"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 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-"