“Are you certain you desire my company? My treatment of your sister was—”
“—atrocious,” Wolfe finished for him, and Callum’s cheeks took on an even darker shade.
“That was in the past,” Wolfe said, more gently. “If she can forgive you, I can.”
Callum rubbed the back of his neck. “I suppose I could take Charlotte to the Highlands. She still hasn’t visited...”
“Splendid. Perhaps you can even host some men.”
Callum’s eyebrows rose.
“I’m trying to matchmake Isla,” Wolfe admitted. “Not that you should tell her. These are—”
“—prospects,” Callum finished for him. “I see.”
“They’re all quite well regarded,” Wolfe said.
“Perhaps you should let her choose her own prospects,” Callum said.
“No one is courting her,” Wolfe said.
“Er—right.” Callum removed his gaze. “I suppose I may have damaged her reputation.”
“Broken betrothals have a tendency to do that.”
“Yes.” Callum kept his gaze averted, and he shifted his legs. “I will consult with Charlotte...”
“Splendid.” Wolfe clapped his hands together.
With the help of Miss Schmidt, everyone would love the ball and be impressed. He would show everyone his sister came from a good family, despite Hades’ Lair, and someone would propose to her.
Chapter Five
The kitchen bustled with movement, and Flora glanced at the door, waiting for a sign the post had arrived. Someone needed to answer her advert.
“You’re spending a good deal of time in the kitchen,” the housekeeper remarked.
Flora squared her shoulders. “There is quite an abundance of mending, and the light is better in the kitchen.”
“Ah.” The housekeeper dropped her gaze to Flora’s sewing. “I don’t see any holes in those clothes.”
“A stitch in time saves nine,” Flora said.
It would have been more convenient if the duchess had torn her attire. If there was a letter for her, Flora wanted to read it. It was probable the other servants might not assume mail directed to Miss Flora Schmidt was meant for her. She’d used the first German name she’d thought of. At least she wouldn’t be feigning expertise in a new language this time.
Finally, the mail arrived, and Flora rushed to it with the enthusiasm of a person waiting for a letter from a loved one abroad.
There was a letter. Her name was written in faultless curves, and Flora’s heartbeat quickened. The quality of the paper was evident, and Flora unfolded the paper quickly, lest someone spot the false surname.
Someone wanted her to be a Christmas consultant in Scotland. She reread the letter twice, but she hadn’t mistaken the contents. She wanted to scream with delight.
Scotland.
It had worked.
Someone had hired her.
She would be a Christmas consultant in Scotland, and then she would travel to Cornwall to work for the widowed baroness. Mrs. Drakemore did not even know Flora was the Miss Schmidt who’d placed the ad.
Thank goodness for Christmas.
She’d loved the season before, but now it had saved her.
The letter instructed her to correspond with a Mr. Harrison. The employer, it seemed, desired to be anonymous, but that was fine. People might appreciate discretion. People hired scullery and chamber maids, but they might not like to admit they needed to pay for help for Christmas. Perhaps some widower with children was flummoxed by the approaching holiday or perhaps a new bride simply wanted advice for her first ball.
Her heart sang.
Not only would Flora be able to be a Christmas consultant, but she would be one in the Highlands. No region on this island was farther from London. It made even Cornwall appear close.
Christmas was the very nicest holiday.
The thought of returning to the Highlands sent butterflies twirling and dancing through her body, as if contemplating the possibility of lifting her there by sheer exuberance.
She clutched the letter in her hand. It denoted hope and impending happiness.
I’ll have to resign.
She swallowed hard. It had been so nice to work for the Duchess of Vernon. They were almost the same age, and she’d assisted the duchess and her sister before they’d married, when they’d still been dismissed as vicar’s daughters.
She gathered the duchess’s garments.
The housekeeper raised her eyebrows. “You finished mending all of them.”
“Indeed,” Flora said smoothly, before sweeping past her and carrying the clothes to the duchess’s chambers. She moved briskly up the winding servant’s staircase and then pushed open the door to enter the far grander corridor that led to the duke’s and duchess’s chambers.
She knocked on the duchess’s door and entered.
“Flora,” the duchess said.
“Your Grace.”
The duchess scrunched her nose, and her pince-nez wobbled. “It’s odd to have you call me that.”
“Things have changed,” Flora said.
“I suppose.”
Flora surveyed the room. It faced Grosvenor Square and golden light spilled through the windows. The duchess’s bed was always immaculately made, a testament to the frequency with which the duchess spent the night in the duke’s room. Everything in the room seemed to sparkle.
Flora set down the basket of garments, conscious her fingers were wobbling.
“Do you have a moment?” she asked.
The duchess nodded, but her eyebrows rose slightly. Flora shivered, aware of the other woman’s intelligence.
“I’m afraid I must resign,” Flora said rapidly, as if the speed in which she said it could make the duchess forget about the meaning of the words, could make Flora forget about the words’ meaning.
“Truly?” the duchess asked.
Flora nodded. “I do love it here, but I-I just can’t be here longer.”
“Oh.” The duchess drew back.
“You’d rather work for someone else than me?” the duchess asked.
“Yes,” Flora said.
The answer did not seem to be the right one. Her mistress appeared crestfallen.
“I mean, of course I would rather work with you,” Flora said hastily. “But not—”
“In Guernsey,” the duchess finished.
“Precisement.”
The duchess tilted her head, and appeared thoughtful. “And you don’t much like London.”
“No.” Flora shook her head, glad that at least this was not a lie.
At one time she’d adored London. But that had changed once her father was murdered. But the duchess did not need to know that.
When she’d taken on a position with the Butterworths, she’d done so because they’d lived in a hamlet in Norfolk. She’d felt safe working in the vicarage. Mr. Butterworth was a good man, and she’d been happy to attend to his wife and two daughters. She’d felt at times uncomfortable maintaining the charade of being a Frenchwoman, but she’d been concerned for her safety.
Mr. Warne was a powerful man. He was much admired in society. Everyone had marveled at the rapidity with which Mr. Warne had made his fortune, even though he’d been only the third son of a viscount, and even though the wars on the continent had been raging, and even those not battling overseas struggled. She had no doubt people would rather continue to believe in Mr. Warne’s magnificence than her.
She sighed. Her father had simply tutored Mr. Warne in piano, and she still wasn’t certain why that would cause Mr. Warne to murder him.
“I’ve already found a new position,” Flora said, returning her attention to the duchess. “I would like to start immediately. If you can do without me.”
“I will miss you very much,” the duchess said.
“I’m sorry.” Flora felt her lips tremble. She’d expected this conversation to be difficult, but it was proving even more so. She would miss the duchess. “I’m s
o grateful for everything you did.”
“Where will you go?”
“I found a placement in Cornwall,” Flora said.
“I see,” the duchess was silent for a moment. “You are always welcome to call on me. I consider you a friend. If something is troubling you, you can tell me.”
Flora’s breath caught. This was the moment when she could confess. Yet how could she? Mr. Warne was too dangerous, and Flora would be safe soon.
“If you decide you would like to return here after all,” the duchess continued, “I am certain I can find something.”
“Thank you,” Flora said. “You are very kind.”
They spoke for a few more minutes, reminiscing about their time in Norfolk. Flora might be the duchess’s maid, but they’d always been close. The duchess was quieter than the rest of her family, and Flora had felt drawn to her. Now the duchess no longer needed her.
The afternoon passed quickly. Flora was conscious each task would be her last.
The next day she took a hack to Smithfield Market. People filled the square, and she clutched her bag to her, conscious it held her compositions. She might not have access to a piano, but she could still compose music. She’d done so ever since her father had first taught her.
Though the mail coach appeared luxurious from the street, Flora knew no luxury could mask the hundreds of uncomfortable miles until Scotland, not improved by the late month. She used the ticket she’d procured from Mr. Harrison and boarded the mail coach. She sat near a large family with sniffling children who seemed entranced in a novel game of seeing if their coughing could mask the ever grinding wheels, though they remained unsuccessful.
Am I mad to do this?
Scotland was her past, and she’d avoided her past successfully until now.
She shook her head. Scotland was not where The Event had happened. That had been in London. That had been where her whole world had changed and everything had vanished forever.
Flora was so accustomed to working, suddenly not working was almost a shock to her. She didn’t need to sew anything, she didn’t need to press anything, and she didn’t need to do any of the hundred other tasks she was accustomed to doing.
There was only sitting on a coach with strangers, and there was only thinking about what would happen when she arrived there. She wished Harrison had given her the name of her new employer, and Flora forced away a prickle of worry.
Music ran through her head, perhaps inspired by the climbing ascent of the wheels as they ground over the occasional stone, rocking in a new, ever changing rhythm as they rounded an increased number of curves.
It will be fine. It will be wonderful. It will be...Christmas.
She tried to grasp onto the melody that rushed through her heart, holding it close, memorizing it for when she might take ink to some paper and jot down the notes and hold onto them forever.
It was better to concentrate on the music that surged through her than on the man she’d seen in Covent Garden.
Chapter Six
Harrison’s efficiency extended to the final day of the journey. A carriage had picked her up at her last posting inn stop, and Flora settled into the conveyance, appreciating the added comfort now she was not surrounded by other people.
She took a tiny nap, but was woken by the swaying of the carriage as it climbed a long hill. Her stomach tightened uncomfortably, and she opened the curtains to the carriage.
In the distance was the ocean, and before it were dark brown hills, speckled with snow. Foamy gray waves crashed against the shore, and gusts of wind ruffled the few shrubs. Snowflakes started to fall, and she smiled. Snow made everything better. Snow was crisp and clean, and it blanketed the ground, wiping away any imperfections, any mud, any unsightly ditches.
This was her chance to live again in the place of her youth, when life had been as close to perfect as it ever would be. She’d been seven when she’d left the Highlands, and she tried to remember what the manor home had looked like. The memories that flitted through her mind were confined to her father’s happiness, the delight of frolicking through fields, and memories of a handsome boy with dark eyes and a serious face.
This place resembled that of her memories. The trees were similar and even the curves in the road were similar.
Is the landscape too familiar?
She couldn’t be far from McIntyre Manor. She tried to think about which other aristocrats lived in the area. Would they know her?
Surely not. Most likely she was being foolish. Perhaps the manor house belonged to Lord Hamish Montgomery, the duke’s twin brother. She may have seen him when she’d been frequenting the Butterworth home before, but he’d never recognized her.
Would he recognize her now?
His wife would.
Lady Hamish Montgomery was the duchess’s older sister.
She did not want to explain to Lady Hamish Montgomery why she was here, and why she was not a French maid.
She inhaled. Most likely she was nowhere near McIntyre Manor. The area might appear familiar, but she’d been a child then. What did she know about the landscape?
Finally, a manor home came into view. The building was cold and spare and unwelcoming, and she told herself this could not be the same place she remembered. The fact that she shivered had nothing to do with premonition.
It only meant it was chilly.
But there was something about the manor house... The stern gray form, not softened by the gables on the otherwise mostly flat roof, seemed familiar.
Nonsense. Lord McIntyre was hardly the type to care about Christmas. Christmas had nothing to do with gaming hells.
There had to be other, equally grand houses in this region with occupants who had not mocked her during the previous week.
It’s the manor house.
Fiddle-faddle.
She couldn’t appear at Lord McIntyre’s manor home and announce herself as Fräulein Schmidt, Christmas consultant. That would be absolute nonsense.
She had to leave. Now.
She craned her neck from the window. “Driver! Driver! Please stop.”
The man did so, surprise evident in his expression.
“I need to return,” she said.
The coach driver raised his eyebrows. “I can’t do that, Miss.”
“It’s important,” she pleaded.
The coach driver chuckled. “We’re almost here.”
Indeed, the coach wheels crunched against gravel, and the snowflakes fell from the sky with greater force.
Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, no.
Her heart clenched, and she smoothed her dress frantically, as if less sharp creases might make her appearance more tolerable for the earl. There’d been a time when she’d adored McIntryre Manor. Many times she’d longed to be back, remembering its idyllic grounds.
Nothing about returning here would be pleasant now.
The coach stopped, and even though she should be grateful for the halt to the coach’s interminable swaying, she wasn’t.
The coach driver opened the door. “It’s really not so bad here, fräulein.”
“It’s not that,” she said, but he strode past her and began hauling her belongings from the coach.
A woman in a dark gown and a murky cloak stepped from a small door. “Welcome to McIntyre Manor, Fräulein Schmidt. I’m Mrs. Potter, the housekeeper.”
The woman had a friendly smile and warm eyes that twinkled.
“Th-thank you, Mrs. Potter.”
“I trust you had a pleasant drive?”
“Y-yes,” Flora stammered.
“She enjoyed it so much she wanted me to take her straight back down,” the coach driver declared. “Ain’t many people that like those curves.”
“The views are pretty,” the housekeeper said.
“They are,” Flora admitted, feeling guilty her primary emotion had been queasiness before it had been replaced with fear.
“Now let’s get you a nice cup of tea,” the housekeeper said. “You must be
exhausted, poor thing.”
“Practically delirious,” the coach driver said, but his voice was kind, and Flora’s heart ached.
They were good people. It would be nice to work with them.
“This way Fräulein Schmidt,” the housekeeper said. “The earl will see you.”
A shiver descended down Flora’s spine.
Chapter Seven
Wolfe strode merrily down the corridor of McIntyre Manor. His heart thrummed a festive tune.
He was finally going to meet Fräulein Schmidt.
He stepped into the parlor. The room was perhaps an unconventional place for him to have meetings, but the wood-paneled study would always remind him of his father. The parlor was light and bright, seeming to capture even the dullest amount of sun with efficiency.
A woman was sitting on the sofa. This must be her. She had dark hair and a round face that reminded him of someone, and he lengthened his strides.
Until he stopped.
The woman looked curiously like someone he knew, someone he couldn’t quite place.
Wolfe didn’t know any Germans. The only German he’d ever known had been his former piano tutor, but that had been ages ago.
“Fräulein Schmidt?” he asked.
The woman turned to him, perhaps conscious of his gaze, and Wolfe’s nostrils flared.
What was the Duchess of Vernon’s lady’s maid doing in his library in Scotland? And why did the servants tell him Fräulein Schmidt had arrived?
Had she written the advertisement? Had she simply sought a new identity after he’d discovered her deception of posing as a French maid? Anger surged through him.
He’d thought he’d hired a professional.
Wolfe’s nostrils flared. “Or should I say Flora? I was not aware the Duchess of Vernon had traveled hundreds of miles to see me with her lady’s maid. Or did you decide to come on your own?”
The woman’s face paled. Well, that was a start. She should feel ashamed.
“Do you just go about the country lying about your identity?” he asked.
She shook her head violently.
Lords, Snow and Mistletoe: A Regency Christmas Collection Page 20