How to Capture a Duke(37)

"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 certainly 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.

They'd told her Grandmother was sick, but when she returned to the  castle, the servants were sober-faced. They directed her to the drawing  room to wait for the doctor, as if she were a guest.

She'd known then.

Grandmother lay on her bed, her sheet pulled to her chin, as if she were simply sleeping.

Fiona plodded her boots over the hardwood floor, and she slowed as she  neared the bed, as if the noise might wake her. But that was another  thing she need never worry about again.

Grandmother looked just as she always did.

This must be a mistake. She turned to a maid. "Are you sure?"

The maid nodded, and her voice trembled. "Yes, m'lady."

Any last hope that had ridiculously hovered in Fiona's chest was extinguished.

This wasn't like the time when Grandmother had declared the silverware  lost, and Fiona had found it, right where it had always been. This was  final, forever.

I should have been here.

She hastened over to the bed. But it didn't matter how swiftly she was  by Grandmother's side now. When it had counted, when Grandmother had  swallowed her last breaths, she hadn't been there. Rosamund was with her  husband's family, and Fiona, who was supposed to be taking care of  Grandmother, had attended the ball of a cousin she didn't even like,  when she didn't even like balls.

She'd paraded her supposed fiancé before all the highest society of the  region, but for nothing. What did it matter if a few approving glances  were cast in Percival's direction? Her engagement with him was false.  She'd been so consumed with trying to impress people that she hadn't  been there for her grandmother's last moments.

The only reason she wasn't in prison now was because her grandmother had  died. Any hope of social credibility had vanished, and her name would  now be linked with more disparaging laughter and remarks than it ever  had been before.                       
       
           



       

She stared at Grandmother. Grandmother's body, she reminded herself. Or  even-corpse. The tears that she'd managed to restrain over the long,  jostling coach ride finally flooded.

Even though they'd talked about Grandmother's impending death, joked about it even, nothing had prepared Fiona for this.

Grandmother wasn't supposed to die. She was supposed to live on, sitting  in her favorite chair, worrying about Fiona and her sister, and not  fussing about herself at all.

Footsteps sounded from the hallway outside. The door handle turned, and  Sir Seymour stepped into the room. He cast a glance at the pale body in  the bed, and his face whitened.

"My poor mother," he murmured, and the wrench in Fiona's heart  tightened. The man had lost his parent. He'd known she was dying, and  Fiona had not made his time visiting pleasant.

"I'm sorry."

He gave her a curt nod. No kindness was in his gaze, and the memory of the evening engulfed her again.

"We'll have to talk about your future," he said, and she stiffened. "I think after tonight it's clear you can't live with us."

She blinked.

"You understand?" He scowled.

"Grandmother isn't even in the ground … "

An expression flitted over his face, but he soon firmed his features. "I would like to be alone with her."

Sir Seymour's mother had just died, and Fiona wasn't permitting him to  grieve in peace. Her pain was incomparable to his. "N-naturally."

She pushed open the thick door, and this time hot tears stung her eyes.  She blinked furiously. Some servants scurried from the hallway when she  exited the room, and their thick black frocks disappeared behind a  corner.

She sighed. She didn't know what she would say to herself either.

For it wouldn't be alright. Grandmother was dead, and nothing would  return her to her peaceful life. Percival had betrayed her, for a reason  which indicated more her lack of morals than his, and her dream of  wiling away the rest of her life doing archaeology on the estate was  exposed as the fantasy it was.

Fiona's throat had evidently malfunctioned, for all attempts to  frantically swallow, to dislodge the clay that seemed to have stuck  there, failed.

She glanced around the hallway. Now every object was familiar: the  cast-iron doorknobs adorned with stiff, black, molded grapes that seemed  poor replicas of the actual fruit, the caramel-colored paneling, and  the black sconces from which candles perched, dripping wax onto the  floor, the color depending on the season.

Soon it would all be a dream, the vividness fading. She'd struggle to  remember the shape of the stiff grapes, if she remembered them at all,  and her onetime home would be demoted to vague recollections. She might  visit, were she ever to return to Sir Seymour's good graces, but Aunt  Lavinia, who had never lived in the castle before, would be free to make  all the changes she desired.

And Grandmother-dear, sweet Grandmother, was dead. Her chest constricted  further, and her legs wobbled as she attempted to walk. She sucked in a  deep breath, but the air was thick and stale. The doctor had ordered  the curtains shut, and the maids had kept the sooty fireplace going.

Voices murmured from downstairs. Someone was calling on them. She longed  for bed, on the off chance that she might wake from her nightmare. She  leaned against the wall, her shoulders slumped, and her heartbeat  hammering.