The Earl's Christmas Consultant

by Bianca Blythe

  Jeweled and pastel colored fabric lay in interesting spools. Rich velvet, glossy satin and silk, more practical linen and cotton, and lace and floral patterns lay beside one another.

  “You must think this is quite dull,” Flora said.

  “I’ve never been in this sort of store before.”

  “Oh.” Her eyes sparkled. “Welcomed to a haberdashery. I suppose ribbons are never an important part of your costume.”

  He smiled.

  They moved from shop to shop, their arms filled with bags. Finally, they finished. Snowflakes tumbled down, and the wind quickened. The wind’s strength was formidable.

  “My knowledge of shopping is limited,” Wolfe said, “but I do know that public house. According to my driver, they serve an excellent mulled wine there.”

  “I’ve never had a mulled wine before,” Flora said.

  “Then follow me,” Wolfe said, leading them to the gray stone building.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The earl opened the door to the public house, and Flora stepped inside. The scent of ale and meat pies wafted through the room, and men and women chatted over narrow wooden tables piled high with food. Some of them had parcels tucked underneath. The people’s faces were ruddy, as if warmed by their drinks. The large fire that danced in the hearth undoubtedly had warming powers as well, and when she glanced at her cloak, the snowflakes that had fallen on it were already disappearing.

  Flora’s sole experience of public houses was from traveling. She associated them with an enclosed space filled with grumpy men, all equally irritated by the hassles of the journey, attempting to quell their boredom with drink, but only succeeding in creating boorish behavior. This place seemed imbued with a greater charm. Someone even played a violin. A piano sat unused in the corner of the room, its top adorned with greenery. The grey granite walls might appear sober in another tavern, but the plentitude of candles and their accompanying flickering candlelight rendered everything cheerful.

  The earl turned to her and gave her a reassuring smile, as if they were children again in the nearby forest and he was ascertaining she’d made it over an imposing fallen trunk. He then spoke to the barmaid, who led them to a narrow table.

  Flora’s cloak and the earl’s greatcoat were whisked away, and the earl helped her into a seat, as if it were completely normal for them to dine together.

  Perhaps it was not entirely appropriate for her to be alone with the earl.

  No. This was different. It would not be appropriate for an unmarried woman who was a member of the ton to be alone with him, but she was a servant, and the rules were different. They were there for convenience’s sake, and that was it.

  “We don’t have to be here,” she said.

  “Of course we do,” he said. “I want to apologize for my behavior last night. I was surprised. You played beautifully.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You are very talented,” he said, and warmth flew to Flora’s cheeks.

  “I enjoyed it,” she admitted. “In the end.”

  “I suppose you don’t often play before audiences,” the earl mused.

  “Indeed not.”

  He leaned back, and his attire tightened around his chest. Flora averted her eyes. He’d evidently dressed hastily, for he’d seemed to have selected a too small waistcoat. The broad width of his chest was assuredly evident. He hadn’t shaved this morning, and dark strands of hair prickled his face, imbuing him with an added masculinity that was entirely unnecessary. The man was already an Adonis.

  Butterflies invaded Flora’s chest. Ever since she’d met the earl again, they’d developed a decidedly annoying habit of flapping their invisible wings at the most inopportune times and robbing her of knowing what to say.

  Her fingers trembled, and she shoved them on her lap and attempted to smile.

  “This is nice,” she squeaked.

  The earl was a kind man, even if he did run a gaming hell, a venue not traditionally known for its adherence to virtue.

  After a short while, the barmaid came and placed drinks before them.

  Flora leaned forward and inhaled the ruby colored drink.

  “It’s mulled wine,” the earl said. “Perfect for Christmas.”

  “Oh.”

  The earl shrugged, but his lips were already spreading into a smile. “I know some things about the holiday.” He picked up his tankard, and they clinked.

  The barmaid brought food to the table.

  “It’s delicious,” Flora remarked, biting into a meat pie.

  “I’m glad.” The earl leaned forward conspiratorially. “It’s the first time I’m here.”

  “I suppose this is not near London.”

  “Indeed not.”

  “They’ve decorated it nicely for the holiday,” Flora remarked, observing the evergreen boughs and other greenery.

  It was better to scrutinize her surroundings than the man before her. One thing had been when they’d been shopping, and she could concentrate on her shopping tasks, but quite another was to sit across from him, as if they were a proper couple.

  “The wonderful thing about Christmas is that all of the garlands have meanings,” she said quickly, seizing on something to say, though not quite comfortable with her pedantic topic.

  “Is that so?” the earl’s eyes shone.

  “Yes,” Flora squeaked.

  He gazed around the room. He seemed to hesitate and then he pointed to some greenery hanging from a low beam. “I see this often. What is it?”

  Warmth surged over her cheeks. “That’s mistletoe.”

  Mistletoe was common at this time of year, but somehow in his presence, her voice wobbled. She almost looked away. “Servants have a tradition of kissing beneath it. It is supposed to be bad luck to refuse a kiss.”

  “Ah. How very romantic.”

  “Mm...hmm,” she said, and her heart squeezed. Discussing this with him differed from discussing it with anyone else. It was the sort of conversation that made her wonder what it would be like to kiss...him.

  The room seemed to grow more still, and it took a moment for her to realize that the violinist had simply stopped playing, and that not all the world had stopped.

  A man approached the table. Flora had seen him behind the bar and she imagined this was the publican. The man bowed. “It is a pleasure to have you here, my lord.”

  “My lord?” The man from the table beside them looked up. “Is that the earl?”

  “It is indeed,” the publican said. “Isn’t it?” his voice wobbled as if he weren’t entirely certain.

  “I’m Lord McIntyre,” the earl said.

  “Taking the missus to our pub,” the other man beamed. “There’s not anything like The Lamb’s Inn.”

  Flora’s cheeks heated again. The man thought them married. She didn’t want to look at Wolfe.

  “I hardly think he would take a countess ‘ere,” another man said.

  “Of course he would,” the first man declared. “Ain’t nothing nicer.”

  The earl cleared his throat. “Though this woman is beautiful and refined, she is not my wife.”

  “Yet,” another man called out, and the room laughed.

  “She’s working on creating a Christmas ball,” the earl said.

  “Ah, my very favorite holiday,” the publican said.

  Wolfe’s eyes glimmered, and he leaned toward Flora. “Why don’t you play some Christmas music on the piano?”

  “I couldn’t,” she said.

  “Why not? It will be fun. And I’ve heard you play.”

  Playing before an audience. That would be a novel experience. That was something she’d avoided.

  But this was not London. This would not get back to anyone. And it would be pleasant, just once, to perform.

  She rose, and the earl smiled.

  She didn’t want to contemplate how easy it was to go along with his suggestions, how nice it was to make him smile.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the earl said, “
may I present the wonderful Miss—”

  She gave him a strained look.

  “Miss Schmidt, bringing you a Christmas collection.”

  The people in the public house clapped politely.

  Flora’s heart soared, and she smiled at his excessive display. She sat down at the piano, removed her gloves and stared down at the keys, conscious of two dozen eyes staring at her. And then, with a flourish, she began to play.

  She chose a light song. The men started to sing the notes. Their deep voices lacked polish, and they knew the choruses far better than the rest of the verses, but it didn’t matter. It was amusing, and she tried to remember the last time she’d experienced such amusement.

  Her fingers pranced over the black and white keys, and her heart sang.

  After she finished the song, a shadow fell over the piano keys. She gazed up. The earl stood before her. “Mind if I join you?”

  “Naturally not,” she said.

  He sat beside her, and even though his leg did not touch hers, she was aware of it.

  She frowned. One wasn’t supposed to retain childhood fancies decades later.

  “Do you know The Twelve Days of Christmas?” The earl’s voice rumbled in her ear.

  She nodded.

  “I’ll play the accompanying part,” he said.

  They played together, and for the first time in a long time, she felt not nearly as alone.

  Finally, the driver appeared, and Flora knew it was time to leave. The earl must have spoken to him before he joined her. At some point the packages had been swept up, and she wondered how long they’d been playing. The earl did not seem to mind.

  Flora and the earl stood, and the crowd in the public house applauded.

  Flora curtsied, and the earl swept into a deep bow.

  “I was happy to have that moment,” she said.

  “A woman who plays as well as you do requires an audience,” the earl said.

  “Once that was my dream too,” she said, and the earl looked curiously at her.

  The Christmas melodies continued to course through her body as they left the public house. The snow had halted, and the earl helped her into the sleigh. He sat beside her and tucked them into a thick woolen blanket.

  Then the sleigh moved through the village. Stone houses were on either side of her, and in the distance was the ocean.

  “It’s beautiful here,” she murmured.

  “Yes.”

  “You should spend more time here.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I suppose you must be missing London and your...business.”

  “The gaming hell?” The earl grinned. “It will manage without me.”

  The sleigh moved from the village, and the earl took on a pensive expression. “I do wonder what things would have been like if my father had been more warm-hearted.”

  The earl was being kind. Flora remembered the late earl. He’d never even approached being warm-hearted.

  “Not all fathers are fatherly,” she said gently.

  “Some of that was my fault.”

  “Your fault?” she exclaimed.

  “It took me so long to learn how to read. That’s why learning to play the piano was so important to me.”

  “Oh.”

  The earl turned to her. “I think of your father often. Everything would be quite different if I never had his influence.”

  “Truly?”

  He nodded, his face grave. “He was the first person to believe in me.”

  She had a strange instinct to squeeze his hand. Doing so would be improper, more improper than anything else today, and instead she returned her gaze to the landscape. “He always spoke highly of you.”

  “I’m glad,” he said.

  She wouldn’t have been able to speak about her father even if somebody had inquired about him. Most people assumed him to be absent, perhaps a victim of the war, or perhaps simply a victim of alcohol or a deadly spout of influenza. It wasn’t uncommon for people to not have known their fathers at all.

  But she’d known her father. And he’d been wonderful.

  Her breath caught, as she remembered how suddenly it had all ended. She tried to emanate a veneer of calm. One thing was informing the earl her father was dead, and quite another was informing him how.

  It was suddenly important to speak about anything else. She glanced about her. She spotted the frozen lake in the distance.

  “You used to ice skate in that lake,” she said.

  “I did,” the earl said. “You remembered.”

  “I always wished I could go too,” she confessed.

  “You were too little,” he said.

  She narrowed her eyes. “That’s debatable.”

  “Ice skating is a proper sport,” he announced. “Far more difficult than walking. How could you ice skate if you’d only mastered walking a few years before?”

  “I’m sure I could have,” Flora said.

  They spoke more about ice skating, and she was relieved the conversation had turned to a far safer topic, even if the earl was now in the process of cataloguing the injuries he and his friends had received from skating, and how they’d never even scraped a knee from similar actions on the ground.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The sun seemed to have decided not to make an appearance today, and clouds covered the sky, but Wolfe did not care. Yesterday had been surprisingly pleasant, even if his valet had scolded him for the speed with which he’d dressed, and Wolfe was similarly enthusiastic about today.

  The breakfast, certainly, was good. Wolfe took another bite of his turtulong biscuit.

  A servant opened the door with a tray of more of Cook’s sugary delights. Music drifted into the room.

  “Is that Miss Schmidt?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes.” The maid smiled. “She does play beautifully.”

  “Indeed,” he agreed, and for a moment he sat in placid contentment. The snow had stopped falling, and it reclined in graceful slopes outside the windows, still visible despite the frost-covered panes.

  “She should have some biscuits too.” He rose and picked up the tray, absentmindedly noting the swift upward movement of the maid’s eyebrows.

  No matter.

  He strode from the room toward the parlor.

  Playing music with Flora yesterday had been impulsive, but it had been delightful. Even visiting shops had been amusing. Wolfe had gone shopping before, but only during a specifically arranged time when the store was closed to all other people. He was far more experienced at visiting taverns, though normally he would be whisked to a private room once the proprietors either recognized him or noted the always impeccable carriage. He’d never taken a lady to a tavern before: it would be inappropriate.

  But Flora was his employee, and at one time she’d been his friend. The rules were different. She wasn’t a married woman who required discretion and whose tastes were expensive, even though they’d never earned money.

  He rounded the corner, past the heavy wooden furniture of his ancestors, and the music became stronger.

  The sound was beautiful, melodic, and it seemed to wrap about Wolfe’s heart and squeeze it.

  He entered the parlor and moved gingerly toward a settee, careful not to make a noise, lest Flora stop. It seemed vital she not stop playing. She played most delightfully, even if he didn’t recognize the music. Perhaps it was some new continental composer. Ever since Handel had come to England a century ago, gifted musicians flocked to London. It was one of the things he liked most about living there.

  Flora’s face was round, and she had full cheeks he had a strange urge to caress. Her hair was dark, and her skin pale. He supposed maids did not have much opportunity to go outside. Her hair was tied into a neat bun. Nothing about her was particularly remarkable, and yet his heart tightened in her presence.

  He’d didn’t recognize the music she played. Perhaps it was the same composer she’d selected on her first day. A strange splurge of jealousy moved through him that he
tried to push away. Most likely she was simply playing some Bavarian composer with wizened skin and a steep stoop everyone knew.

  Yet Wolfe prided himself on his knowledge of music. He delighted in visiting concert halls. He often chose pianists to play in Hades’ Lair.

  “You play beautifully,” Wolfe said. “What is it?”

  She smiled, and her eyes sparkled. “A piece by an unknown composer.”

  He hesitated. He would have said more, but he didn’t want to be overly complimentary of another man’s compositions. Perhaps thoughts of this man made her eyes take on a dreamy appearance. “Your playing was the nicest part.” He beamed, conscious he had said the right thing.

  For some reason Flora did not beam in a similar manner. The woman should know a compliment. Her smile wobbled, and she glanced down at her fingers. Wolfe followed her gaze, and noted absentmindedly that her fingers were long, slender, and utterly elegant. He drew his gaze up.

  “I made some mistakes when I was playing,” Flora said.

  “It’s all about practice.”

  She nodded. “Sometimes I played piano when no one was home at the vicarage, but the Butterworths didn’t have a piano in London.”

  “The Duke of Vernon has a piano,” Wolfe mused. “Though if I know the duke, he probably never bothered to tune it.”

  Flora giggled. “He never liked to practice.”

  “You remember?”

  She nodded.

  “How the man thought reading centuries old scientific treaties was more interesting, is still beyond me,” Wolfe said. “I’m sure though he would have let you play. Especially if you had reminded him of your true identity. You are talented.”

  Flora looked down. “I never asked.”

  “Oh.” Wolfe blinked. Flora seemed so passionate about music. “Why didn’t you?”

  “It’s not important,” she said, but he had the impression it was important. She didn’t meet his eyes, and her gaze drifted to the tray of biscuits.

  “Would you like one?” He offered her the tray.

  “Those are supposed to be for Christmas.”