Lords, Snow and Mistletoe

by Bianca Blythe

  The magistrate stepped nearer to Uncle Seymour. “Your niece is a menace to us all. Not only did she steal a mail coach—a horrendous crime, she also kidnapped one of Britain’s most prominent aristocrats. I am arresting her.”

  “It’s not true,” Madeline said. “Fiona—tell them it’s not true.”

  Fiona was silent and averted her gaze.

  Madeline shook her head. “Is that why you’ve never been to one of these events before? You were too busy engaging in criminal activity? Stealing mail?”

  Fiona searched the crowd, but no one was there. “It wasn’t like that.”

  “Do you deny the alleged events? Did you or did you not kidnap a nobleman in a mail coach? Did you or did you not then proceed to steal priceless family heirlooms from that same nobleman?” The magistrate’s eyes narrowed, and she stepped back. “Please consider your words. I wouldn’t want to find out that you had lied to evade justice.”

  “I—”

  “Answer him!” Uncle Seymour urged. “It’s a simple question. Yes, or no.”

  “Y—yes,” Fiona stuttered. “It’s true. I-I drove off with him.”

  The crowd murmured behind her. Even the magistrate’s face looked shaken, as if he truly hadn’t expected her to actually confess.

  Her shoulders slumped. This was a mistake. If she had only been able to stay home, just as she had desired, this would never have happened.

  “Oh my goodness,” Madeline said. “You wanted to use my husband’s good name too. Was that a scheme as well?”

  “What?” Uncle Seymour swirled around. This time he fixed the force of his personality on Fiona. His bushy eyebrows moved down as he narrowed his eyes, as if they were cannons directed on the enemy.

  Fiona’s stomach writhed under his steely gaze. “Just the apple orchard.”

  “Idiot!” Uncle Seymour sneered. “Stop embarrassing the family. Lead her away, Barnaby.”

  “Embarrassing you?”

  Uncle Seymour frowned. “A baronet has certain expectations to fill. Mad nieces do not generally improve their status. I certainly will not be known as a fool here.”

  The crowd that had gathered murmured, and Fiona’s chest clenched. She glanced at the dance floor, but the couples had thinned, and now only a few young debutantes danced with some soldiers. Everyone who knew her was near her, and quite a few people who did not know her were also there.

  The only person who wasn’t there was Percival.

  It was her fault. It was all her fault. She never should have kidnapped him, but there wasn’t a way to make things right.

  Fiona stepped toward the magistrate. Her legs wobbled, and she shivered. The crowd parted slowly, in equal shock that she was being dragged away.

  Lord, what would happen when Grandmother found out? Shame ratcheted through her. She pulled at her red gown. The scarlet color branded her, and she followed the magistrate through the ballroom.

  Percival was nowhere to be seen. The magistrate had mentioned the jewels. Only Percival knew about that. Not the driver.

  He must have arranged for this to happen. He’d been so encouraging of her to go to the ball. She’d confided in him, sharing her discomfit of these events, and he’d—he’d asked the magistrate to arrest her, dragging her from this event before everyone.

  That’s why he’d encouraged her to seek out Madeline and the baron. He hadn’t wanted to stand beside her when the arrest happened.

  Her eyes stung, and she willed herself to not cry. Not here. Not before everyone.

  This morning . . . Her heart wrenched, and she wrapped her arms together. Percival had seduced her.

  Not that she’d put up much of a fight. He’d had her in her very own bedroom.

  Her cheeks flamed. She’d trusted Percival. He’d whispered a few sweet words to her, expounding on some beauty that no one else seemed to see. He’d undressed her and touched her most intimate parts, all while intending to have her arrested later on. Had he simply been bored? Was she simply the only female of a certain age in a very snowy radius?

  Lord—he’d acted like the very worst rake in the world, like the most unabashed rogue, and she hadn’t seen it.

  Her fingers clenched together as she strode through the ballroom. The butler swept open the door for her, refraining from making eye contact.

  Cold air slammed against her, and the magistrate ushered her into his coach. Highway robbery was likely a capital crime, and her relatives had not seemed eager to defend her. She sat on the seat, every muscle rigid, her body already aching as her heart hammered frantically.

  All her happiness had been an illusion; Percival despised her, and the archaeological finds would forever remain in the ground. And Grandmother—lord, she would disappoint her. Even Rosamund would struggle to hold her head up high when the ton discovered her sister’s criminal deeds. The satin dress provided little protection against the cold, and she shivered, waiting for the magistrate to whisk her to her punishment.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Percival strode in the direction of the crowd, but the cluster of people was thick. His leg ached. He’d stood on it for so long already, and the wood pressed awkwardly into his remaining flesh.

  He swallowed a deep breath of air, gulping down the scents of heavy perfumes and cigar-smoke from the thick cluster of the ton.

  “Percival,” Arthur said. “You don’t need to see her. You know what she did. I spoke with the driver.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Blast.” His brother swore behind him. “So maybe she’s not a professional criminal. Maybe you’re right. But you’re still a duke and you don’t need to fall for some silly chit who pretended to be a highwaywoman. Didn’t you mention she’d stolen the jewels as well? If you ask me, there seems to be scant difference between her and an actual highwaywoman.”

  “I didn’t ask you.” Percival’s jaw tightened in a straight line and he pressed against the thick crowd of people. He clutched his cane, but maneuvering was a challenge. Balance was always an issue, and none more when there were actually people pushing against him.

  He swerved toward a middle-aged woman wearing too much rouge. She glared at him when he collided against her pearl necklace. “You’re not stealing that.”

  He muttered his apologies, and his brother called from behind him. “It’s my brother’s leg.”

  The lady directed her pince-nez downward. “Then he shouldn’t be at a ball!”

  A hard knot tightened and grew in his stomach. Murmurs sounded from the surrounding crowd. Someone was being arrested. Fiona. It could only be her.

  “I always knew she was a ne’er-do-well,” someone said. “Keeps to herself. Always thought it right suspicious.”

  Fiona was being hauled from the ballroom. He was going to be too late.

  He quickened his pace.

  “She abandoned her season,” someone said, “after two mere weeks, and hasn’t shown herself in society since then.”

  “Redheads. Not to be trusted,” a third said.

  Percival wanted to explain to each one of these people that they didn’t understand. He didn’t have time though. He needed to get to her.

  He inclined his gaze toward Arthur, but his brother seemed all too interested in the surrounding conversations.

  “You should listen,” his brother said.

  He stifled a laugh. “I thought you prided yourself on not heeding gossip.”

  “I pride myself on being a rogue,” Arthur said. “Not on abandoning all sense and reason.”

  “Right.” Percival forced himself to push farther into the crowd, even though that was a desire that everyone else seemed to be sharing now.

  He was supposed to be here to protect her. He’d encouraged her to go to the ball, and now he was the reason she was being swept away, arrested before all of Yorkshire’s finest society. Zeus, he’d ruined her life.

  If only the magistrate had spoken to him. If only the driver’s testimony hadn’t been so damning. If only he h
adn’t allowed himself to separate from her.

  “There she goes,” someone said. “Arrested.”

  He peered over the neatly swept hair of the people, tamed into a plethora of familiar shapes. Jewelry glinted from some of the women. He could see her. His Fiona. Being dragged away by some elderly fellow who didn’t deserve to be in her presence, much less take her away to whatever prison he had before the courts decided what to do with her.

  “Fiona!” He hollered her name, forcing his voice to rise over the chit-chatter of the crowd. Never mind that it wasn’t proper to address her by her first name. This was the woman he loved.

  And for a moment he thought she wavered. But her gaze didn’t meet his, and her eyes were rounder, more frightened than he’d ever seen them.

  “Stop that woman!” He shouted. “I’m the one she kidnapped. Speak with me.”

  But if the magistrate heard him, he didn’t stop. No one stopped. Fiona vanished, and he was left with nothing except the amused attention of the surrounding people.

  “You!” Fiona’s uncle spotted him. He wound his way through the crowd, his rotund figure not hampering his speed. He waved his finger at Percival, as if he were a mischievous boy. “You got her arrested.”

  “I—” Percival shook his head.

  “That would be me,” Arthur said from behind him. “Percival isn’t responsible for this turn of events.”

  Air blew from Sir Seymour’s mouth, and his beady eyes narrowed to thin slits. Finally, he shrugged.

  “You’re Arthur Carmichael, aren’t you? His Grace’s brother?”

  His brother nodded. “That would be me, Sir.”

  “Sir Seymour,” the man corrected. “Not just any sir. I’m like you. A member of the aristocracy. Titled.”

  “How nice,” Arthur said.

  “Yes.” Sir Seymour’s face brightened, before he flung his gaze to the large wooden doors from which his niece had just exited. “Miss Amberly is not titled.”

  “Indeed,” Arthur said.

  “Seems she had a desire to be titled.” Sir Seymour eyed Percival, and he stiffened. “I thought it highly strange when she introduced me to you. Until I saw your leg of course. Then it all made sense.” He laughed, though Percival did not join him.

  “You needn’t apologize for her.” Percival tightened his grip on his cane.

  Sir Seymour’s eyes rounded. “I wouldn’t dream of that. That woman deserves no apology. From anyone. I hope her erratic behavior won’t hamper our relations, should we meet in London. I must apologize for not recognizing you. A man of your position, it’s most embarrassing. And me a baronet! I will apologize for that. Though I see that you were off fighting in France.”

  “A war you didn’t choose to join.” Percival’s voice was frosty.

  “Me?” Sir Seymour chortled. “And end up without a leg?”

  Percival tightened his lips.

  “Or dead like your cousin?” Sir Seymour continued to guffaw.

  “You place sole importance on yourself.” Percival strove to make his tone as icy as possible.

  “Exactly!” Sir Seymour chirruped. He shifted his legs. “I don’t mean that as a failing.”

  “I know. But I find your demeanor insulting to the greatest degree.”

  Sir Seymour’s hand moved to his fancily tied cravat. “I . . . er—”

  “And you do your niece the utmost disservice as well,” Percival added. “You should not stand here before me and disparage her. I will not tolerate it.”

  Sir Seymour narrowed his eyes. “Look. The law is the law. Her behavior to you was reprehensible, and I am most sorry that she was your introduction to the family. All Amberlys are not like her. I am not like her.”

  “Well, we are in agreement on that.”

  “Good!” Sir Seymour spread his hands on his waist, and it occurred to Percival that perhaps the baron would not have been as poorly suited to His Majesty’s Army as he claimed. Drill sergeants might have things to learn from the man’s ability to carry his voice.

  The surrounding people were silent, everyone focused on the baronet.

  “Please take this conversation to another location,” Percival said. “I imagine that we would not want everyone to hear.”

  Sir Seymour narrowed his eyes. “I must divulge the poor character of my niece. I cannot wait. My conscience will not permit it!”

  “Let’s go,” Percival murmured to his brother.

  “And miss this?” Arthur chuckled. “This is far more fascinating than the carriage ride would be, even if that leaves us more at risk of highwaymen, or of women pretending to be highwaywomen.”

  “We must depart,” Percival said, but the crowd thronged in a thick circle around them.

  “She tricked you,” Sir Seymour said.

  Percival sighed. “It was unplanned. She didn’t know I was in the carriage. She was attempting to warn my driver about a fallen tree, and unfortunately my driver was mistaken and believed that she had put the tree on the road deliberately.”

  “Oh she would never have put it there.” Sir Seymour shook his head, and Percival nodded, assuaged that her uncle at least believed this about her.

  “But what would she do?”

  “Did Fiona’s sister, Lady Rosamund, ever have a chance to share with you her theories on catching a husband?”

  “No . . . I did not have the pleasure of speaking with your other niece much.”

  “Such a shame. My other niece is most intelligent.”

  “As is Fiona,” Percival said stiffly, though he wondered at the purpose of this gallantry, given Sir Seymour’s disinclination to listen to any favorable word about his very own niece.

  “Lady Rosamund managed to marry off many people. She’s a romantic.” Sir Seymour smiled. “Such a feminine attribute, would you not agree? But we men should not fall for such female manipulations.”

  Percival’s leg throbbed, and he tried to shift his position discretely. Sir Seymour’s eyes narrowed.

  “Though perhaps you are claiming to have fallen for Miss Amberly? Because I can tell you—she planned everything. I have proof.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Fiona planned this?

  Percival raised his chin defiantly, and his voice was every bit as steady as when he bellowed orders in the battlefield. “Impossible.”

  “You didn’t tell her before?” Sir Seymour smirked.

  “Miss Amberly did not know I was a duke until I was at Cloudbridge Castle.”

  “Are you certain, Your Grace?” Sir Seymour leaned toward him, and his features arranged themselves into a condescending expression usually reserved for tutors who’d noticed a foolish error in a wayward pupil’s arithmetic problem.

  “I may have announced it before, but she seemed most unimpressed.” He chuckled. “She did not believe me.”

  Sir Seymour raised his eyebrows. “Didn’t believe you, or already knew? Because if she already knew—she would also appear unimpressed.”

  Percival tilted his head. He hadn’t expected Sir Seymour to talk about that.

  The man pressed on. “You didn’t wonder why she chose to spend so much time with you? Despite your deformities?”

  “Injury,” Arthur said behind him. “Heroic injury.”

  Sir Seymour waved his hand. “Injury, deformity. I’m not favorable to all these niceties. The problem with the ton is that they are all too willing to feign politeness. It’s a waste of effort on everyone’s part. We would all save time if—”

  “My dear,” Sir Seymour’s wife broke in. “Perhaps it is not reasonable for you to speak to His Grace in this manner?”

  “He understands. He was a warrior, for goodness’ sake.” Sir Seymour gave him a huge grin. “That’s why I’m not afraid to speak my opinion freely to him. It’s wonderful to celebrate our ability to speak freely to one another here. Quite different from France and its Reign of Terror.”

  “That was some time ago,” Arthur said.

  Sir Seymour shrugged. “I’m
not prone to visiting the frogs myself. Bloody horrible if you ask me. All too willing to attack Englishmen. As your cousin so clearly discovered.”

  Pain seared Percival’s leg, and he shifted it.

  “But I’m warning you about my niece! The chit was clearly in desperate need of a husband. Still is, to be frank, so perhaps I shouldn’t say anything.” He closed his mouth, and then opened it, as if in desperate desire of speaking.

  “You should tell us,” Arthur said, his voice firm.

  “But—” Percival turned, but Arthur rested a hand on his shoulder.

  “You’re the duke; she doesn’t even have a title,” Arthur whispered. “She’s already shown an inclination to violence.”

  “But—” Percival protested.

  “Or madness,” Arthur said. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  His gaze shifted to Percival’s leg again, and Percival’s chest constricted. He abhorred that even his younger brother, a man completely without any sense of reason or responsibility, felt capable of ordering Percival about.

  Even though Percival’s leg had been cut off many months prior, and even though he’d recovered from his confinement long ago, his status of invalid was assured. It didn’t matter how reasonable Percival acted; he would now always be worried about.

  This fact would not be lessened if he continued to insist that Fiona was not as appalling as everyone else deemed her to be. Many of these people insisted she possessed horrible qualities and claimed she verged on insanity.

  “Rosamund said it was easy to convince any man to marry someone. One had five paths to do it. The first path was dazzling them, by being pretty and feminine and everything wonderful.” Sir Seymour turned and kissed his wife’s hand. “Just like my lovely, beautiful bride.”

  Percival nodded, and a cold chill spread through him. By Zeus, it was bloody difficult to see Sir Seymour as completely lacking in morals. Not when he treated his own wife with such consideration. His shoulders sank, and he wondered if just perhaps Sir Seymour might be saying something of importance after all.

  “And the second cause is by befriending them—feigning delight in the things that interested them.” Sir Seymour paused. “I take it that my niece did not do that?”