“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?”
“No.” Percival shook his head, but Sir Seymour merely chuckled. The baronet curled his lips upward, revealing teeth tainted by likely frequent consumption of sweets.
“The other method is by ignoring them. Clearly she didn’t do that. Otherwise she would have let you be in the coach.” Sir Seymour chuckled.
Percival stilled. The horde of elegantly attired people seemed to arch toward him, and he was conscious of the faint fluttering of ladies’ fans. The decorative items’ proclivity toward feathers and dramatic colors did not mask their owners’ open interest in the conversation.
Sir Seymour turned to his wife. “Now what were the other tricks? It was all most clever. Most clever indeed. Ah ha!” He steepled his fingers. “The other trick was mystifying them—well, there may have been a bit of that. But you know what I truly think she did, the clever minx?”
Sir Seymour’s wife tugged the man’s arm. “Do you truly think you should be telling him all that?”
Sir Seymour grinned. “My niece is married. She won’t mind if I reveal all her insights.”
“But His Grace might not appreciate—”
“His Grace will appreciate not being married to a calculating madwoman. I think His Grace should be ever so thankful to me.”
“I highly doubt that,” Percival said.
Sir Seymour tilted his head. “And still you stand here before me, even though your leg must hurt ever so much.”
Percival stiffened. The throbbin
g intensified under the baronet’s fixed stare.
“The last rule is simple. Capture them! Keep them alone.” Sir Seymour chuckled. “I thought it was a joke myself. I thought surely no one would do that. But didn’t Rosamund give the list to her sister? And didn’t Fiona capture you? And force you to be in her company? Taking you in that tiny sleigh to Harrogate? Only to turn around? The magistrate said she even insisted on spending the night with you.”
“You shouldn’t speak about your niece like that.” Percival whitened and leaned forward. “I am afraid we are of great risk of being overheard.”
People tittered behind him. Percival didn’t recognize the people, but he knew they were important gentry in Yorkshire. It wouldn’t be long before word would spread to London, haunting him, haunting Fiona.
“She’s not here to defend herself,” Percival said. “Don’t speak of family in that way.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t call her family.” Sir Seymour shook his head. “Relation perhaps, but I’m going to hope that the relationship remains ever so distant.”
“I am sure she feels similarly toward you,” Percival said, though he did not put much force in his words. Perhaps Fiona had calculated everything, learned of his trip by some deceitful method, and waylaid the course. Perhaps all the emotion he felt toward her was completely false.
“It’s a foolish man who does not heed warnings.”
“She doesn’t desire marriage. She’s not some fresh debutante eager to connect herself with a titled man. She’s content with her work. She’s amazing.” Percival smiled now, eager to distract himself with thoughts of Fiona. Pondering her easily led to smiling.
“On the contrary, she’s in desperate need of a husband. Once her grandmother dies, she might not have the opportunity to live at Cloudbridge Castle anymore.”
“Surely you would not force her out! She adores the castle.”
Sir Seymour sighed. “And yet she is not my daughter, merely my niece, and one who thinks I do not notice when she rolls her eyes at me. I adore my wife. Very much. I’ve no desire to taint the time we have together by having a niece whom neither of us are fond of live with us so she might tear up the beautiful apple orchard.”
“I am quite fond of apples,” Sir Seymour’s wife added.
“You see?” Sir Seymour asked. “My hands are tied.”
“Thank you for informing us. We are most appreciative,” Arthur said. “You can be assured that my brother will have nothing else to do with her.”
Sir Seymour nodded. “You are quite welcome.” He paused. “My wife is quite fond of Sussex, should you ever see fit to invite—”
“I doubt we will see you again,” Percival said. “Unless we are at a ball, in which case I would hope that we can put sufficient space between us.”
“Ah . . . This is most unpleasant business,” Sir Seymour said.
“Indeed.” Arthur gave a curt bow and dragged Percival toward the exit. Bows had become a more difficult thing in recent months, and Percival did not deign to attempt one before the baron.
Lead seemed to have replaced his heart, and he strained against the pressing weight constricting his chest. He attempted to force Sir Seymour’s words from his mind, but they kept on returning. The baronet believed them. That much was evident. He believed Percival had been woefully manipulated and that it was his aristocratic duty to warn him about her. And perhaps the man was indeed correct.
Percival’s shoulders sagged. Perhaps Percival had been too eager to be flattered, too eager to believe a woman existed who might admire him for his own merits, even when that included a leg count that ended in one, and even when that consisted of a woman not knowing, or not believing he was truly a duke.
He shook his head. He’d been warned there were women everywhere who would be eager to join themselves to his money.
Perhaps Percival was simply naïve, unsuited for the role of duke. Perhaps it would be unwise for Percival to completely ignore their opinions.
Even if Sir Seymour lacked gallantry toward his niece, the man was likely held with more than a modicum of respect in his own circles. His own wife seemed pleased with him, which was more than Percival could say for many aristocratic marriages. More than he’d hoped for in his own marriage with Lady Cordelia.
His brother turned to him. “Let’s go.”
Percival followed him through the crowd of men and women, their satins and silks gleaming in the flickering light of the eight-hour candles. His wooden leg clicked against the unfamiliar black and white marble floor, and his leg ached as he pushed through the swarm of guests. The faces ranged from sympathetic to curious, but he didn’t want either emotion from these people.
His hands tightened around his cane. This wasn’t supposed to be his role. He wasn’t supposed to become a duke. He was supposed to live a simpler life, and perhaps the dowager was correct in her ill-masked worry about the fate of the dukedom under his surveillance.
He’d been so close to giving the ring to Fiona. So close to divulging that he wanted nothing more than to join their lives together, to have her spark and her empathy always by his side.
His shoulders sagged. He’d been a fool. He should have learned at Waterloo that it was wrong to hope for anything more. He should have learned then that his life should only be focused on fulfilling the dreams of his cousin. Bernard had sacrificed himself for him, and he should not repay that sacrifice a mere six months later by tying himself to a chit who had found herself hauled off to the magistrate’s prison.
Arthur held the door open for him, and they exited the ballroom. They pulled on their great coats and top hats in silence. The servants eyed them, curiosity visible. He wondered what story they would spread to the downstairs workers.
Fiona was right to be frightened of the ton. Unless she wasn’t frightened and only wanted to isolate him . . .
He shook his head. He needed to speak with her. Even now, that’s all he wanted to do.
“Soon you’ll be with Lady Cordelia, and this will all be in the past. It’s a good thing you wrote,” Arthur said. “Seems like you got yourself embroiled in something quite nasty.”
“I—”
Arthur sighed. “Look. You’re my brother. Of course I’m bound to worry about you. But I don’t like the manner in which your eyes soften whenever anyone mentions the woman’s name. And I don’t like how argumentative you were with the baronet.”
“Is that what you took from the encounter? That I was argumentative?”
“Weren’t you?”
“But he was insulting his own niece.”
“And you defended her like she really was your lover.”
Percival stiffened, and Arthur groaned. “By Hades, I was right. She’s your harlot.”
“Not harlot. I told you.”
“Only because for some absurd reason you still manage to claim all sorts of respect for the woman, even when she blatantly kidnapped you and proved herself utterly unworthy of any trust.”
Perhaps Arthur and Sir Seymour were right. Perhaps Fiona was simply a woman who displayed criminal behavior that he was too eager to excuse because something in her appearance appealed to his baser instincts.
But perhaps again she was more. Perhaps she was everything he longed for, the companion he dreamed that she could be.
Either way, he was going after her. He was not going to leave her in Yorkshire all alone while he gallivanted off to London to propose to another woman. He knew her too well, and she did not deserve that. He did not deserve that.
He wouldn’t spend the rest of his life pondering her. The fresh breeze brushed against him. It was chilly, but he didn’t mind.
A minuet streamed from the manor house. The party-goers were probably once again merrily bouncing up and down to music, as if his life and Fiona’s had never been shattered.
A horse and rider thundered toward the house.
“Perhaps the rider is sorry to have missed all the gossip!” Arthur joked.
“He’s certai
nly a late arriver.”
The man leaped from his horse and hastily tied it.
“Ah, Captain Knightley.” The man waved.
“Have you got yourself a new name?” Arthur murmured.
“He must be from Cloudbridge Castle,” Percival said. “What is it?”
“Is Miss Amberly with you?” the man said.
“No.” Percival didn’t want to explain that Fiona was at the magistrate’s. He was more eager than ever to get to her. What would her poor grandmother think?
“Inside?” The man dashed up the stairs.
“No,” Percival called, and a chill descended on him. “Can I be of assistance?”
The man halted. “It’s Mrs. Amberly. She’s taken a turn for the worse.”
Percival’s shoulders fell. He liked Fiona’s grandmother. “Miss Amberly is in the magistrate’s coach. Can you recognize it?”
Shock flickered over the man’s face, but he refrained from questioning Percival on the reason for Fiona’s unusual location. “I passed it on the way up here…”
Percival nodded. “Then see if you can catch up with it again. Explain things to him. And . . . er . . . tell him that the Duke of Alfriston absolutely does not press charges.”
The man blinked, and Percival shifted. His leg throbbed, and he longed to sit down again. Instead he said, “I’ll come with you.”
“But—” Arthur was quick to protest, but Percival shook his head solemnly.
“Do you think she’ll make it?” Percival asked.
The servant’s face tightened, and Percival did not press the man further.
Chapter Twenty-three
She was dead.
Grandmother wasn’t supposed to die. It was impossible. Grandmother had been there Fiona’s whole life, and it wasn’t supposed to end. Not like this. Not without Fiona being there. Not without the doctors giving plenty of warning.
The magistrate had hauled her from the coach. She’d hoped for a reason to avoid prison, but it hadn’t been this.
Her back was rigid and her jaw was steady as steel, for she thought if for one second she considered what had happened, that Grandmother would never ever wake up, then she’d collapse completely.
How to Capture a Duke (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 1) Page 18