How to Capture a Duke (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 1) (3 page)

Percival Carmichael, seventh Duke of Alfriston, was hurled from his seat.

He landed on the wooden floor with a thump, reflecting that some pieces of advice his former governess had been prone to bestowing had an irritating propensity to be correct. The advice that soared most prominently in his mind was her warning not to drink in a moving carriage.

His governess had been referring to apple juice, his preferred beverage at the time of his pre-Harrow education, but he contemplated that the advice still held true when imbibing a wider variety of drinks—in this case, brandy.

His cravat displayed distinct tawny spots now, an addition his valet would be most disapproving of. He also would criticize the alcoholic smell that now infused the velvet cushioned seats, the maple floor, and particularly Percival’s attire.

Blast. Yorkshire was every bit as horrid as the ton claimed.

He would have enough scrutiny tomorrow without appearing with a stained cravat.

He pulled himself back onto the seat. Speed was of importance, and the driver knew it. Percival had expressly promised him a significant tip if they reached London before tomorrow evening. The driver should be aware that a significant tip from a man who possessed a vast amount of wealth was nothing trivial.

Percival patted the package and pushed away the uneasy thoughts that consistently forced their way through his mind when he devoted too much attention to his impending engagement.

The driver said something, and the horses restarted their trot.
Thank goodness.
Percival stretched out his leg, and his Wellington struck the opposite seat. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. Soon he would be in London, ensconced in a life everyone would envy, until they learned about the accident.

“Halt.” An alto voice cut through the sound of whinnying horses. The voice was commanding, different from the high-pitched murmurings and giggles of the debutantes and young widows with whom he tended to consort.

The coach continued on.

“Halt!” The voice called out again, and this time the carriage wheels screeched. The horses snorted and stomped their feet, and the driver uttered an ungentlemanly word.

Percival swept the curtain back.

A tall woman in a cape stood beside the road. She clutched a knife, directing it at the coach. The woman’s eyes were narrowed, and red hair swirled in the wind. Mud crusted the bottom of her dress, and pine needles cleaved her cloak. The blade of her weapon glinted underneath the flickering lanterns of the coach, and her expression was solemn.

By Zeus, we’re being attacked.

He stuffed the package into a fold of his great coat. This was everything the dowager had worried about, and everything he’d sworn he wouldn’t allow to happen.

No one was supposed to know he was here. How in Hades had this person found him?

Blast
.

The driver hardly resembled the brave type. Mail coaches lauded their tendency to employ former soldiers, but Graeme must have been a veteran from the war with the colonies, if the color of his whiskers was any indication.

Percival pulled his knife from his boot. So much for conquering Napoleon at Waterloo—now he had to suffer the indignity of being attacked at home. He should have stayed in London. Even the most tiresome balls didn’t involve weapons.

It would be a blasted pain if this ended up in the newspapers. Cartoonists were eager enough to chronicle his brother’s misdeeds, now that there was less reason to draw unflattering depictions of France’s onetime emperor, now safely imprisoned on St. Helena.

The woman hadn’t lowered her knife. He hoped she was not gifted at knife throwing.

Something sounded outside, and the woman’s red lips parted, her eyes appearing wider than before. “You’re pointing a weapon at me?”

“You bet your pretty face I am,” the driver said.

She blinked.

“Anybody with you?” The driver’s voice was firm, and Percival almost cheered. Maybe he wouldn’t even need to be heroic.

***

Fiona stared into the barrel of a musket. The experience proved as horrid as she would have imagined. The wind seemed to cease its frantic swirl, the leaves paused from rustling, and all she could focus on was the long blunderbuss fixed directly on her.

Guns were not supposed to be pointed at her. Not now, not ever. Her life was quiet. Weapons were things that were directed at other people, who did reprehensible things. “You’ve made a mistake.”

“I think not.” The man’s hands were steady.

Every aspect of the driver’s appearance seemed ordinary, and the coach itself was a mere mail coach, lacking any embellishment. And yet the driver’s bushy eyebrows crinkled together, as if she, not he, were acting inappropriately.

She raised her chin and strove to keep her voice steady. “Please put the weapon down.”

He laughed, a deep rumble that grated against her. The frigid temperature verged on unbearable, the icy wind stung her face, and she had no patience to converse with some argumentative driver whose life she was attempting to save.

“There is a tree in the road. If you go much farther, your coach will be crushed.”

The driver narrowed his eyes further.

“No doubt you will consider that it is winter and you are over a mile from the nearest estate.”

“What is it, Graeme?” A deep voice startled her from her musings. The voice was authoritative and the accent cultured, sweeping her away from the Northern accents, devoid of polish, to which she was accustomed.

Her heart hammered, and she reminded herself that just because a person was in possession of a pleasant voice, did not indicate a person’s propensity for regular features, wide shoulders, and all the other traits of handsomeness.

The man peeked out from behind the curtain.

He was only lifting his head from a carriage window, but it may as well have been from the clouds that soared above.

Chestnut curls peeked from the satiny edge of a beaver top hat, one more fashionable than any the local vicar was accustomed to adorning himself with, and the features of his face were composed in a stern expression that resembled the driver’s. His nose lay in a straight, unwavering line, and high cheekbones dominated his face, bestowing him a regal look.

Every feature belonged to a paragon of masculinity.

Fiona firmed her stance and dug her boots further into the muddy ground. Dried leaves crunched beneath her feet, and she flickered her gaze to the gray sky.

Dear Lord! No chaperone, no friend, and here she was in the presence of a practical God.

“We’ve got a problem, sir. This ‘ere lady.” The driver continued to fix his musket on her, and his voice was mournful. “I am afraid, sir, that we are being besieged by a highwaywoman.”

“Excuse me?” Fiona stuttered and her heart sped, though this time, the handsome man lay not entirely responsible for the blame.

The attractive man frowned. “Do something, Graeme.”

“I cannot shoot a woman.”

The man rolled his eyes. “I would not have you shoot her.”

The wind that swept over her seemed to have transformed to ice, and she shivered. No way did she resemble a highwaywoman. They must be mad to even consider it.

“We’ve got ourselves a female highwayman,” the driver said. “Didn’t know there was such a thing.”

“Women are perfectly capable of many things.” She moved her hands to her hips, remembering only now that she still clutched the knife.
Oh
.

“The woman claims there’s a tree knocked over in the road!” the driver continued, still gazing at her, as if his mere stare might prevent her from moving.

“I am not lying!” she said. “And your lives are in peril if you continue any farther. So you should—”

“Disembark and wait on the side of the road?” The driver sneered.

“Why, that might be appropriate.”

“Or perhaps you would suggest that I separate and leave my charge behind with you?” The driver raised his eyebrows.

“I am doing nothing wrong—”

“Naturally not!” The driver scowled. “You’re simply conducting illegal activity.”

“Sir—”

“Put that knife away.” The handsome man frowned, his voice solemn.

“I wouldn’t irritate her,” the driver declared. “Women are emotional creatures, sir. Wouldn’t want to think about what they can get up to under stress. Not like us logical males, sir.”

“That’s enlightening to hear upon returning from a useless war created by men,” the handsome man said dryly.

“Well, well.” A tinge darkened the driver’s cheeks. “We should all be thankful Napoleon wasn’t a woman.”

“Who knows what would have happened then!” The handsome man shook his head, his expression filled with such dismay, that Fiona almost believed he was teasing.

“Dreadful things, sir!” The driver’s voice sobered. “Dreadful things for sure.”

The two men stared at her, and Fiona shivered under their scrutiny. Her heartbeat galloped. They thought she was a highwaywoman. She’d tried to explain, but they hadn’t believed her. And they were pointing a gun at her. One that might go off at any moment.

She needed to seize control.

The driver grinned. “I’m sorry, darling, but you won’t be getting any money from us.”

“Not that we have any,” the handsome man added hastily.

A gun roared.

Fiona didn’t flinch—the peasants were still hunting. But the firm expression of the driver wobbled.

“You’re not alone!” The driver’s voice trembled.

Fiona was most certainly alone, but she could not permit the driver to keep on pointing gun at her. That was how accidents occurred.

This was her chance.

And she seized it.

Fiona forced her voice to remain steady. “Lay your gun down.”

The driver hesitated, and then, another gun shot fired.

Fiona narrowed her eyes. “You are surrounded. This is your final warning.”

The driver’s hands shook, and he set the gun down. Relief flooded through Fiona, and she grabbed the weapon, directing it at the driver.

The driver sank to the earth, holding his hands above him. “What do you want? Please, show us mercy! We’ll give you anything!”

“I—” An insane idea sprang into Fiona’s mind, and she took another glimpse at the passenger.

The fabric of his clothes was impeccable, and his hair color was perfect.

Chestnut colored like spun gold. Nothing like the red hair that crowned her figure like a flame. This man’s skin resembled buttermilk, with no freckle in sight, and his eyes were a deep blue color, as if she were staring into the heavens of an Italian painting.

He was an Adonis suited for the finest debutante, for a woman with a Grecian name and skin as flawless as his. No doubt such a woman would be able to sing like an angel, in between giving birth to tiny cherubic likenesses of himself, and then would paint the offsprings’ likenesses in beautiful, delicate watercolor renderings. Such a woman would never, ever have told her family that she had a fiancé when she had none. Such a woman wouldn’t have needed to do so.

He was just the man she required.

“Who are you?” the driver gasped.

This was the time to explain herself. This was the time to explain who she was and apologize for frightening them, even though the notion that she should scare large men like that was absurd.

But if she could only get the handsome man to introduce himself to Grandmother—she wouldn’t need to take him to the ball—it would be enough for Grandmother to be assured that she need not worry anymore. Perhaps the handsome man and the driver could help her move the tree. Cloudbridge Castle was a quick jaunt away, and they were going in that direction anyway. If they thought her a highwaywoman anyway, they would listen to her demands. Maybe no one would want to play a fiancé for a bluestocking, but they would listen to a highwaywoman.

Once they were at the castle, well then they would be so grateful she intended them no harm that they would help her. Neither the driver nor the gentleman appeared to be from Yorkshire. She could get away with this.

Something like hope fluttered in her chest. Perhaps, just perhaps, this would be worthwhile.

Fiona thought of mosaic fragments and ancient civilizations and her dear grandmother. She held the gun steady and flung her curls. She channeled every single story from Loretta Van Lochen and raised her voice. “They call me the Scarlet Demon.”

Both men’s eyes widened, and she attempted her very best snarl.

So much for a quick dash to his new estate and back to grab the jewels. He should have trusted a servant to bring them after all. He hadn’t liked the thought of appearing weak before the dowager, but finding himself in this position rather seemed to epitomize weakness.

Blast.

So much for not protesting when the mail coach guard fell ill, in some mad attempt to not draw attention to the value of what he was transporting and to arrive in London on time. His nostrils flared. How on earth had the woman found him?

Double blast.

Everyone knew forests in remote areas were dangerous. Everyone knew the war had made people more and more desperate as the economy had plummeted, and everyone knew local magistrates struggled to control their respective districts, when all their strong young men battled overseas.

She was mad if she thought he would give anything to her. His grandmother’s sapphire ring, his great-grandmother’s pearls, and a few other pieces the dowager spoke in raptures about, but which he had never quite managed to keep straight, were intended for somebody else.

He pulled his gaze from the woman to the dark trees that loomed behind her. Thick pine trees that smelled like Christmas, and nothing like the nightmare he’d been hurled into, stretched overhead. The dark green needles and sweet-scented pine cones conjured images of yule logs, long days of sledding with a cousin who no longer existed, and mince pies. Slender trees stretched beside the pines. Their leaves were gone, the branches ready for snow to descend on them. They ranged from a cold white to a warmer amber, and he focused his attention on the spaces between their branches. Maybe he might spot another thief and see just how many people were robbing them.

The Scarlet Demon raised her chin. “I’ve got four other men with me.”

“Indeed.”

“They’re large men,” she said. “Very muscular.”

“And armed?” Graeme asked her, his eyes wide.

She nodded gravely. “We were able to overtake a wagon filled with army supplies last week.”

“Oh?” Graeme’s lower lip appeared to be trembling.

Percival fought the urge to bite back a laugh. Clearly a viper-tongued woman was all it took to dissipate Graeme’s arrogance.

“Yes.” The highwaywoman nodded her head again.

“Is that so?”

“It is indeed.”

“And you managed to overtake the British army’s wagon?” Graeme stammered.

“Indeed.” The woman paused. “You don’t want me to call for my men. Any signal from me is a signal for utter destruction. My men are fearful of being identified. If you obey, you can escape with your lives. If not, the men will come forward, and if they’re recognized, they’ll have to kill you.”

“We won’t recognize them,” Percival said.

She tossed her head. “They won’t believe you.”

A series of loud shots fired from the forest. Percival stiffened, his chest constricting, and the Scarlet Demon only smiled. “Those are my men now.”

“Don’t kill us,” Graeme pleaded.

“It would be amusing.” The Scarlet Demon tapped her long, slender fingers together, and then exhaled. “But I don’t want that to happen. You’re very fortunate—I have another thing you can help me with.”

“We’ll do anything!” Graeme cried. “Anything at all.”

Percival scanned the forest again. “It’s possible she might not actually have a swarm of men hidden—”

The woman swung towards him. “How do you think my hair turned so red?”

“Blood!” Graeme gasped. “I always knew redheads weren’t trustworthy.”

Percival fought the urge to roll his eyes in the face of the woman’s earnestness and Graeme’s credulity.

The woman’s face tightened, but she simply replied, “Then sir, you are a very wise man indeed.”

Graeme’s chest jutted out.

“What do you want?” Percival finally asked.

She hadn’t referred to him as His Grace yet. If there was a chance she did not know his identity, he wasn’t going to tell her. He was thankful he’d kept the fact a secret from Graeme. Who knows what she might do with the information. They could overpower her, but he rather doubted he and Graeme could tackle four strong, muscular men.

Percival swallowed hard. For a moment he’d forgotten that using force to battle anyone was something that belonged in the past. The cold air blew against his face. He shifted his knees. The position was uncomfortable, but he had no desire to exit the coach.

The woman pressed her lips together and then glanced at Graeme. “I need an audience with your charge alone.”

Blast.
She knew who he was after all.

It was perhaps impossible to hide his position. Fame was inevitable when one possessed classical good looks, vast wealth, an elevated position, and a roguish reputation.

The latter had already changed.

Something flickered over Graeme’s face. “Tell you what. I’ll let the highwaywoman discuss her exact requests to you in the coach. More private that way.”

The Scarlet Demon hesitated. “I would prefer a meeting outside.”

Graeme snorted. “Worried about preserving your reputation, darling? I’m sure your crew can rescue you. And believe me, you won’t be needing rescuing.”

Percival tightened his fists and fought the urge to scowl.

Graeme turned to Percival. “Unless
you’re
concerned?”

Percival exhaled sharply. “I am quite capable of being alone with this woman.”

Graeme shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Percival hadn’t fought Napoleon to be treated like some damsel. He unlocked the carriage door and pulled the blanket over him. He inhaled and waited for her footsteps.

After a few agonizing moments the carriage door swung open. The scent of vanilla, warm and soothing in a way that a highwaywoman should not be, wafted over him. She fixed her dark green eyes on him, narrowing them before he could contemplate the gold rings that sparkled against the emerald shards. He blinked.

He didn’t need to look her over again, but he found himself doing so all the same. That hair. Red and flowing and unlike all the structured, conservative hairstyles that donned the chits at balls. Her dirty cloak and dress were nothing like the fur-lined coats and glossy gowns he was accustomed to seeing ladies parade around in. The woman wasn’t even wearing a hat. Nothing tasteful about her at all.

Which maybe was why she’d gotten herself into this mess.

She raised her chin. “A gentleman always keeps a door open for a lady.”

“You were never a lady,” he replied.

Her cheeks flushed, and she stomped by him, her skirts brushing against him in a manner that wasn’t, he was sure, strictly necessary in the nearly vacant carriage. She strode to the seat opposite him, weapon in hand. Her boots clinked against the floor, and if someone had told him he was hearing the sound of his heart, he wouldn’t have doubted it.

***

Fiona didn’t need to ponder whether her behavior verged on the inappropriate. It was obvious she’d abandoned all propriety.

And the man, this strange gentleman, a man more handsome and dashing than even the most well-loved hero from Loretta Van Lochen’s romances, sat in this enclosed space with her.

“Welcome, highwaywoman. Or do you prefer to be called Scarlet Demon?” The man yawned and stretched his arms. The action caused the material of his clothes to tighten, revealing a firm, broad chest. “I must say, I rather like the idea of meeting in the coach. Too many robberies lack organizational prowess.”

A plaid blanket draped over the man’s legs in perhaps an attempt to appear casual, but his furrowed brow and tight lips denoted a less than lackadaisical sentiment.

What she was doing was wrong, but it would all be over in a few hours. She sucked in a breath of air. “You’re not really in a rush.”

His eyebrows lifted. “I think I can judge that.”

“There’s no dying parent you’re hastening to see. No wife in labor.”

“Would you call off your ruffians if I had one?”

Fiona folded her fingers on her lap. She’d never been in a space this small, this confined with any man, much less a specimen of masculinity, the very sort her art instructors would laud. Fiona’s breath quickened, and suddenly she had absolutely no problem with the cold winter air. She forced her gaze from the satisfactory width of the man’s chest and lifted her nostrils. “Is that—brandy?”

Her voice shook. It wouldn’t do for the man to realize just how much his presence affected her.

“Indeed. Should I compliment you on your sniffing abilities?” Sarcasm riddled through his velvet voice.

“I—” Fiona’s mouth dried. She lifted her gaze toward him, meeting his blue eyes. They had a knowing look to them as if accustomed to seeing women’s eyes melt. She dropped her eyes to her lap, focusing on her thick cape. The worn fabric was convenient for outdoor pursuits, but the plain material differed from the luxurious appearance that the man opposite, only slightly rumpled from his journey, managed to convey.

“Get to the point, woman. Or are you in awe of being in such a glamorous place?” The handsome man’s tone was sultry, and he moved his hand toward Fiona.

“Stay right there!” she cried.

His hand wavered in the air, and she was conscious of the size and breadth of each finger. The man’s skin was bronzed, and dark curls encircled his wrists. She wondered whether the dark curls trailed up the rest of his arm, and whether his chest was bare or not.

She swiveled her head toward him, and his hand brushed against hers again. Her heartbeat quickened, as if her whole body yearned for more of him, even though she didn’t know anything about him, even though she was pretty sure he wasn’t even very nice.

Before she had a chance to berate him for affecting her with his presence to an extent she would be mortified to admit, he was gone. He relaxed against his seat, and a smile played upon his lips. “Please be comfortable.”

“Right.” She cleared her throat and tried to channel one of Loretta Van Lochen’s bravest heroines. “You’re a gentleman.”

He smirked. “It must be an unusual pleasure for you to be in such splendid company. But I’m afraid I don’t have time for much chit-chat. What do you want?”

“You.” The word escaped her lips before she had a chance to hold it back.

His eyebrows rose, but the cocky grin she expected never appeared. Instead his shoulders sank a fraction, and his jaw firmed.

“I mean…” Fiona forced a laugh, “Not really you. Of course not.”

“That would be insane,” the man offered.

“Yes,” Fiona hastened to reply.

“What on earth would you do with me?”

For one moment she was tempted to tell him everything. For one moment she wanted to share with someone just what a mess she had managed to get into. For one moment she desired to laugh and maybe cry and hopefully be told she wasn’t entirely mad.

But instead she lifted her chin up. “Never mind.”

She could tell him who she was later. Right now she needed him to be intimidated of her. Maybe no one would do a favor for Fiona Amberly, the woman too frightened to finish her season, the woman no man had wanted to dance with. But displaying the most fearful highwaywoman from Loretta Van Lochen might be more convincing.

She leaned forward. “I won’t hurt you.”

“You don’t seem the type to maintain noble standards of decency.”

The man was perfect, and that seemed reason enough to despise him. His complexly tied cravat, perfectly styled hair, and immaculate cane represented everything she abhorred. Except… Her gaze drifted back to the man’s cane. It looked almost like it was actually meant to be used. A silver dome rested on it, but the black rod was imperfectly polished, the length longer than average, and grass clung to the end of the cane, as if—

“What in the Lord’s name are you looking at?” the man practically growled.

“I—”

“Leave, highwaywoman.” The man’s brusque voice interrupted her thoughts. “If you were aiming at seduction, you should have been prettier.”

Any spell, any attraction she may have felt vanished at this moment. She bit her lips and strode from the coach.

She couldn’t do this. She needed to be back at home, where she belonged, and not in a coach with a strange man.

It didn’t matter. He never would have agreed to her plan anyway. She’d just get Ned and ride away. She stepped into the cold air, bracing for the harsh words from the coach driver.

But only silence greeted her.