Fiona's hand shook, and she set the cup back on the table.
"Didn't you wonder why you never went to prison?"
"Grandmother died … "
"If a death in the family was all it took to be released from prison, the cells would be much less full. You're fortunate the magistrate had a sufficient appreciation for aristocratic order to not contradict the duke's wishes."
"Oh." She flickered her eyes down.
"He seemed quite devoted," Madeline said. "What did he say after?"
"Many things. But at the end-that he wanted to be there for me. To comfort me."
"And what did you say?"
"That I never wanted to see him again." Fiona's voice was miserable.
Madeline's eyelashes flickered up. "And that's what you wanted?"
"No." Fiona wrapped her arms around her chest.
"Then why-"
"I thought he was being polite." Anguish racketed through her, and the words resembled a howl.
Madeline leapt to her side and wrapped her arms around her. The contact was strange, but not entirely unwelcome. Even if they'd stopped being close, they were still cousins.
"And now he's married." Fiona sniffed and hot tears spilled from her eyes.
"He's not married."
"He is! He had the ring. I saw it. He was going to propose to Lady Cordelia."
"I very much doubt that," Madeline said. "No engagement has been announced."
"Oh." Fiona ceased her sniffling. She stared at her cousin. Finally, she shook her head. "It doesn't matter. I ruined things for us."
Madeline scrutinized her. "Then you need to stop thinking of him."
Fiona nodded, even though the advice was absurd. She'd long ago realized that her thoughts would always include Percival.
"So I heard that Rosamund is taking you in.," Madeline said.
Fiona nodded. "But I want more from life."
Madeline tilted her head. "Indeed?"
"Yes." The word tumbled out.
"And what does this more consist of?"
"I don't want to spend the rest of my life reading books on how a great civilization lived, when I could be exploring how great my own civilization is. I want to still do archaeology."
"Hmph." Madeline took a long sip of tea. "My dream is to visit Italy."
"Truly?" Fiona leaned forward. "I love that dream."
"You wish you could still speak with the baron?" Madeline's smile wobbled.
Fiona hesitated, but she shook her head. She remembered her cousin's interest in her project during the ball. "I have an idea."
***
Uncle Seymour squinted at Fiona as the footmen hauled in trunks, and Aunt Lavinia fluttered her arms around, directing the servants where to place everything. "I expect you are going to beg to stay here."
"I'm not."
Uncle Seymour's eyebrows lifted up, but he then shook his head. "I expect you are going to beg to still dig up the apple orchard."
Fiona sighed. This part was more difficult, and she fought to resist her natural inclination. "I'm not."
"Oh." The baronet's face darkened, as if she'd halted a speech he'd practiced giving. He shifted his feet. "It doesn't matter. You still won't be in our good graces. Not after the way you behaved at the Christmas Ball. You're mad if you think my dear wife and I will ever forget."
"You've made that fact clear on other occasions."
"Always good to repeat things, that's what I say," her uncle mused. "Doesn't do any harm and always drives the point through. You don't use a hammer and nail without banging the nail multiple times, no matter how thick and obvious the hammer should be."
"Most enlightening. I had no idea how gifted you were at carpentry."
"I'm a man of many strengths." Her uncle's skin finally returned to a shade of red more normal for him, even if for no one else. "That was an . . . er . . . metaphor. Never touched a hammer in my life. Never wanted to and never will."
Fiona smiled. "I wanted to thank you."
"Ah, yes," the baronet said. "What . . . er . . . for?"
Fiona tilted her head, and her uncle rubbed a beefy hand against his brow. "It's hard to keep track of all the good I'm doing in this world."
She lifted her chin. "I'm going to grow up."
"Thought you came of age when you were thirteen," her uncle grumbled.
"I'm not going to stay at home anymore, reading about all the interesting things people did ages ago."
"I never thought the Romans were that interesting," her uncle said.
"I know."
He sniffed. "I suppose you can't follow all my words of wisdom."
"That's most understanding of you."
"So you're moving in with your sister? Good thing she's got her life sorted, even though she's younger than you."
Fiona smiled. "It's wonderful she's happy, but-no, I won't be doing that."
"You'll be homeless?" Her uncle's eyes bulged. "You won't-you won't really take on the life of crime? Be that-what was it-Scarlet Devil?"
"Scarlet Demon," Fiona corrected. "I'll overcome that temptation. I'm going to become an archaeologist."
Uncle Seymour blinked. "I don't think that's a real occupation."
"It will be. One day," Fiona said. "Grandmother gave me a small inheritance."
"I think she intended that so you didn't have to debase yourself."
"I'm not debasing myself." Fiona lifted her head. "I have an outside supporter too and a plan to excavate some promising sites throughout England."
Uncle Seymour sputtered, and Fiona laughed.
"You needn't worry, uncle. I won't make you wish me luck. I have a feeling I won't need it."
Chapter Twenty-seven
Home. He was home.
The season had ended, and here he was.
Percival made his way expertly from the coach, knowing just where to place his cane to best support him.
A long row of servants waited to greet him. Their postures were stiff, though he didn't miss the curious glimpses they fixed on his foot.
He shrugged. He would do the same if he were them. The wooden leg was bloody well unusual. He strode toward them, limping somewhat on the uneven terrain.
He'd been to Wentworth Place before, but as a child. The long mansion had been the home of his crotchety grandfather and demanding grandmother, and he'd only seen it as a somewhat frustrating experience. What good were long acres of a green lawn if one wasn't allowed to play on it?
His lips turned up. He wouldn't be doing any sort of playing in this place either. Places like this didn't manage themselves, as the dowager frequently reminded him, and the war hadn't helped matters. The former Duke had indulged his belligerent side through frequent and large donations to the war effort. His generosity had secured him invitations to the finest wartime balls and allowed him the opportunity to wear his finest regalia from battles decades before.
Now the estate was suffering, and nobody could quite be certain if the former Duke had needed to be quite so extravagant in his funding of cannons and other arms for Bonaparte to have never attempted to invade England again. It didn't help that the weather rarely cooperated, and crops everywhere were failing this year.
"Ah, your prison," Arthur's voice boomed behind him.
"Remind me why you've come?" Percival asked.
Arthur straightened his cravat. "Because you wanted someone to distract you from your bloody misery."
They strolled toward the entrance and paused to meet the servants, who issued them their deepest bows and curtsies.
"This place is enormous," Arthur remarked.
"And expensive." Percival flickered his gaze back to the legion of servants who manned the place.
"Right." Arthur shifted his legs. "Let's see the library, shall we? Perhaps your predecessor left us some brandy."
Percival followed Arthur in his search for liquid delights.
The butler had already arranged for brandy and he'd also ironed a newspaper. Percival picked it up curiously, skimming the headlines. They'd traveled at a more leisurely pace, stopping at various taverns to indulge Arthur's curiosity in the local ales and ciders.
"You need a wife," Arthur announced.
Percival's eyebrows jolted up, and he set the newspaper aside. "I'm not accustomed to you being the advocate for marital bliss."
"Hah. What marital bliss?" Arthur shrugged. "Mere practicality. You're going to be stuck in this God-forsaken place half the year, and it's good to have some female company."
"I could have a house party."
"Female company that will permit you to do your work. Who will give you greater peace than a wife? You just need to add some nocturnal duties to your list of other responsibilities, and you'll give her a brood of yowling Carmichaels in no time."