Chapter Three
Fiddle-faddle.
Flora had been caught. The duke’s friends weren’t supposed to make their way into his townhome and explore the corners of parlors.
But Lord McIntyre had done precisely that, and Flora’s carefully constructed identity was demolished.
I have to leave.
And certainly her destination shouldn’t be the Channel Islands. Lord McIntyre had confirmed the paucity of her French skills. If a Scottish earl could discover that in moments, a French person could discover it more quickly.
Fiddle-faddle.
She enjoyed working for the duchess, but she couldn’t keep lying to her. Not when the duke’s best friend was aware of her deception.
Flora glanced at the grandfather clock in the parlor. Mrs. Drakemore’s Agency for Good Servants would still be open. She could inquire about a new position there. She’d feel foolish returning to see if she could be placed somewhere else, but she would have to inquire.
She inhaled. It would be fine. She was even more experienced than before. It would be easy to secure a new position.
It has to be.
Flora spoke to the housekeeper quickly, took her coat and then marched from the townhome. She strode through Mayfair and pulled her bonnet forward. London might be her favorite city in the world, but it had also been where her former life had ended. She wasn’t going to let herself be discovered.
The air was crisp, and her nostrils constricted. Next month it would be Christmas, but now it was still November and fallen leaves crunched beneath her feet. The sky was a gloomy metal tone, and it still seemed impossible to imagine a season with mistletoe, holly and ivy adorning everything and wassailers going from door to door with delightful songs.
She quickened her pace. Finally, Covent Garden in all its glory stretched before her. Crowds huddled around street performers, and a thrill of excitement cascaded through her as she strode past the Theatre Royal. For a moment she could imagine her father was still performing there and that everything was fine.
Nothing would be fine again though, and she remembered she couldn’t linger. If she were spotted, it would most likely be in this quarter. Mr. Warne enjoyed music, a quality that in no manner redeemed him.
She scanned the crowd, but did not see him. Good.
She hurried through Covent Garden. The music grew fainter, and she marched over several side streets until she came to the cheerful green building that housed Mrs. Drakemore’s Agency for Good Servants.
Street performers and beggars were outside, as if to emphasize to any visitors the importance of ensuring one selected someone appropriate, since many in London could be of disreputable character.
She passed through the narrow door. A row of primly dressed people sat in a room decorated with embroidered quotes that glorified the worthiness of work.
It seemed foolish to be here. She was employed, and she’d fought hard for the chance to be employed. She might as well be fourteen again, lying about her age and her experience, thankful when Mrs. Drakemore took pity on her and placed her as a maid of all work at a vicarage in rural Norfolk, away from everything she knew, but also away from Mr. Warne.
A clerk sat at a desk and she approached it. “I would like to speak with Mrs. Drakemore.”
“So do many young women.”
She winced. “I’ve been employed through her before.”
“Ah.” The clerk nodded, took her name and instructed her to wait.
She settled down with a row of other young women.
Finally the clerk called her name, and Flora was ushered to a large office overlooking the street. Mrs. Drakemore sat at a glossy desk, devoid of papers or books, a testament to the virtues of tidiness.
“Flora Durand,” Mrs. Drakemore said. “I was surprised to see your name.”
Flora attempted a smile, but it must have wobbled, for Mrs. Drakemore waved her hand dismissively. “Please, take a seat.”
Flora did so.
“Now, what brings you here? Does the Duchess of Vernon desire some new servants for her household?”
“You know that I work for her?”
“I make it my business to know everything,” Mrs. Drakemore said. “Besides, everyone is talking about how the Duke of Vernon married a daughter of a vicar from Norfolk. I’m very happy things have gone well for you.”
Flora’s cheeks warmed. “I’m actually not here on behalf of the duchess.”
“No?”
She swallowed hard. “I’m here on behalf of myself.”
Mrs. Drakemore assessed her. Mrs. Drakemore was a tall, competent woman skilled in mathematics and languages. Mrs. Drakemore could just as easily have been running a boarding school, but she apparently had a preference for the more neatly attired women anxious to become servants than the spoiled offspring of aristocrats.
“I’m surprised to hear you desire to leave,” Mrs. Drakemore said finally. “I would not have thought the duke would be stingy with pay.”
“It’s not about the money,” Flora said.
Mrs. Drakemore’s eyebrows rose. “Have you experienced...cruelty?”
“Naturally not.”
“Then has the advancement of your position been too challenging for you?”
“No,” Flora said. “I simply desire a new challenge. I was hoping for something more...rural.”
“You do not care for London?”
“I favor the countryside,” Flora said.
The thing was, Flora did like London. She’d lived here before, even if she’d told the Butterworth’s housekeeper she was new to the capital. London was filled with music. One didn’t need to be rich to hear people playing on the streets.
Yet she’d felt safer in Norfolk. The county might be dismissed as dull, but it was also a place people were unlikely to accidentally wander into, a fact that suited Flora fine. Norfolk wasn’t on the way to Birmingham or York. She wanted to work in a similar obscure position.
“I will keep you in mind,” Mrs. Drakemore said briskly.
“There’s nothing available now?” Flora asked. “I’d hoped to start soon.”
“You’re at a higher position now,” Mrs. Drakemore said. “I assume you don’t want to start over again as a maid of all work?”
Flora wavered, but she supposed Mrs. Drakemore was correct. These things must take time. If Lord McIntyre informed the Duke of Vernon of her deception, she could return to Mrs. Drakemore then to take any position.
“Thank you,” Flora said finally. “I suppose I could wait a while longer.”
Mrs. Drakemore’s eyes softened. “If you can wait, there’s a lovely position in Cornwall with a young widowed baroness that starts in late January. I think you would be suited for it. Most of our maids prefer to stay in London.”
“That sounds lovely,” Flora said.
Cornwall was far from London. She would be unlikely to see Mr. Warne there.
“Good,” Mrs. Drakemore said, writing something down. “I will begin arrangements.”
Flora thanked Mrs. Drakemore and left her office. It had been too optimistic to hope to acquire something at once. Flora passed the row of potential servants and nodded farewell to the receptionist.
She stepped lightly through the streets and headed toward Covent Garden, musing about Cornwall’s secluded beaches and empty countryside. She would be sad to leave the duchess, but Cornwall would be a new change. She wouldn’t have to worry about pretending to be French, and she wouldn’t have to worry about being recognized. After all, who went to Cornwall?
Some carolers were singing Christmas music, and her heart swelled. The air was crisp, and at some point the sun had set. It didn’t matter. Lights sparkled about her.
Normally busy Londoners stopped to observe the carolers.
And then she spotted him. Mr. Warne. She hadn’t seen him in nearly six years, but it didn’t matter. She recognized him.
He was neither particularly tall, nor noticeably short. His waist could be term
ed normal, and his coloring consisted of brown hair and pale skin, the most common combination in London. Even his age was not of particularly noteworthiness, and she would struggle to describe him to someone else.
And yet, his identity was unmistakable. The exact slope of his nose, his wide jaw which gave his face a pear shaped appearance, featured regularly in her nightmares. Villains never seemed to wear normal buckskin breeches in books, preferring to be clothed in capes and twirling mustaches, but the only thing about him was normal.
She shivered. Perhaps he chose his clothes with the intent to blend in, like some form of cosmopolitan masquerade. The day before the last day she saw him, she would have only remarked that Mr. Warne was an adequate pianist. But on the last day she’d seen Mr. Warne, he’d been running after her, and ten minutes before that, he’d been murdering her father, the best man in the world.
Her heart abandoned its regular rhythm. Terror surged through her. She tried to move to the other side of the road. Unfortunately, this was Covent Garden at its busiest. People swarmed about her, hindering her ability to cross the street.
She knew she shouldn’t look at the man, but had he noticed her? Was he noticing her now?
Carefully she turned her head in his direction, and a moment later his eyes locked with hers.
Perhaps he won’t remember me.
Then a cloud drifted over his face, one that did not appear when most people looked at her. His gaze was one of fury, the exact sort of fury one might have if one had murdered someone years ago and now, had spotted the only witness.
Nausea tinged her throat, and her legs felt faint, as if she’d transformed into a Silesian marionette. Her knees buckled.
“Excuse me,” a woman said, jostling her, and Flora remembered to walk.
She plodded her legs over the cobblestones. She tried to not remember the man stabbing her father, and she tried to not remember her father’s screams, and she tried not to remember staring at her father’s limp body, conscious her father’s murderer would now want to do the same to her.
She’d spent so much time fleeing and she would need to do so again.
Her heart drummed a crazed rhythm, and she wove through narrow streets until finally she ascertained no one followed her. Tears prickled her eyes.
I have to leave London.
She couldn’t wait until the assignment in Cornwall.
Her heart thudded, tangling up with her ability to breathe. If only she’d taken better precautions. She’d felt so hopeful.
Mrs. Drakemore had told her there were no new assignments before January. Could she take on another position and then quit it so soon? Her stomach squeezed. Mrs. Drakemore knew she desired the Cornwall position. She could hardly show up and announce a sudden passion for being a scullery maid.
But perhaps...
An idea occurred to her. If no current positions were available, perhaps she could create her own position. The agency also advertised positions. She only needed to have a position until January. What sort of position would be so short?
The carolers.
Perhaps... She smiled. If there was no assignment for her, she would have to create her own assignment. She knew the ton. They always were throwing balls. Perhaps she could call herself a Christmas consultant, for people who didn’t want to extend their housekeeper too much.
She could advertise her services. Her father had been Bavarian. He’d taught her all about Christmas. They’d even lived there for a while.
She hurried through the streets and back to the duke’s and duchess’s townhome. She forced herself to not sprint up the stairs to her room. When she arrived she lit a tallow candle, took out a piece of paper and began to write an advert.
Do you desire someone to help you create splendid holiday festivities on your country estate? You need the services of Fräulein Schmidt, an expert in everything Christmas. Fräulein Schmidt comes from Bavaria and is highly knowledgeable about Christmas traditions. She has worked for the British aristocracy and plays the piano.
Flora smiled. Tomorrow morning she would give this to Mrs. Drakemore’s agency along with the advertising fee.
Please let this work.
Chapter Four
Wolfe entered Hades’ Lair. He’d delivered his last invitation, and he hummed a Christmas tune. He strode through the gaming hell and entered his office.
His secretary rose. “I believe I’ve found a Christmas consultant for you, my lord.”
“Magnificent, Harrison.”
His secretary was not prone to smiling, perhaps under the impression it was best to devote all his energy solely to assist Wolfe, but his lips twitched. “There is an advertisement in Mrs. Drakemore’s Agency for Good Servants that matches your specifications precisely. May I read the advert?”
“Please do.”
Harrison cleared his throat and read a short paragraph lauding a Miss Schmidt’s expertise in Christmas and a willingness to work anywhere on the British Isles.
“Good work,” Wolfe said. “I never doubted you.”
“Thank you.” Harrison’s eyebrows were perched slightly higher than normal, as if he were also shocked to have procured someone.
“To think you were questioning the authenticity of the position.”
“Er—yes,” Harrison said, evidently reluctant to mull over his mistake. “I felt it highly unlikely someone would want to travel to Scotland for such a short assignment... Evidently I miscalculated the attractions of Scottish snow and sleet.”
“Don’t worry, Harrison,” Wolfe said lightly. “People say Christmas is magical.”
“I hadn’t realized the power of Christmas magic.”
“I’d thought it a myth as well, equal to stories of centaurs and cyclops.” Wolfe grinned. “But after this Christmas, everyone will be aware of its power. I will host the very finest Christmas party.”
“Ah,” Harrison said.
“Now be sure to answer the advertisement immediately.”
“Indeed, my lord.” Harrison gave another nod, somehow managing to appear more regal than any of the aristocrats at court, even when he was showing deference. “I will contact this Fräulein Schmidt.”
“And after that you must pack my cases. We’re going to Scotland now. Immediately.”
Harrison’s eyes widened, and he dipped into a bow. Wolfe wondered if the servant’s sudden lowering of his torso had been to disguise his shock rather than simply as a token of respect.
“I will arrange for a carriage,” Harrison said. “I gather you do desire that form of transport? Not the—er—mail coach?”
Harrison’s voice was strained, and Wolfe almost smiled. Harrison was not fond of twisting roads in winter, and the cramped mail coach exacerbated his discomfort.
“The carriage will suffice,” Wolfe said. “I’m not in so much of a rush to subject us to such unpleasantness. In fact, perhaps you should stay at Hades’ Lair in my absence.”
Harrison’s shoulders relaxed. “Splendid, my lord.”
“But let’s not tarry,” Wolfe continued. “This will be the most wonderful Christmas.”
And my sister’s reputation will be restored.
“Very good, my lord.”
“I would appreciate it if you not mention to anyone that I am hiring someone to assist me,” Wolfe said.
“Indeed, my lord?” Harrison’s eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch.
“Not just yet. I wouldn’t want word to get back to my sister. I implied I would be planning everything myself.”
“Might I venture to suggest that in that case perhaps you should plan it yourself?”
“Absolutely not. What my sister does not know will not harm her. Just make sure to procure the services of this Fräulein Schmidt.”
“I will do so at once,” Harrison said.
“Good, good.” Wolfe settled back into his chair.
Harrison dutifully left Wolfe, and Callum arrived shortly after.
“I heard you called on me yesterday,” Call
um said.
“I did,” Wolfe replied, somewhat surprised. After his interaction with the maid, he wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d taken the invitation he’d left on the silver platter by the door and thrown it in one of the burning fires in the room.
Their interaction had been unideal. He despised people who lied.
For a moment he wondered whether he should inform Callum his wife’s lady’s maid was only feigning to be French, but decided against it. It was the sort of thing that could be petty, and from the enthusiastic manner the duchess spoke about her lady’s maid, he had the feeling they were close. His status with Callum was still frail after Callum had told him about Wolfe’s father’s poor treatment of Callum and his twin brother Hamish. Wolfe’s father had become Callum’s and Hamish’s guardian after their parents died, and the twins had lived with Wolfe and Isla for much of their childhood.
“I did call on you,” Wolfe said. “It seemed you went to listen to some music?”
Callum’s cheeks became a ruddier color. “So I did.”
“Our former piano tutor would be most proud of you,” Wolfe said.
Callum shrugged. “He wasn’t spending time with me at the piano, and you know that.”
“No,” Wolfe said pleased.
Callum and Hamish had consistently impressed their tutors, but Wolfe had always excelled at music. It had been his one skill, until he’d founded Hades’ Lair of course.
“I received your invitation,” Callum said.
“Splendid.”
“I wasn’t aware you liked Christmas,” Callum said.
“Then you thought wrong. Frankly, I adore Christmas.”
“You tend to complain that members are visiting family then rather than Hades’ Lair.”
“That was in the past,” Wolfe said matter-of-factly. “And this is the present. The new reformed me likes nothing better than—”
“Roasting chestnuts? Singing yuletide songs? Sitting by the yule log?” Callum suggested.
Wolfe winced. Perhaps it did sound all a bit overly sentimental. He’d forgotten about that. He raised his chin anyway. “Yes. I adore all of that. I trust you will join?”
Lords, Snow and Mistletoe: A Regency Christmas Collection Page 19