"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.
"Now your sister used to prefer to sweep her hair up, but with your lovely locks, I think it might be nice to display your hair more."
Fiona scrunched her eyebrows together. Her locks weren't lovely.
Maggie pursed her lips, twisting and pinning her hair.
"Can I see?"
"When you're dressed." The maid picked up the vibrant dress and assisted Fiona into it, fussing over the clasps and folds, and then painting Fiona's face.
Finally, Maggie beamed. "All set."
Firm hands guided Fiona to the gilded mirror, and she prepared herself for the worst. She would look absurd. A crow forced to adorn itself with the feathers of a peacock. Outrageous.
And yet-
She didn't appear outlandish. There was nothing ludicrous about her appearance. In fact, it even appeared . . . appealing.
The emerald fabric of the dress enhanced the green of her eyes and complemented her auburn hair. Her normal grey clothes had cast a sickly pallor over her face, and her freckled skin had seemed garish against her somber outfit. But now her freckles only magnified her brilliant coloring. She lifted a hand to her hair, brushing her finger against a carefully arranged curl.
"I didn't think I could look like this."
"You never tried," Maggie said. "You look lovely."
Fiona dropped her gaze to her dress. The glossy fabric gleamed in the mirror, and curves that she had thought made her body appear bulky looked elegant.
"Thank you." Fiona smiled at the mirror, still awe-struck by her appearance.
"Now go see your young, handsome captain."
Fiona hurried downstairs.
No good risking leaving Percival wandering the castle. When she reached the drawing room, Percival was reclining in an armchair.
Goodness, he was handsome. He was everything anybody had ever dreamed of. He'd looked nicer than she cared to dwell on before, but now that he was not swathed in a great coat, nor displaying his stained cravat and clothes, the man was magnificent. Evans had evidently laid out clothes for him, and he was attired in silk and velvet. The clothes might be out of fashion, just like her dress, but that didn't stop the gold in the buttons from accentuating the gold in his hair, and it didn't stop the blue of the jacket from setting off the blue of his eyes.
His gaze flickered over her, and for a moment a satisfactory feeling rushed through her, though the man's eyes soon clouded, and he fixed a haughty smile she distrusted.
"I trust the accommodations are tolerable?" Her words were stiff and overly formal, more suitable to a conversation with her uncle than to a man she'd spent the past twenty-four hours with.
He inclined his head in a polite gesture. "Indeed."
The smirk did not disappear from his face, as if he knew something she did not.
Fiona fixed a fierce stare in his direction, though her furious glaring could not remove the manner in which the attractive planes of his face had arranged themselves into a smug expression. "What are you thinking?"