Lord Mulbourne relaxed his shoulders somewhat as he gazed at his wife. “I’m pleased.”
“As you know, much talk is devoted to digging up Roman sculptures and bringing them over here. Now that Napoleon is gone, it’s of course once again easy to get to Italy.”
The baron flashed her a tight smile.
“And that’s wonderful,” Fiona continued, “But I’m convinced there are treasures within Britain as well.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“You must have an opinion on it,” Fiona leaned forward, and her heart hammered. “What do you think? Your good word would mean everything in giving me permission from Uncle Seymour to dig up the apple orchard.”
“I—” Lord Mulbourne stammered and stepped away.
For one moment Fiona thought he’d abandoned her. She peered into the crowd, and for a wild moment she even thought she recognized Graeme, the mail coach driver, but the thought was absurd. Drivers didn’t attend balls such as this one.
Lord Mulbourne returned soon, dragging Madeline behind him.
“Miss Amberly was telling me that she believed a Roman palace might be buried underneath her estate. And she wanted to know my opinion on the possibility of it.”
“Indeed.” Madeline sipped her drink.
“I know the subject has some controversy,” Fiona said. “Lord Mulbourne’s article on the Roman soldiers’ influence on Britain was fascinating.”
Madeline’s face rosied in obvious pride of her husband’s accomplishments; perhaps Fiona’s negative judgement of her had been inappropriate.
“But then you will believe,” Madeline said, “My husband’s opinion that the Romans left no art of any significance here, and that we must go to the Mediterranean to find the true treasures of the Roman Civilization.”
Lord Mulbourne cleared his throat. “Yes, yes. Just what I was going to say. You always do manage to take the words straight out of my mouth, my dear.”
Madeline’s lips flickered up, as if they were sharing a marital secret.
Fiona smiled. It must be nice to know someone so well. She flickered her gaze across the room to Percival, and warmth spread through her. As she spoke to Lord Mulbourne about her findings, she reflected that she’d never found anyone as wonderful as Percival.
This morning’s activities had been more than she’d ever imagined, and though she should feel a flurry of unrest that the man was leaving, he’d hinted that there would be more between them.
Life was magnificent.
Chapter Nineteen
“I’ve come to rescue you, Your Grace!” A deep voice boomed in Percival’s ear, and he spun around, tightening his hand on his cane.
Blue eyes peered at Percival from dark hair that curled in locks resembling his own. The man’s complexion was more bronzed, the cheekbones more chiseled, and Zeus help him, the man even had stubble, even though whiskers were firmly relegated to the most provincial people, and even though this Christmas ball demanded a certain degree of refinement.
Only one person in his life was so frustrating.
Arthur.
Percival tightened his fingers around the goblet of mulled wine he’d taken for Fiona. The warm metal stung his hand, and the compilation of cinnamon and sugar that wafted upward suddenly seemed sickening as he stared at his younger brother. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“Being heroic.” A smile spread over Arthur’s face, the sort of smug grin that had earned him his reputation as a rogue.
“But—”
“I found him!” Arthur’s voice, unfailingly strong, bellowed over the sound of the violins. “My brother is safe.”
“Wonderful, m’lord,” another voice boomed from another corner of the room.
Percival swung around. He widened his eyes at the sight of a man in a red uniform with gold epaulets.
“Did you call the army?” he whispered to his brother. Dread soared through him.
“And the magistrate.” Arthur’s smile widened. “Some people might ignore local law enforcement, but I always say, the locals know the situation on the ground best.”
“I—”
“Find the Scarlet Demon,” Arthur shouted. “Stop the music! We’re looking for a female, red-headed criminal. She may be dangerous.”
“Oh, my!” The surrounding women shrieked, clutching their pearls.
“You better go on the floor,” Arthur said. “The floor is safest. She’s been known to carry a knife!”
Men and women threw themselves on the ground with a vigor he hadn’t seen since the war.
“Arthur!” Percival shouted. “You mustn’t!”
“Mustn’t what?”
“You don’t know what you’re doing.” Percival glanced at the glossy fabrics crushed against the marble tile. He raised his voice. “False alarm! It’s fine. No trouble!”
“Percival!” Arthur swung his head to him. “I’m saving you.”
“I don’t need to be saved.”
“Ah... You already incapacitated her. Where is she? Tied up behind a curtain somewhere? Good work.” Arthur slapped Percival on his back, so he tottered somewhat on his leg. Arthur stretched out his arm to better Percival’s balance. “Er . . . Sorry.”
Percival’s eyes narrowed, and he placed his hands on his hips. He fixed his eyes on his brother and spoke very slowly. “Tell them not to worry.”
“But—”
“Now.”
Arthur sighed and turned to the other guests. “Apparently the criminal has already been apprehended. You may all dance freely. And . . . er . . . rise.”
Slowly some of the people stood, their eyes still wide, their gazes still fixed on Percival and his brother.
Arthur reached over and grabbed Percival’s drink, noisily slurping the mulled wine. “You don’t appear to be in such dire straits, brother.”
“You shouldn’t be here,” Percival growled. “What on earth are you doing?”
“Me?” Arthur scowled and swung his gaze around the crowded ballroom. “Right now I’m limited to admiring the outstanding decor. Who knew a place could have so many red ribbons?”
Percival scowled.
“And those chits in their white satin dresses. Lovely!” Arthur continued, his voice carrying over the violins. “But you know we have pretty women in London too.”
A few ladies glanced in their direction and covered their smiles with their French fans. At least Percival hoped it was smiles they were covering.
Percival searched for Fiona. He should be rescuing her. He gripped hold of his cane and headed toward her, brushing through the swarm of finely attired people.
“You would think a wooden leg would slow you down,” his brother grumbled beside him.
“What brought you here?”
Arthur shrugged. “I got your note and like the dutiful brother I am, I dropped all of London’s pleasures, galloping over the countryside in true familial fashion.”
Percival sucked in a deep breath of air. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. And of course the mail coach also sent notification.”
“Indeed?”
“You shouldn’t have insisted on the coach going without the guard.” Arthur shook his head. “Your forceful capture was a big to do. Would have been in all the newspapers, I’m sure, if they hadn’t been so incredibly embarrassed that they’d lost hold of the mail for a few hours. Not good for their reputation.”
“Right.” Percival bit his lip.
“I spoke with the driver on his way over here as well. The man seemed rather light on his gun if you ask me,” Arthur said. “The thing’s not there for bloody decoration. I told the magistrate and army to look out for a woman called the Scarlet Demon.”
“Look. About that letter—”
“In which you told the dowager that a highwaywoman had kidnapped you?”
“Er . . . Yes.” Percival swallowed hard. “Turns out the situation was not so calamitous.”
Arthur rolled his eyes. “Well. Obv
iously.”
Percival raised his eyebrows.
Arthur banged down the empty mulled wine goblet. Or not so empty. The baroness’s white lace tablecloth now had distinct crimson splotches on it, not that that was the sort of thing his brother would care about. Instead his brother picked up a glass of negus. The citric smell wafted over Percival, and his tongue prickled.
“The dowager is furious,” Arthur said.
“Oh.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen her eyebrows draw quite so closely together.”
Percival shivered. He’d imagined their aunt being worried, and he’d struggled to word the letter gently.
“You mean—”
“You were supposed to be in London to propose to Lady Cordelia. The dowager wants the perpetrator to be punished.”
This time Percival grabbed a drink. He sloshed down the liquid, but the mixture of spices failed to soothe anything, and he hobbled toward the wall.
“Percival.” His brother’s voice was low. The man ambled beside him. “It’s not your fault you were kidnapped. These things happen.”
“It was just a case of mistaken identity.”
“Ah? Wrong victim. Suppose a duke’s not quite fine enough for these Yorkshire folk? More into wealthy American heiresses, hmm?”
“Er . . . More like she wasn’t really a highwaywoman.”
Arthur laughed. Loudly. “You got captured by accident? You mean she wasn’t even really trying?”
A few finely dressed women craned their necks toward them. The turban of one middle-aged mama tilted to such an extent that Percival marveled it didn’t topple off.
He clenched his teeth together and focused on his younger brother. “Please lower your voice.”
Arthur stared at him hard, and Percival almost wavered under the man’s assessing gaze.
“Just—” Percival inhaled. “I’m sorry I sent you all this way. I’m not ready to go.”
“You don’t have a choice.”
Percival scowled and scanned the room. But he didn’t see any red hair, and though there were other red dresses, none of them were hers.
It was too late.
The ballroom was too large, too crowded. The generous draping of greenery, the sparkling ornaments, and the vast amounts of red ribbons, tied with large bows to anything that had a handle, now only served to hide Fiona from him. “You can go now. I’m safe. And I need to speak with Fiona.”
“Great Zeus on Olympus!” Arthur’s voice boomed. His eyes broadened, and Arthur was the type of man to retain a cool demeanor. “You’ve found yourself a little harlot.”
Percival stiffened.
Arthur’s gaze leaped from the silver platters of appetizers to the glass pitchers of punch to the glossy dresses of the gentry, and he smirked. “You’re not a hostage. You’re enjoying yourself.”
“It’s true, isn’t it?” Arthur stepped nearer him. “I knew you couldn’t change your ways. All that noble talk about serving as a replacement for Bernard. All nonsense.”
The knot on Percival’s collar seemed too tight, and the rows of flickering scarlet candles in golden candelabras resembled Hades more than the supposedly cheery atmosphere of a winter ball.
“You don’t need to concoct a flimsy excuse to avoid going to London. Though maybe you should do something about Lady Cordelia.”
“I haven’t technically proposed.”
Arthur waved his hand in irritation. “She’s confident enough to think you’re not gallivanting about with some madwoman.”
“She’s not a madwoman. Not a harlot. She’s—” His voice dropped off, and his gaze must have clouded as he considered Fiona. The woman was everything wonderful. She was brave and caring, intelligent, and oh so beautiful.
“Magnificent?” Arthur raised his eyebrows, and sarcasm filled his tone.
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 di
dn’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...”
Lords, Snow and Mistletoe: A Regency Christmas Collection Page 46