Some people clapped.
“The most talented artist in fact, that I have ever met.”
Murmurings sounded, and he beamed.
Her heart fluttered. This wasn’t in the schedule.
“I’ve been to many concerts over the years,” he said. “But it is my supreme honor to introduce Miss Flora Schmidt.”
He intended her to...play?
He strode toward her. “Come, Flora.”
“Are you certain, my lord?”
“I couldn’t be more certain.” He led her to the piano, and leaned toward her. “The others will accompany you.”
“The other...”
“Musicians.” He smiled. “I want you to have your moment. Those compositions are not just for the piano. I want you to hear what your music sounds like. Whatever else happens, I want you to have this moment.”
“What else do you exactly intend to happen?”
His eyes glimmered. “One surprise at a time, sweetheart.”
She sat down at the piano.
“You mustn’t look so surprised to be here,” Wolfe said. “You’re the very best pianist I know.”
Right. Of course. He admired her talent. That was all. He would admire her talent even if she were a hoary-haired octogenarian man, and he would likely gush about the same enthusiasm about his discovery. If she weren’t here, he would laud his performers instead.
Naturally he would laud her performance. He lauded everything.
Her heart ached. Something about his boyish enthusiasm was appealing, and she could see how he’d managed to create a gaming hell, even when he’d been young, even when so many people must have been shocked, and even when many people must have doubted his vision. No one had thought many people would come all the way to the Highlands for a Christmas ball, but evidently they had.
He’d radiated charisma, and she’d fallen for it, even though the one thing servant girls whispered to one another was that one should never ever be taken advantage of by the master. One should never listen to their praise, one should never think it was something more.
She’d considered herself intelligent, and she’d laughed at being told something so obvious.
But here she was. She’d fallen for it.
At least Wolfe and she had taken precautions, but she didn’t know if that made her feel better, because even though it was mad, she still thought about him, still yearned to lie in his arms again.
“I would speak more, but you have an audience.”
She nodded and her heart thundered.
The room was quiet, and Flora placed her fingers on the piano keys. Her heart beat madly, and she wondered how she might ever remember to play the notes at the correct tempo if even the simple influx and outflux of breath seemed challenging. The glossy white and black keys remained enticing, remained familiar, even if the large ballroom filled with onlookers was not.
And so she played.
She played notes she’d scribbled while working at the vicarage and in London, she played notes from her heart, and then, most incredibly, the musicians joined her.
Wolfe must have found her music and hand copied it for them. He hadn’t only been entertaining guests. He’d been thinking of her.
He was right. Soon she would go to Cornwall, but now she could enjoy playing her music with so many others. She wasn’t in London. She was safe.
Chapter Twenty-One
Flora finished playing. She rose from the piano. The music was finished, but it had been replaced by a new sound, that of applause.
It thundered through the room.
Her heart sang, and she moved from the piano, into the thick crowd of people.
A hand grabbed onto her.
Wolfe.
Of course he was there beside her, and her heart warmed.
In the next moment she was pushed behind the Christmas tree, and then behind the balcony.
“Hello... Miss Schmidt.” The voice didn’t belong to Wolfe or any of the footmen and male servants, and a shiver shot through her spine.
It’s him.
She didn’t want to look at him. She didn’t want to confirm what every nerve ending seemed to naturally know: that it was him, the man who killed her father and who could only want to harm her.
Where was Wolfe? She needed to find him. He always made her feel safe.
“Don’t leave,” Mr. Warne said. Something glinted in the moonlight.
A knife.
She inhaled sharply.
“If you try to leave, I’ll be compelled to hurt you. You don’t want that, do you?”
She shook her head rapidly, staring at the knife.
“How odd,” Mr. Warne remarked. “Back in London you went by a different name. I suppose you were ashamed of your father.”
She swung her head at him. “Leave my father out of this.”
He grinned. “Ah. It is really you. I am certain. I thought it doubtful two women could play the piano so beautifully.”
“Many people play the piano beautifully,” she said.
“You are too humble. Besides, those were your own compositions, were they not? You always did consider yourself a composer. Foolish child and now foolish woman.”
She stiffened.
“Come with me now,” he said, his voice suave and gentle.
“I couldn’t possibly,” she said.
“You think anyone notices you?” the man continued, clasping onto her hand. “Do you think you’re special?”
“No.”
“You’re a servant. No one notices a missing servant.” The man forced her toward the balcony. In the next moment he opened the door and shoved her outside into the cool air.
Perhaps she could escape. Perhaps she could scream. Perhaps—
Something cold that she recognized as a barrel pressed into her back.
“Now, don’t do anything crazy,” he said. “Better you just die than to suffer more.”
“Is it?” she asked, “if it means they catch you?”
His eyes twinkled. “You don’t want to know what I can do. Might go after that earl of yours. You were making eyes at him quite a bit. As if a man like him would notice a woman like you.”
“You followed me here and you somehow weaseled your way into an invitation,” Flora said.
“Nonsense,” Mr. Warne said. “I didn’t need to do that.”
“You have some magical powers? These are good people. You shouldn’t be here.”
“I thought you knew more than that,” Mr. Warne said. “I was invited here. Finding you was a fortunate coincidence.”
Flora blinked.
“You didn’t know? These are my friends.”
Her eyes widened farther.
“I often go with the host to concerts together,” Mr. Warne said.
“You did always like music.”
“Like it? I was good at it.”
“Then why did you murder your piano tutor?” Flora asked.
“That had nothing to do with music. Now, I’m thinking, I could just kill you right here and be done with you.”
“What if someone finds the body?” she asked smugly.
“I’ll hide it.”
“You think people won’t notice? There are couples skating on the lake below,” Flora said.
There weren’t, but he didn’t need to know that.
“Is that so?”
She raised her chin. “There are all sorts of festive activities. It’s Christmas after all.”
“Well, luckily, I’m not planning on taking you on a walk around the estate. I imagine you already know it too well. We’re going to enter my carriage and drive from here. And if you say anything, I won’t hesitate to kill the groom outside. He looks pretty young. Thirteen? Fourteen?”
Flora’s heart sank.
The man had murdered before.
SOON IT WOULD BE THE waltz. Wolfe went in search of Flora, but he did not see her. He frowned and asked some of the footmen. They hadn’t seen her since her piano perform
ance.
She was gone.
The ballroom was filled with people, but none of them were her. No one had her precise facial shape, and no one had her precise form.
Why would she leave now? Was it possible she didn’t want to dance with him, didn’t want to be with him?
He despised the hint of doubt that drifted through him, twisting his organs in odd manners, so that he felt simultaneously nauseous and faint.
Wolfe clenched his fists. He had no intention of spending the rest of his life knowing he’d met the perfect person for himself, one who shared his interests, and that he’d let her walk from his very own ballroom.
“Isla,” he said, drawing his sister from a bevy of men.
“Brother dear?”
“Come talk with me,” he said abruptly and pulled her away.
“You know, I thought the whole point of this affair was to get me to talk with these men, who are quite interesting in fact. Do you know anything about Lord Terrence?”
“I don’t have time to discuss that,” Wolfe said. “Where is Flora?”
“Your Christmas consultant? Your bedtime companion?” Isla frowned. “I don’t know. Is it so important?”
Wolfe sucked in a deep breath of air, though the fact didn’t manage to calm his thundering heart. Perhaps she really had run away.
“You needn’t look so upset,” Isla said. “This is a fine evening. I was wrong to say otherwise. I’m actually enjoying this evening, and I do like the Christmas theme even though I did think it was quite silly before.”
“You did?” Wolfe blinked. “You mean I didn’t even need a Christmas theme?” He shook his head. “Anyway. That’s not the point. Flora is missing.”
“She’s probably just doing something behind the scenes,” Isla said.
“No, she’s been gone too long, and we were going to waltz together.”
Isla’s eyes widened. “You were going to waltz with the maid? I know you bedded her, but—”
“I love her,” Wolfe said. “I adore her. And after the ball, I was going to propose to her.”
“Oh.” Isla blinked.
“The waltz has already happened though.”
“Perhaps that’s for the best.” Isla averted her eyes, and her hands fluttered uncharacteristically. “After all, she’s not of our class. She’s not educated.”
“Her father was a court musician for years. He wasn’t exactly penniless, and she knows the ton’s desires as well as any society woman.”
“Yes, I do see that,” Isla said. “She arranges events with the aplomb one rather expects of a countess.”
“I’m glad you see that too,” Wolfe said. “Though I’m not marrying her for her prowess in etiquette.”
“Why don’t you speak with the grooms outside?” Isla suggested.
“She wouldn’t have left. She doesn’t have a form of transport.”
“Perhaps she was not alone.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The coach moved over the snow. Now would be a wonderful time for a snowstorm.
Actually, a snowstorm wouldn’t do. Flora wanted a blizzard.
The kind rumored to occur in Upper Canada and the more removed sections of the foreign colonies. The kind where they measured the snowfall in feet rather than inches. The kind where one could only go outside if one had a rope firmly attached to one’s waist, and even then, one couldn’t wander for long lest one find one’s toes frozen.
Unfortunately the weather had been pleasant all day.
“They’ll find you,” Flora said. “You can’t get away with this.”
Mr. Warne smiled. “I don’t know what kind of idealistic notions you have. But they have no basis in reality. You’re like your father. He thought he was too important too. But he wasn’t.”
She stiffened. “Why did you kill him?”
He grinned. “I knew you saw me. Good thing I went after you.”
“It was brutal.”
He shrugged. “I wouldn’t worry about that. Any death with a knife involves a bit of blood. No more brutal than other ways to die, I can assure you. I might use one of the more creative manners for you.” There was a strange tone in his voice she detested immediately.
“Your father was spying on me,” Mr. Warne continued. “He was using me, even though I was his employer. I never thought that I’d have to kill him and I’m sorry that you had to see it. I think we both know why you have to die.”
“They’ll find out.”
Mr. Warne laughed. “Once again, these are my friends.”
“They’ll find out I was missing. They’ll worry about me.”
He shook his head. “Are you certain? They might have wanted you to play as some entertainment, some novelty, a girl pianist not part of the ton, but I assure you that is the end of their interest. I might even tell them that you were upset and fled early. Perhaps you were embarrassed by the poor music.”
“It wasn’t poor,” she said. “It was wonderful.”
“Oh? I’m not going to compliment you, dearie.”
She knew.
She didn’t care what he thought, but his words still stung. Would people believe it if he did say that? Was this the end?
“What did you do with my father?”
“Oh, you don’t know? He fancied himself as caring about the war. He was passing information about us to the British. Can you imagine that? We were just trying to make a living. We weren’t harming people. Creating jobs isn’t that bad.”
“You were a smuggler,” Flora said softly, realizing it for the first time.
“Quite. Your father was going to report me.”
“But smuggling is bad. It prolonged the war,” Flora said.
“He wanted to destroy my life.”
“He wouldn’t have killed you.”
“You underestimate the importance of a good reputation,” Mr. Warne said.
WOLFE WOULD JUST LOOK for her outside. That was it. He rushed through the ballroom and told his surprised-looking butler to get his coat and boots. He then poked his head outdoors and waved until the grooms, who were managing the coaches, appeared.
“Have you seen Miss Flora Schmidt?”
They nodded.
“She left.”
“Alone?” His heart squeezed.
The grooms looked at each other, and shifted their legs. Devil it. Perhaps they’d heard rumors about Flora and himself.
“It’s very important you tell the truth,” Wolfe said. “No one will get in trouble. Flora won’t get in trouble. In fact, she may be in danger.”
Wolfe wished he didn’t believe the latter. She couldn’t be in danger, he told himself. Perhaps someone desired to harm her, but that person was in London, hundreds of miles away.
“She was with a man,” one of the grooms said finally.
“Who was it?”
They looked at each other.
Finally, one said, “Mr. Warne.”
Mr. Warne.
A man he’d invited all the way from London. A man who loved music. A man who had been asking questions about Flora at the public house.
Guilt gnawed him. He shouldn’t have surprised Flora. He’d put her in unspeakable danger. Was she already dead? Did he want to kill her in a location that would not involve staining his conveyance?
“Can you describe the coach?”
“Well, it’s a black coach, my lord. Shiny.”
“No family crest?”
They shook their heads.
“Devil it,” he said.
Well.
It would be fine. He would go after them. The horse wouldn’t like the snow, but perhaps he could catch up.
“How long ago did they leave?”
“Reckon it’s been ten minutes.”
Devil it.
No matter. He could catch up with them. He had to.
The butler came quickly, thank goodness, and he put on his coat and boots. The butler had also had the foresight to include a hat and gloves.
�
��Would you like me to inform anyone at the ball of your absence, my lord?”
“I—”
“It is possible that they might find your absence distressing.”
Right. He was the host after all.
What was he going to do? Was he going to find it by himself? What if he chose the wrong road at some point?
This was supposed to be the most wonderful ball in the world. How could he disrupt it? But Flora was more important.
Instead he rushed to the ball. Everyone needed to help. It would be too easy to lose her otherwise. He rushed into the room, spotting the footmen carrying delightful dishes. He grabbed a drink from the footman and a spoon and clanged them together.
“Excuse me! Excuse me! May I have your attention?” he said.
The room gradually stilled.
“It’s a very fine ball you’re having here, my lord,” one of the men from the public house said.
“Aye,” said another. “Speech! Speech!”
They thought he wanted to bask in the glory of the ball. But he had something more important to tell them.
“I am sorry to inform you that Miss Schmidt, the woman who played the piano for you and who composed the most magnificent music, has been abducted.”
A few men blinked.
“We ain’t in the war any longer,” one of the rougher men said. “No one should be capturing anyone.”
“That may be so,” Wolfe said. “And it is true that captures are rare occurrences, but I’m afraid Miss Schmidt has been taken by Mr. Warne.”
The crowd murmured. His sister and friends appeared shocked.
“I need your help,” Wolfe said. “They left fifteen minutes ago. I don’t know which direction they took, but if we split up, perhaps we can find them. We must find them.”
“That lovely girl has been taken?” one of the men from the public house said. “That’s horrible, my lord.”
“We’ll help you, my lord,” another man hollered.
“Obviously it’s not mandatory,” Wolfe said, “but I would be ever so grateful.”
And then the room filled with noise and everyone rushed forward.
Isla strode toward him. “She’s really been taken?”
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