”
“Great Zeus on Olympus!” Arthur’s voice boomed. His eyes broadened, and Arthur was the type of man to retain a cool demeanor. “You’ve found yourself a little harlot.”
Percival stiffened.
Arthur’s gaze leaped from the silver platters of appetizers to the glass pitchers of punch to the glossy dresses of the gentry, and he smirked. “You’re not a hostage. You’re enjoying yourself.”
“It’s true, isn’t it?” Arthur stepped nearer him. “I knew you couldn’t change your ways. All that noble talk about serving as a replacement for Bernard. All nonsense.”
The knot on Percival’s collar seemed too tight, and the rows of flickering scarlet candles in golden candelabras resembled Hades more than the supposedly cheery atmosphere of a winter ball.
“You don’t need to concoct a flimsy excuse to avoid going to London. Though maybe you should do something about Lady Cordelia.”
“I haven’t technically proposed.”
Arthur waved his hand in irritation. “She’s confident enough to think you’re not gallivanting about with some madwoman.”
“She’s not a madwoman. Not a harlot. She’s—” His voice dropped off, and his gaze must have clouded as he considered Fiona. The woman was everything wonderful. She was brave and caring, intelligent, and oh so beautiful.
“Magnificent?” Arthur raised his eyebrows, and sarcasm filled his tone.
How to Capture a Duke (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 1) Page 16
