I may have already lost her.
He pressed his lips together in a firm line. Some things were too horrible to contemplate, and he exhaled when the carriage pulled into the baroness's estate. The wheels rolled over the meticulously kept lane.
He inhaled and checked that his cravat was in a decent state. He was a duke. The baroness would tell him where Fiona was. The coach stopped before the elaborate portico, and Percival grabbed his cane and climbed down the carriage steps.
One of the gardeners gave him a surprised glance, but he continued on. Probably the man's reaction could be attributed to not seeing dukes often.
A curtain flickered in a window, and then the main door swung open. He hurried his pace to greet the butler.
Except it wasn't the butler.
A round woman wearing an apron greeted him. Her sleeves were rolled up, and her arms were grubby. "No one is here. Most of the staff are setting up a residence in Italy."
I'm too late.
Percival sucked in a breath of air, but this time he struggled to calm himself. He'd lost her. He'd waited too long, and he'd never see her again.
"When did she leave?"
"This morning."
Percival's shoulders sank. "She's already on the way to Italy with Miss Amberly."
The maid nodded. He sank his shoulders down, and he had the curious sensation that someone had just hit him.
"Though they were stopping at one of Miss Amberly's new archaeological sites on the way."
He squared his shoulders and hope spread through him, despite his best intentions to protect himself from further disappointment. "Where is it?"
"Ah . . . Just four miles north of here. Near the old mill. You can't miss it."
I hope not. He smiled, thanked her, and sped back to the coach as quickly as his foot would allow.
"Carry on," he shouted, repeating the housekeeper's instructions. He tapped his foot inside the coach, willing the driver to move more swiftly past the baroness's manicured lawns, faux-Greek temples, and elaborate rose garden.
The driver urged the horses on, and the coach dipped and swerved in an uncomfortable fashion over the dirt lane. Thick hedges lined the road, reminding Percival of the night he'd first met Fiona.
The coach barreled through a village and passed the Old Goblet Lodge.
And then finally the coach slowed. Percival craned his neck from the window, but no aristocratic carriage, flourished with a golden crest, blocked the drive. His heart tumbled downward.
The coach halted, and he scrambled out, cane in hand. He swept his gaze over the field.
She's not there.
A group of men was digging, and he headed toward them. They might know where Fiona was. Zeus, they were his only hope.
Something about them seemed familiar. The ground was squishy, and his steps were more uneven than normal.
"Hullo there!" He waved both hands above his head.
Some of the men turned to him, including a man with white whiskers. A man he recognized. His stomach toppled downward.
"Mr. Nicholas!" Percival's eyes widened, and the older man smiled.
"Ah . . . Mr. Percival." He turned around and shouted, "Mr. Potter!"
Percival tensed and gripped his cane more tightly. A burly man whom he'd vowed to never see again turned his head. He might have been a dozen feet away, but Percival could still see contempt flicker across the man's face. He strode toward them.
What on earth was Fiona doing with these men?
A younger man nudged Mr. Nicholas and whispered in his ear.
Mr. Nicholas raised his not-insignificant brows. "Apparently you're actually a duke."
"I am."
Mr. Potter wiped dirty hands on his buckskin breeches. "If I was a duke, I wouldn't pretend to be a man who'd abandoned his expecting wife."
Percival flashed a tight smile. He needed their help. "Do you happen to know where she is?"
"Who?"
"Mrs. Percival?"
Mr. Nicholas chuckled. "She don't go by that name anymore, Your Grace. I would think you would know that."
"Seems you don't have to be very smart to be a duke," Mr. Potter chided him. "I could be a duke. I would be good at being a duke."
The other men murmured assent, and Percival sighed. His eyes flickered around the field. Poppies swayed in the wind, and a bright sun shone from the blue sky above. A large pit sat in the middle, and some of the men pored over it.
"What are you doing here?"
Mr. Nicholas grinned. "Archaeology!"
"Better than hangin' round the tavern." Mr. Potter flexed his forearm. "I'm getting me muscles back!"
Percival eyed him. He wasn't convinced the man was in any need of more muscles. The man rather epitomized brawniness. That said, the men did appear content. He'd regarded them poorly before, scoffing that they seemed to spend their entire lives in a public house. But work was likely hard to come by. The torrent of returned soldiers clamoring for work hadn't helped anyone, and crops were failing all over Europe because of an onslaught of frigid temperatures.
Mr. Potter jutted his thumb out at Mr. Nicholas. "We dig, and this man labels and records everything."
"Then that makes you all very important," Percival said gravely, and the men beamed.
"Miss Amberly's talking about putting all our work in a Museum of Yorkshire."
Percival blinked. "That sounds wonderful."
"We're making history," Mr. Nicholas declared. "This ‘ere soil is filled with Roman and Medieval treasures. It will all look right nice in a museum. Makes one right proud of being a Yorkshire man. Sorry, Duke-I know you're not one."
Percival smiled. "You must be a great help to Miss Amberly."
"Now what brings you here?" Mr. Nicholas asked.
Mr. Potter laughed. "It sure ain't to dig things up, not with your foot there."
Percival lifted his chin. "My arms have never lacked for strength. And I believe that arms are the chief appendage used when digging."
Mr. Potter's face reddened.
"Anyway," Percival said, "Where is Miss Amberly?"
They were sure to tell him that the housekeeper had been wrong, and that she hadn't even visited the site. Or if she had visited the site, it had been hours ago. He tensed.
"Ah . . . She's on her way to Italy." Mr. Nicholas nodded sagely.
"Never seen a woman so excited," Mr. Potter declared, and some of the men guffawed behind him.
"Is she far away?" Percival's heartbeat quickened, and time seemed to still as he waited for the answer.
"Ah . . . Quite far away by now."
"Oh."
So it was over. He tightened his grip on his cane.
Mr. Nicholas tilted his head and offered a benevolent smile. "But I reckon we could take you to her. That contraption you've arrived in won't make it, but I know a shortcut."
"That would be wonderful," Percival stammered.
"I rather am wonderful," Mr. Nicholas mused. He flickered his gaze to Percival's wooden leg. "Can you ride a horse?"
Percival broadened his chest. "I can indeed."
"Good." Mr. Nicholas pointed to some horses tied to a wooden fence. "Let's go."
Percival smiled and scanned the field. Shovels and axes flickered in the bright light, and the rest of the men returned to work.
Chapter Twenty-nine
The coach jerked to a halt.
"Oh for goodness' sake!" Madeline tapped her boot against the carriage floor. "The driver knows we're going a long way. We can't start taking our time now."
Murmurings sounded outside. An image of a tall, chestnut-haired man with striking, chiseled features and bright blue eyes pervaded Fiona's mind. She pulled the velvet curtains of the carriage aside and stared into a thick cluster of trees.
Some things were best not pondered.
Percival was in the past. Firmly in the past. He'd be in London or Sussex or perhaps at a house party at some grand estate. He wouldn't be here.
Lord, the man refused to be forgotten. The man was braver than any she'd ever met. He'd been kind to Grandmother, kind to her. He'd been handsome and brave, smart and funny, just like Captain Knightley. He'd been everything she'd ever desired, and far more than she'd ever hoped for.
It would be impossible to forget his noble figure, and the pleasing composition of firm, straight lines that composed his face. It would be difficult to forget arguing with him, but more impossible still to forget his kindness, and the way they'd laughed over things together. Even when he'd been most exasperated with her, she'd always sensed he'd understood the ridiculousness of the situation and had never entirely dismissed her. And that morning in her workroom-goodness, it would be impossible to forget that.