“Wonderful.” Her cousin rose.
“I only hope he’ll be able to make his journey over to Yorkshire safely. Perhaps he’ll be delayed—”
“The man’s survived the worst war mankind has ever seen,” Madeline said. “He’ll be fine.”
“I’m so happy for you.” Grandmother’s eyes took on a blissful, dreamy expression, one Fiona knew well, but which she had seen too little of ever since the doctors’ sober news. It was that expression that kept Fiona from admitting that she’d lied last year in a foolish attempt to keep Grandmother from worrying about her future.
Fiona rubbed a hand against her hair, and another curl dropped from her chignon.
“Unless there’s a problem.” Madeline smirked. “Sometimes when men don’t see their betrothed for long periods of time, they find they do not anticipate the meeting with the requisite eagerness. Perhaps—”
Fiona’s lips settled into a firm line. “The captain is devoted and true. He is kind and brave and dashing. He is everything a man should be.”
Madeline offered her a wobbly smile. “Marvelous.”
Fiona raised her chin and struggled to maintain a composed face. She had no desire to suffer humiliation from the ton, but there was no way in which she would allow the truth of her behavior to reach her grandmother. Even if concocting a fiancé might not be specifically warned against in etiquette books, the consequences of being found out would be no doubt distressing.
“Then I will leave.” Madeline swept her emerald green skirts against the furniture, and she exited the room with as much determination as she had entered it. She paused to glance at the ceiling.
Fiona followed her cousin’s gaze. Shapely goddesses with white wigs and scant attire stared at her. No doubt they would think Fiona repugnant as they perched from their fluffy ivory clouds, their pale, unfreckled skin raised toward the sun. None of them would invent fiancés.
“Really, you should have this restored. There are many treasures here. Aunt Lavinia says when—” Her cousin halted and her cheeks pinkened. “Never mind. I am happy for you.”
“Thank you,” Fiona squeaked.
Anyway. It would be easy.
All she had to do was find a fiancé.
In four days. In the middle of nowhere.
When no man had ever expressed an interest in her before.
How hard would it be to find a man by Monday? She didn’t need to marry the fellow. In fact, he needn’t even attend the ball. He just needed to prove his existence, a feat that would suffice in impressing the others. If she only succeeded in introducing somebody to Grandmother, all would be fine.
Or mostly fine.
Chapter Two
Madeline’s coach lurched forward and jostled over the cobblestones. Her cousin might be flinging herself into a glamorous new life, a continuation of her glamorous former life, but Fiona had more serious things to concern herself with.
She sped through the vacant corridors of Cloudbridge Castle. No flowers were in season to fill the elaborate Chinese vases, and the empty porcelain and jade sat alone on carved sideboards. Fiona pushed open the door to her room.
Painted portraits of her ancestors peered at her from gilded frames hung over long faded wallpaper. Sturdy medieval chests squatted beside slender-legged French chairs, a haphazard assortment of furniture unified only in that the pieces were unclaimed from more important relatives.
Uncle Seymour had taken the longcase clock that had once merrily ticked across from her bed, citing a sentimental connection to her grandfather that Fiona could not share, since she had never known him, and a need to determine the time that Fiona could not grasp, since nothing she did was of any importance anyway.
Fiona strode past her bed, draped with a stiff canopy, toward the view. A stack of Loretta Van Lochen books, a recent indulgence, sat on a table beside her bed. She wished she might lose herself in a story filled with handsome highwaymen and seductive spies now.
She pulled a pamphlet titled Matchmaking for Wallflowers from below the stack of romances. Her sister had given it to her last year, and Fiona skimmed the bright pages that showed cheerful women wearing pince-nez grasping the arms of tall Corinthians. It was unlikely there would be anything of use, but she flung the pamphlet into her satchel.
She heaved on her woolen cloak. She yanked her sturdiest boots over her calves and tied the laces with an expertise most women of her class took pride in lacking. Her lady’s maid had long resigned herself to taking more time assisting Fiona with her special projects than with the clothes she’d been trained for.
Fiona exited her bedroom and descended the staircase.
She bade a hasty farewell to Grandmother, told her she might spend the night at her sister’s estate, and then departed the manor house before Grandmother could bombard her with questions. Perhaps Rosamund might offer her some advice.
She marched toward the stables. The wind slammed against her, and the thick auburn curls that made even the most somber outfits seem ridiculous spilled from her hood. She nodded at the groom. “Please prepare Ned.”
“But the weather—”
“I’ll be fine.”
The groom stiffened. “Very well, m’lady. Shall I accompany you?”
She shook her head. She traveled with a knife, and she had little inclination to force the groom to ride in this weather to preserve her reputation, when riding with a man might also damage it. “I’ll ride astride.”
The groom nodded, accustomed to her eccentricities. She sighed. She couldn’t even present herself as a fine lady to her servants; no wonder she’d failed so miserably as a debutante.
The wind gathered in more force, thrusting its way through the trees, tearing any remaining leaves down. Dull orange carpeted the ground, and the leaves scraped her boots with each new gust.
Fiona shifted her legs, but before she could reconsider, Ned stood before her. The horse’s brown coat gleamed, and she stroked his face. The groom assisted her onto the saddle.
Fiona gave a curt nod and urged Ned forward.
Harsh wind brushed against her, and her curls toppled from her hat anew. She pressed her hand against the furry contraption, but the wind continued to bluster, tearing off her hat. Red locks swirled before her eyes, and she raked her hand through her hair, conscious of the groom’s eyes still fixed on her. One benefit of having a large estate was that there were few men to scandalize with her reluctance to ride sidesaddle. Even Marie Antoinette had at one time favored riding astride, and she did not have an archaeological site to tend to.
She moved Ned into a trot toward the site. Shots fired sporadically in the distance, accompanying the sound of Ned’s steady trot. The peasants wanted Christmas dinner, and it seemed everyone had seen the threatening clouds that hovered over the horizon.
The narrow lane sliced through the forest, and Fiona tightened her grip on the reins, careful not to disturb Ned. The days were too short at this time of year, and though it was not yet dark—she wouldn’t have been riding had it been—the light was dimmer and duller than she would have favored.
If Fiona were prone to swearing, she would be cursing like a sailor.
For the first time Fiona wished she were not in Yorkshire. Heavens, she would adore to be in London right now. Were she in the capital, swarming as it was with men, she might just possibly find someone desperate enough to pose as a fiancé. Perhaps she might find success by standing outside gaming halls. Or simply by throwing Grandfather’s remaining money up in the air.
Few men resided in this section of Yorkshire, and she wagered she wouldn’t even be able to find a stable hand willing to play the strong, silent type. Perhaps if she invented some sort of condition that explained why he couldn’t speak . . . Goodness, it was hopeless.
If word circulated she’d attempted to convince a servant to pretend to be her fiancé, she would be barred from ever reentering society.
The trees cast shadows over the dirt path, and she glanced upward. In the springtim
e the branches of the trees touched and created a net of pale green leaves and pastel blossoms. Now gaps existed between the stout branches and revealed the gray sky, and the even darker clouds that sailed over it.
This is an ideal day for an accident.
Fiona shivered and forced the image of a coach careening into a boulder from her mind. But it was hard to be successful in doing that, when all she could envision were wheels collapsing and a steel frame bending and twisting, clutching the less flexible figures of its inhabitants.
She inhaled and urged the horse forward. She avoided coaches. No closed, dark rides for her.
And then she saw it.
A tree, long and thick, had fallen across the road, its position just as precariously placed as in all her dreams. Pine needles covered its branches, but Fiona knew that underneath the pleasant scent hid imminent danger. A sharp curve lay immediately after the tree, the type of curve a coach driver coming from the opposite direction should slow for, but which he might not necessarily do. She didn’t want to imagine the horses trying too late to stop.
She turned her head in the direction of the apple orchard. She didn’t have time for this. This might be her last chance to do any digging, and she wanted to see Rosamund afterward.
But the impediment was so large, and the potential destruction so severe.
Fiona slowed Ned down and examined the sturdy trunk and the jagged branches. She slid from the horse, tied him to a tree, and then returned to examine the obstruction. The horizon had narrowed to a thin sliver, and she pressed her lips together.
If only she’d brought a shawl that she could have used as a warning.
She exhaled. Maybe she could remove the offending tree, so even the most unobservant driver could safely barrel down the road. She grasped a branch of the tree and attempted to drag it.
The tree did not budge.
She removed her knife. She sawed off some of the smaller branches and shoved them to the side of the road. The trunk was still too heavy for her.
She sighed. She would need to return to Cloudbridge Castle. She would send some of the male servants back to complete the job of clearing the road, hoping that they could get to it in time.
She pressed her lips together and tried not to think about whether any passer-by had spotted the tree that her parents’ carriage had collided with and had decided not to move it.
Trotting hooves and jostling wheels interrupted her thoughts. She swung her head toward the sound that was coming from farther down the road.
She scurried forward, accidentally sweeping her skirt and cloak through a puddle. No matter. Right now the only thing of any importance was to warn the driver.
A post horn sounded.
She hastened around the corner.
A dark coach pulled by four horses sped along the road, and Fiona hollered at the driver to stop. She picked up her skirts and marched over the lane. The wind blew against her, and her hair spilled from her hat. Mud coated the edges of her cloak. The knife was still clutched in her hand, and she waved it.
Chapter Three
Percival Carmichael, seventh Duke of Alfriston, was hurled from his seat.
He landed on the wooden floor with a thump, reflecting that some pieces of advice his former governess had been prone to bestowing had an irritating propensity to be correct. The advice that soared most prominently in his mind was her warning not to drink in a moving carriage.
His governess had been referring to apple juice, his preferred beverage at the time of his pre-Harrow education, but he contemplated that the advice still held true when imbibing a wider variety of drinks—in this case, brandy.
His cravat displayed distinct tawny spots now, an addition his valet would be most disapproving of. He also would criticize the alcoholic smell that now infused the velvet cushioned seats, the maple floor, and particularly Percival’s attire.
Blast. Yorkshire was every bit as horrid as the ton claimed.
He would have enough scrutiny tomorrow without appearing with a stained cravat.
He pulled himself back onto the seat. Speed was of importance, and the driver knew it. Percival had expressly promised him a significant tip if they reached London before tomorrow evening. The driver should be aware that a significant tip from a man who possessed a vast amount of wealth was nothing trivial.
Percival patted the package and pushed away the uneasy thoughts that consistently forced their way through his mind when he devoted too much attention to his impending engagement.
The driver said something, and the horses restarted their trot. Thank goodness. Percival stretched out his leg, and his Wellington struck the opposite seat. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. Soon he would be in London, ensconced in a life everyone would envy, until they learned about the accident.
“Halt.” An alto voice cut through the sound of whinnying horses. The voice was commanding, different from the high-pitched murmurings and giggles of the debutantes and young widows with whom he tended to consort.
The coach continued on.
“Halt!” The voice called out again, and this time the carriage wheels screeched. The horses snorted and stomped their feet, and the driver uttered an ungentlemanly word.
Percival swept the curtain back.
A tall woman in a cape stood beside the road. She clutched a knife, directing it at the coach. The woman’s eyes were narrowed, and red hair swirled in the wind. Mud crusted the bottom of her dress, and pine needles cleaved her cloak. The blade of her weapon glinted underneath the flickering lanterns of the coach, and her expression was solemn.
By Zeus, we’re being attacked.
He stuffed the package into a fold of his great coat. This was everything the dowager had worried about, and everything he’d sworn he wouldn’t allow to happen.
No one was supposed to know he was here. How in Hades had this person found him?
Blast.
The driver hardly resembled the brave type. Mail coaches lauded their tendency to employ former soldiers, but Graeme must have been a veteran from the war with the colonies, if the color of his whiskers was any indication.
Percival pulled his knife from his boot. So much for conquering Napoleon at Waterloo—now he had to suffer the indignity of being attacked at home. He should have stayed in London. Even the most tiresome balls didn’t involve weapons.
It would be a blasted pain if this ended up in the newspapers. Cartoonists were eager enough to chronicle his brother’s misdeeds, now that there was less reason to draw unflattering depictions of France’s onetime emperor, now safely imprisoned on St. Helena.
The woman hadn’t lowered her knife. He hoped she was not gifted at knife throwing.
Something sounded outside, and the woman’s red lips parted, her eyes appearing wider than before. “You’re pointing a weapon at me?”
“You bet your pretty face I am,” the driver said.
She blinked.
“Anybody with you?” The driver’s voice was firm, and Percival almost cheered. Maybe he wouldn’t even need to be heroic.
FIONA STARED INTO THE barrel of a musket. The experience proved as horrid as she would have imagined. The wind seemed to cease its frantic swirl, the leaves paused from rustling, and all she could focus on was the long blunderbuss fixed directly on her.
Guns were not supposed to be pointed at her. Not now, not ever. Her life was quiet. Weapons were things that were directed at other people, who did reprehensible things. “You’ve made a mistake.”
“I think not.” The man’s hands were steady.
Every aspect of the driver’s appearance seemed ordinary, and the coach itself was a mere mail coach, lacking any embellishment. And yet the driver’s bushy eyebrows crinkled together, as if she, not he, were acting inappropriately.
She raised her chin and strove to keep her voice steady. “Please put the weapon down.”
He laughed, a deep rumble that grated against her. The frigid temperature verged on unbearable, the icy wind stun
g her face, and she had no patience to converse with some argumentative driver whose life she was attempting to save.
“There is a tree in the road. If you go much farther, your coach will be crushed.”
The driver narrowed his eyes further.
“No doubt you will consider that it is winter and you are over a mile from the nearest estate.”
“What is it, Graeme?” A deep voice startled her from her musings. The voice was authoritative and the accent cultured, sweeping her away from the Northern accents, devoid of polish, to which she was accustomed.
Her heart hammered, and she reminded herself that just because a person was in possession of a pleasant voice, did not indicate a person’s propensity for regular features, wide shoulders, and all the other traits of handsomeness.
The man peeked out from behind the curtain.
He was only lifting his head from a carriage window, but it may as well have been from the clouds that soared above.
Chestnut curls peeked from the satiny edge of a beaver top hat, one more fashionable than any the local vicar was accustomed to adorning himself with, and the features of his face were composed in a stern expression that resembled the driver’s. His nose lay in a straight, unwavering line, and high cheekbones dominated his face, bestowing him a regal look.
Every feature belonged to a paragon of masculinity.
Fiona firmed her stance and dug her boots further into the muddy ground. Dried leaves crunched beneath her feet, and she flickered her gaze to the gray sky.
Dear Lord! No chaperone, no friend, and here she was in the presence of a practical God.
“We’ve got a problem, sir. This ‘ere lady.” The driver continued to fix his musket on her, and his voice was mournful. “I am afraid, sir, that we are being besieged by a highwaywoman.”
“Excuse me?” Fiona stuttered and her heart sped, though this time, the handsome man lay not entirely responsible for the blame.
Lords, Snow and Mistletoe Page 32