Percival’s chest constricted.
A commotion clattered on the other side of the room, and Percival quickened his path, forcing his way through the throng.
Chapter Twenty
Madeline and her husband continued to be intrigued by Fiona’s findings, and though Madeline threw her hands up in the air a few times and declared her ignorance of archaeology, even she contributed to the discussion.
Fiona had gone to the ball, and the world had not ended. Everything seemed nice.
“So . . .” Fiona sucked in a deep breath of air and peered at Lord Mulbourne. “Might you perhaps be able to speak with Uncle Seymour? Tell him of the find’s significance? I’ve spoken to him, but a word from you would be so beneficial.”
Lord Mulbourne glanced at his wife, who nodded.
He smiled. “Certainly.”
Fiona’s heart swelled, and she strove to steady her voice, unused to the gratefulness surging through her body. “Wonderful.”
Just then a tall man clothed in austere attire and wearing a somber expression approached Madeline. Fiona smiled, recognizing the local magistrate.
“Hello Mr. Barnaby.” She waved at him, and he blinked.
Likely he wasn’t accustomed to her being so talkative. But ever since this weekend, everything had changed.
“Miss Amberly.” He inclined his back slightly and then pulled up in a jerky movement as if he’d reconsidered bowing to her.
Fiona shifted her feet. The man’s solemnity was conspicuous. Come to think of it, there’d seemed to be a skirmish earlier too. Something hollowed inside her.
“That’s the lass!” A Scottish-accented man’s voice barreled through the ballroom. “That’s the Scarlet Demon.”
Dread, pure, bitter dread, soared through her, and she swung around.
It was Graeme. Dear Lord, it was the mail coach driver himself.
“Seize her!” The man pointed a stout finger at her, and his bushy eyebrows scrunched together. “See that she’s hanged!”
Barnaby squared his shoulders. “Miss Fiona Amberly, I am placing you under arrest.”
Fiona froze, and all her happiness, all her festivity, drained from her. She shook her head, as if testing whether the man might be some mirage, manifested from her guilt.
“Mr. Barnaby, I do not appreciate you disrupting our festivities in this outrageous manner.” Madeline rested her hands on her waist, as if she were the governess she’d always been afraid she might become, and Barnaby were her debauched charge.
“Lady, the magistrate is trying to do his job,” Graeme unhelpfully offered. “She’s all done up now, like some fancy woman, but I know who she really is. No fooling me.”
Madeline’s blue eyes widened, and for the first time her face reddened to such a shade that the result was not pleasing. “This is absurd. Who are you?”
Graeme jutted his thumb at himself. “I’m the man who’s helping keep the crime off the highways.”
Madeline blinked.
Graeme strutted toward her. “They call me witness number two.”
“And just where is witness number one?” Lord Mulbourne asked, his silky voice remaining reasonable.
“We’re trying to locate him,” the magistrate said. “You haven’t seen the Duke of Alfriston about?”
Fiona’s heartbeat quickened.
Madeline and her husband swiveled their heads toward each other. Madeline shook her head.
“We haven’t got a duke here…”
“Obviously this is some poor semblance of a joke, my dear. There’s bound to be a simple explanation.” The baron’s voice was calm and reassuring, and Fiona’s chest tightened, because there was no mistake: Graeme was not teasing her, and the magistrate, a man she’d known all her life, had not inadvertently arrested the wrong Fiona Amberly.
The fault was all Fiona’s.
Except it was more than a simple fault, and it was more than the mistake of leaving her season early and regretting it. This was a mistake that had brought the magistrate, clasping a pair of handcuffs. This was a mistake that would bring her to prison, to the courts, and—Lord, forever mark her.
Nice women didn’t go around talking to strange men, much less kidnapping them. She’d frightened a driver, she’d taken a mail coach . . .
She sucked in a deep breath of air and attempted to conjure up thoughts of Percival. At least he knew her now; she didn’t want to consider what might have happened were he a stranger.
Barnaby’s features always tended toward solemnity, but now his eyes hardened.
She’d disappointed him. She’d disappointed everyone.
“Young lady,” Barnaby said. “I don’t know what sort of hijinks you get up to at Cloudbridge Castle, but I assure you that we try to maintain a peaceful community here. Come with me.”
“What on earth are you speaking about, magistrate?” Madeline frowned. “My cousin will not accompany you.”
“My lady.” The magistrate sighed. “Miss Amberly is accused of—”
“It’s fine,” Fiona hastened to say. “I’ll follow him. I’ll—”
“What’s this I hear about you holding up my niece?” Uncle Seymour’s voice barreled through the ballroom. “You were accosting her in that corner.”
“Please go!” Fiona cried, and the conversation stilled around her.
“Go when this idiot tarnishes my family’s good name?” Uncle Seymour’s jutted his finger at the magistrate, and his face purpled. “Not bloody likely.”
“Ah,” the magistrate nodded. “I now understand where this young lady fell wrong.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Uncle Seymour’s voice soared through the room.
“Uncle Seymour!” Fiona begged. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
“Highwaymen—and women—are illegal. Fiona Amberly has been terrorizing the neighborhood, masquerading under the name of the Scarlet Demon,” Barnaby said. “We have a plea from the Duke of Alfriston himself, a man so mighty we must take attention, to halt this woman’s devious acts. He is even now being held hostage—”
Percival was involved in her arrest? Fiona’s heart rate galloped, but there was no escape.
“That’s absurd,” Madeline said. “Fiona? Mousy Fiona is a highwaywoman?”
Fiona flinched.
“Indeed,” Barnaby said. “It pains me that her gentle soul would have seen fit to take on a lifestyle adopted by the basest of society, abandoning all feminine values…”
“B-but,” Madeline stuttered.
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 husban
d’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 hadn’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. Final
ly, 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.”
How to Capture a Duke (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 1) Page 17