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. Obviously."
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.