“Where’s your sister?” Grandmother inquired.
“She’s . . . er . . . still at her estate.” She stretched her lips into a wide smile, even though there wasn’t anything pleasant about this moment. She resolved to send Rosamund a note at once and inhaled. “Forgive me, I know that it was improper to ride without a chaperone—”
Grandmother waved her hand, and Fiona noticed that her appearance was slightly more frazzled than customary. Her makeup was unevenly applied, as if her grandmother had seen fit to do some touch-ups herself.
“The mail coach was waylaid.” Percival scowled.
“I’m sorry!” Fiona squeaked to Grandmother, conscious of Percival’s arched eyebrow and his steely eyes fixed on her.
“You mustn’t worry, my darling. I’m so happy to see you. And to meet your captain.” Grandmother laughed and peered closer to Percival. “Your appearance is quite extraordinary. Most aristocratic. Has anyone told you that you look just like the old Duke of Alfriston? He was quite a handsome fellow in his time. Dead now. And his son after him. So tragic.”
Percival stiffened, and Fiona tilted her head. She hadn’t wanted to know anything about Percival, but suddenly she regretted it.
“The straightness of your nose and that shade of blue in your eyes... And your chin, such a perfect shape. It is quite extraordinary to find all those features in one person, so much younger than the duke. Perhaps he is one of your ancestors.”
Percival opened his mouth, and Fiona stammered. “Most curious. Unfortunately, my darling fiancé will need to leave very soon. But you can see that we are engaged and happy.”
She avoided directing her gaze anywhere in the direction of Percival.
“Yes.” Percival nodded with such vigor that people might have termed the gesture frantic. “I would not want to encroach upon your hospitality.”
“Impossible.” Grandmother shook her head. “Your cousin’s Christmas Ball is in two days, and my niece must have an escort.”
“But!” Fiona’s voice trembled, and she shot a glance at the butler who seemed amused by the unaccustomed appearance of a stranger. “The dear captain will be able to escort me to events for the rest of our lives.”
“Starting today!” Grandmother nodded firmly and turned to Percival, who was definitely scowling now. “You would not believe how much my poor granddaughter missed you. Locking herself up all day long in her work room.”
“Oh?” Percival’s cool, impersonal question caused the back of Fiona’s neck to prickle.
“I will not let you venture out in this dreadful weather. I forbid it.”
Percival sighed. “But I am afraid the weather will become more dreadful—”
“En route.” Grandmother shook her head. “Just when you don’t want it to become worse. That’s why I favor staying inside. Unless you are willing to risk your good health when you have just arrived from the devastation of battle.” She flickered her gaze to his wooden leg, “In order to abandon my granddaughter—”
“Of course he wasn’t!” Fiona cut in, forcing a laugh, and ignored the manner in which Percival’s jaw tensed, and his scowl deepened. “My fiancé has a dreadful sense of humor.”
“Clearly he makes up for it in other respects,” Evans said slowly, his gaze scanning Percival.
“Indeed, Evans. Please have the maids prepare the Green Room.” Grandmother seemed to be amused. “Let us have tea now.”
They strode to the drawing room, and Percival settled stiffly into an armchair. He crossed both arms around him and glared at the furniture of the room with a vigor unsuited to a fiancé.
Fiona’s throat dried. “I’m afraid my darling captain is exhausted.”
“The Green Room is in the old men’s quarter, even though we seldom have male guests now. Some of my brother’s old hunting trophies are there. Men have expressed fondness for that.” Grandmother paused, and a lascivious grin Fiona rarely saw spread over her face. “Fiona’s room is located on the first door on the right of the women’s corridor.”
“Grandmother!” Fiona straightened her back, and refused to make eye contact with Percival, though she was conscious of the melodic, low-pitched sound of his laugh. “Captain Knightley will not require any directions.”
“Forgive me!” Grandmother said, and Fiona inhaled, even though she could not bring herself to glance at the gentleman. “I forgot that you were a captain. You are probably talented at finding your own way about things. Fiona was telling me that you’d led troops into Russia.”
“And the maps there are very difficult to read,” Percival said gravely. “They even use a different alphabet.”
Grandmother nodded. “You hear that, Fiona? He is impressive.”
“I’m sure the captain was able to make use of translated maps!”
“My beautiful fiancée is correct.” The captain smiled, and Fiona’s heart fluttered despite herself. “Though I confess that I do speak Russian.”
“So you could have used one of their maps,” Grandmother breathed. “Well done. And how on earth did you learn it?”
“The captain does not need to outline his entire life experience.”
“Of course not. It is seldom one comes across a person with such extensive knowledge of the world, and I am confident it would take longer than I have to live to hear all of it.”
Percival dotted Fiona a confused glance, and her shoulders shrank together. She hadn’t told Percival about her grandmother’s illness, hadn’t mentioned the ever steadier stream of doctors, and the bowls of blood for the servants to wash, after they’d drained her grandmother yet again, to yet again no avail.
Grandmother seemed more alert than Fiona had seen her for years, and though the fact made Fiona happy, she felt sad that it was all for a lie. Grandmother had reassured her that she needn’t worry about leaving the season without a husband, but once Fiona had brought a man back who promised to be a husband, she seemed overjoyed.
Percival cleared his throat. “I am of course happy to oblige you on anything that might bring you pleasure.”
Grandmother smiled, and Percival glanced at Fiona.
“Within reason of course.” He tapped his finger against the arm of the armchair, tracing the bold blue and white striped pattern.
She wasn’t sure which words the man would say next. He seemed to have an uncanny ability to know just what to say to charm her grandmother. The horrible thing was she had a dreadful suspicion that he was charming her as well.
And that couldn’t happen.
Because the man before her might be flesh and blood, but his presence was invented more from her desperate imagination than anything else.
Fiona’s nose crinkled. “My dear captain, don’t you have another battle to get to?”
“I am on Christmas leave, my darling,” the man said. “And we’ve conquered our worst enemy.”
Fiona sipped some tea. The water was too hot, and the liquid burned her throat as she forced it down. “But didn’t you mention to me that you were getting sick? Sudden, unexplainable nausea?”
“No,” Percival said simply. He turned to Grandmother. “What beautiful paintings you have.”
Grandmother’s cheeks pinkened, and soon she and the imposter captain had entered into a discussion on art, and the overwhelming sadness that the war had closed off much of the continent, so people had had to make do with visiting Cornwall instead of the Mediterranean, which had historic landmarks in addition to a pleasing natural light.
“One day the captain and you will visit Italy together,” Grandmother declared.
Fiona swallowed down more hot tea. The two spoke so naturally, as if—as if the man were her real fiancé, and as if he were really interested in everything about her. Right now her grandmother was regaling him with stories of holidays with Fiona and her sister, Rosamund, to the south coast.
“I wish I could have joined,” the man said.
Fiona sputtered and coughed. He played the role of her fiancé too well.
“Oh my poor girl!” Grandmother looked at her as if Fiona, and not her grandmother, were at death’s door. “Perhaps it is good if you rest.”
Percival rose and nodded. “If I may retire as well...”
“Of course.” Grandmother smiled.
“You are an extraordinarily understanding woman,” the captain said.
“You flatter me,” Grandmother said. “Though I am sure that any good qualities I might have are already known to you, reflected by my brilliant granddaughter.”
The captain smiled at her, and Fiona’s cheeks flamed.
“Your fiancé is quite charming, my dear.”
Fiona nodded, and her throat dried. “I am pleased you should find him so.”
PERCIVAL WAS NOT AMUSED.
He was many things: furious, angry, frustrated... but no, decidedly not amused.
His annoyance had started once he’d met the blasted woman, and it had not halted after, though it had grown to anger many times.
It didn’t matter that the butler had led him into a decent sort of room, with olive green velvet curtains and maple furniture. It didn’t matter that a fire was leaping and swirling in the medieval stone fireplace, as if Fiona’s grandmother had ordered a servant to light it at the first sighting of him struggling through the blasted snow.
The two women were probably conspiring together.
He needed to get to London. The dowager was depending on him. He turned to the butler, who was obsequiously pulling out all the spare blankets. “Look here, Evans.”
“Sir.” The man paused, holding onto a fuzzy red woolen blanket that looked damned tempting.
“I need to get to London. At once.”
The butler smiled politely.
“Please prepare a horse for me.” Percival glowered at the man.
“Her ladyship was clear that your presence is requested elsewhere.” Evans continued placing the blankets on the bed.
“This is all a great mistake. I was captured. I never intended for this to happen.”
Evans tilted his head. “There is no allowing for when Cupid’s arrow strikes.”
“Then Cupid was wielding a knife!” Percival muttered.
“Sir?” Evan’s lifted his grey eyebrows.
Percival shook his head. “Nothing. Cupid has not struck me.”
“And yet you’re about to be married.” Evans tilted his head, and Percival groaned. He slid into an armchair.
He tilted his head. He should correct the man. He wasn’t a sir. He was—well, he was Your Grace. Which had more of a ring to it, one he wasn’t yet fully accustomed to hearing.
And at this rate one that he would completely forget about.
He scrunched his eyebrows together. But even though he did rather want to emphasize his title and intimidate the man into arranging a horse for him, he didn’t really want it to be known that the Duke of Alfriston had managed to get himself captured by some chit claiming to be a highwaywoman.
That was definitely gossip fodder. But blast it, he needed to get to London. He swung his head in the direction of the outdoors.
The sky had grown grayer, and though he had a wild moment of hope that the heavens might open up with some very English rain, washing every last flake of snow away, it was really far more likely—far more his luck—that it would snow more.
His shoulders sank. His luck had left him long ago. He was stuck here. “I don’t suppose I can send a message?”
“Why of course.”
“Of course?” Percival tilted his head at the butler. His esteem of the man had ratcheted up abruptly, and he now considered how he’d ever managed to not see the man’s definite intelligence and decency.
“Naturally if you require to get in touch with somebody, we could of course arrange to send a message—”
“Good God, Evans, you’re a miracle worker!” Percival grinned wide. “Has anyone told you you’re bloody amazing?”
“Her ladyship has been effusive on various occasions, and Fiona’s kindness is of course well known among the staff—”
Percival waved his hand dismissively. “I don’t need you to number her accomplishments.”
“Ah, I see!” Evans gave him a knowing glance. “You clearly are already familiar with her outstanding qualities.”
“Er . . . yes.” Percival tried to smile at the man. Something seemed to twinge inside him, and he shoved the thought away. It would be good to be rid of this place, and with Evan’s help in sending a trusty note, that should be soon. “Anyway, I should find some paper.”
Evans nodded. “I’ll fetch some. Fiona always has plenty.”
“Ah, I wager she’s a letter writer.”
Everything appeared much rosier. Even the bed started to look tempting, despite or perhaps because of the piles of blankets.
Evans tilted his head. “I suppose she sent letters to you when she was in town.”
“Ah, yes.” He shuddered.
Evans narrowed his eyes at him, and he forced himself to smile. Mustn’t make the man suspicious.
He had a plan now.
He tapped his fingers against the cherry desk. Evans disappeared down the hallway, but he soon reappeared with some paper.
Percival raised his eyebrows when he spotted that Evans’ black jacket was speckled with dirt. He didn’t want to ponder what sort of mess Fiona’s work room must be in. The less he knew about the mysteries of Cloudbridge Castle, the better.
He flexed his fingers and wrote a quick note to the dowager. Writing the words down was every bit as embarrassing as he’d anticipated. He told her there was no need for her to exert her full force, but he would very much appreciate it if a carriage could be sent for him. People shouldn’t be allowed to kidnap others. In fact, he was pretty sure they weren’t allowed to do so, and by Christmas-time he hoped to be celebrating with his new family and perhaps even his new betrothed.
Soon all of this would be a distant memory.
Chapter Thirteen
The wild rush of triumph she’d expected didn’t appear. Grandmother was happy, and that was wonderful, but it was only more indication that Fiona had failed before in making her happy.
She sighed. How she felt didn’t matter. It only mattered how her Grandmother felt, which was, fortunately, better.
After retiring for a bath and nap, the latter of which she devoted more to worrying than sleeping, Fiona was contemplating whether she might do some archaeology after all, when a knock sounded on the door.
Percival.
She rushed to answer it, barreling over the cold wooden beams as she threw on her nicest robe and smoothed her hair frantically. She cursed that Grandmother had revealed the location of her room to Percival, but when she swung the door open, it was only Maggie, one of the maids.
Warmth prickled the back of her neck and furled over her face.
“Miss Fiona...” Maggie bent her stout body in a brief curtsy, evidently flummoxed to find Fiona personally opening the door. Her bird-eye gaze flickered over Fiona’s no-doubt flushed cheeks, and Fiona was conscious of her quickened breath.
Maggie had been a maid in the house for as long as Fiona remembered, and running in her room was not a general pastime for Fiona.
“I’m not sure if today is the best to help with the archaeology,” Fiona said.
Maggie shook her head. “Mrs. Amberly told me I should help you with dressing.”
“Oh.” Fiona widened her eyes.
“She also said it was fine with her if you wore one of your dresses from the other side of the wardrobe.”
Fiona must have appeared puzzled, for Maggie shifted her legs and fixed her gaze on the wardrobe, not meeting her eyes. “The side with the colors. I think she thought that you might be more adventuresome on account of your captain.”
“Oh.” Fiona settled onto her bed as Maggie slid the wardrobe door open, pulling out colorful dresses Fiona had not worn since her parents’ deaths. “I’m not sure...”
“It’s been several years,�
�� Maggie said gently, and Fiona nodded.
She was right.
Four years ago her parents had died when rushing home for Christmas, to celebrate Fiona’s favorite holiday.
Perhaps the coach always would have crashed into that boulder, but it was all too easy to imagine her father’s forceful voice in encouraging the driver to hasten, even though it was dark, even though the coach only had a hanging lantern to depend on.
She swallowed hard. When she’d briefly had her season, she’d worn the frilly, vibrant dresses the occasion required, retreating back to half-mourning only later.
The grey dresses, sometimes tinged with lavender, had seemed comforting. If she retreated from the world of fashion, she could not be subjected to the whispers and gossip of others when her bow failed to be the correct width and her hat clashed with her hair.
“I’m not sure.” She bit her lip.
Maggie pulled out various dresses, laying them over the bed. Blue and green gowns draped over the plain sheets like jewels. “Mrs. Amberly said that you might be reluctant, but that I was to insist.”
“I see.” She brushed her hand over glossy fabric. “I suppose I could...”
“Good,” Maggie said matter-of-factly, sweeping up the dress Fiona had touched. “You can wear this.”
Fiona’s gaze flickered to silky green ribbons and puffed sleeves.
“You’ll look wonderful,” Maggie said encouragingly. “And green is very suitable for Christmas. Mrs. Amberly also said Sir Seymour and Lady Lavinia are coming for dinner with their son.”
“Cecil!” Fiona’s heart thundered, and she tore her hand through her still damp hair.
Maggie nodded, her eyes narrowed. “She said it was good your fiancé will be able to meet some of your family. She was under the impression that he might not be here for long.”
“I see,” Fiona said, though in truth, meeting her extended family was unpleasant enough without having a man reluctantly playing her fiancé to contend with.
She acceded to Maggie’s attentions, as the servant struggled to summon up how best to arrange Fiona’s hair.
Lords, Snow and Mistletoe Page 40