Mad About The Baron (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 4)

by Bianca Blythe

  “But not my mother.” Veronique hesitated. “I don’t remember her. I wouldn’t be able to tell you the exact shade of her skin. I wouldn’t be able to compare it to tea with a generous serving of milk, or to tea where the milk was entirely absent.”

  He stiffened.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I’m so sorry you never knew her.”

  “It’s funny,” Veronique said. “I’ve also heard people say that I was lucky she died. If she hadn’t died, I would still be living in Barbados. My father would never have taken me away from her. He would never have seen the need. He even needed a lot of convincing to take me away with him. I know I’m not supposed to know that. I was lucky. Most people who come to Barbados don’t come back.”

  She took a sip of tea and then set the cup down. It seemed to clang against the saucer, the sound magnified by Miles’s distaste at having made her so unhappy.

  “I was lucky he didn’t succumb to any diseases so many sailors succumb to,” Veronique said. “I was lucky my grandmother, when she heard he was in the region, was determined to get an audience with him. I was lucky she was old at the time. I was lucky, some people, many people would say, that she was in bad health, so visibly that even my father, who didn’t want to take me with him, was convinced he needed to do so. I was lucky he was raised with some sense of morals. I was lucky he was a good parent. I was lucky that he’d actually loved my mother.

  “No, most people I met would say I was lucky that my mother died, that I never knew her. Otherwise I would be a slave now.” A strange expression flitted over her face. “Well, of course I would have been.”

  He had the strange sense, though, that she’d been about to confess something else entirely. Did she think it was something worse than being a servant?

  “The mail coach is here,” the barmaid announced.

  Miles rose reluctantly, and they headed outside into the brisk Scottish cold.

  “I may have divulged too much,” Veronique said as they neared the mail coach. “For some reason it’s easy to speak with you.”

  He smirked. “At least you agree I have some good qualities.”

  Veronique’s cheeks darkened, and Miles hoped she was thinking about their first meeting.

  I am.

  He offered her his arm, and they strode toward the carriage. He recognized some of the horses from the barn. They stomped their hooves, eager to move.

  Fluffy clouds moved with a swift rapidity over the woodland and mountain peaks, as if desiring to see as much of the landscape as possible. Birds squawked, fluttering their wings happily. Likely they were in shock at not being drenched as they flew.

  Perhaps something in the straightness and steepness of the slopes was appealing.

  “My grandmother remains the kindest person I ever met,” she said. “I know it must not have been easy for her to give me away when she knew she was dying. I wasn’t there for her final weeks.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Her smile saddened. “I will always regret not being there, just as I’ll always remain grateful for the opportunity she gave me. There are uncouth people in every race, every nationality. I merely wish everyone were not afraid of mine. My people mostly worked in the fields, as they were stronger than their paler counterparts who were only suited to be servants inside the house. I should be proud my ancestors were so capable and earned the West Indies so much money, even though they never saw any of it themselves.”

  He considered his parents. Perhaps society had sneered at their passion, one that had destroyed their mother’s previous marriage, but they had been good parents to him and devoted to each other, despite the condescension others of the ton gave him.

  He wanted to squeeze her hand. She was right.

  They stood before the mail coach. Passengers eager to enjoy the rare sunny view had already filled the top deck, and Miles opened the door to the interior.

  Veronique stepped inside, and he followed her over the rickety steps. He slid in gratefully to the seat beside Veronique and closed his eyes.

  “Why!” a shrill voice called out. “Isn’t that Lord Worthing?”

  “It’s him!” a girlish voice sounded. “Miss Haskett, you can meet him again.”

  Damnation.

  Miles opened his eyes slowly. Perhaps if he slowed the process sufficiently, he would be in London by the time he finished opening them.

  Unfortunately neither science nor time worked so helpfully.

  Instead all he saw was Miss Haskett.

  She did not look happy.

  Miles cleared his throat, glancing at Veronique, knowing how unusual they must think it, that he was boarding the coach with another lady.

  They knew he was not married.

  Maybe he could just ignore her this whole time. Maybe they wouldn’t realize they were traveling together.

  “Don’t dally,” a Scottish voice said. “You’re the last two to arrive. You made it just in time.”

  “You know these people?” Veronique asked.

  “I do,” Miles said miserably.

  “I am pleased to meet you.” Veronique turned to Miles. “I was unaware that you were so well acquainted with everyone.”

  Miles gave her a tight smile, but one of the Fitzroys giggled.

  “Lord Worthing is famous,” Miss Theodosia Fitzroy said.

  “For his proclivity toward grumpiness?”

  They laughed, and Miles shifted in the seat. One of the girls clapped her hands with such vigor that her bracelets, expensive trinkets from the orient, crashed together on her hand, jangling through the crammed carriage.

  “He is a hero,” Miss Amaryllis Fitzroy said. “He was so adventurous during the war. We all read about his exploits.”

  “How wonderful,” Veronique said.

  “Many people were heroes,” Miles said. “And most of them fought.”

  “But did they look as handsome?” Miss Theodosia said.

  “Girls!” Miss Haskett sterned her expression, but the women did not look suitably chastened. They were wealthy and their parents had obviously gotten accustomed to having other people look after them.

  He sighed. The thought had even compelled him to feel some sympathy toward Miss Haskett, and he shifted his leg, wincing at the sudden pain.

  “Did you injure your ankle?” Miss Haskett asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I suppose that is to be expected with your… Lifestyle.”

  He cringed. The last time he’d seen them he’d been running away.

  Miles fought to retain his scowling expression, but for some horrible reason, it seemed bloody difficult to do so in Veronique’s presence.

  “Are you on your way to London?” Miles asked, changing the subject.

  “For our debut,” Miss Theodosia Fitzroy said.

  “Splendid,” Miles said.

  “But first we are stopping in a house party in Yorkshire,” Miss Haskett said.

  “How much traveling you do,” Miles said.

  Miss Theodosia Fitzroy shrugged. “Miss Haskett felt it important that we see something of Scotland before we marry.”

  “You are betrothed?” Miles asked.

  Somehow the comment only made the girls giggle.

  “We will be soon,” Miss Amaryllis Fitzroy said. “How could we not?”

  Miles nodded. He suspected the sisters had a rather optimistic view of the marital inclinations of the ton’s young men.

  “Will this be your first time in the city?” Veronique asked.

  The sisters laughed again. “Papa is in parliament. We’ve been there many times.”

  “How wonderful.” Veronique’s face brightened. “Do tell me about the city.”

  Miles should be pleased. He should be ecstatic. She’d dropped speaking about him in favor of geographical questions on England’s largest city, but he knew her questions were only so she might imagine her new life with another man.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Perhaps Lord Worthing suffered from
claustrophobia. The man’s ability to retain a pained expression was impressive, given the women’s obvious pleasure in seeing him.

  The women’s perfectly curled locks managed to retain their stiff, immaculate shape despite the sway of the carriage.

  “And what is your name?” Miss Haskett asked her. “Lord Worthing should have presented you to us.”

  Veronique tensed. Admitting that she was an unmarried woman, traveling with a man who was not her relative, seemed all too final. Perhaps the servants at the castle were already gossiping, certainly Lord Braunschweig would discover when she showed up at his doorstep that she’d acted with great unconventionality, but that did not mean she wanted the information to go to a strange woman she’d never met.

  Lord Worthing sighed. Perhaps that was why he did not want them to speak together.

  “Are names really so important?” he said.

  The woman in a stark dark gray dress frowned. “Reputation is a person’s most important thing.”

  Lord Worthing’s gaze hardened. “How curious that you do not seem to honor it then.”

  The woman’s cheeks pinkened, and she withdrew a book.

  And then Veronique gasped.

  The others looked at her, but she was only conscious of the book cover.

  Her name, her pen name, her nom de plume, was emblazed in long, swirling curves.

  “Oh,” she exclaimed. “You’re reading a Loretta Van Lochen book.”

  “You read her too?”

  Lord Worthing coughed.

  Veronique hesitated. “I’ve read some books…”

  She was conscious of Lord Worthing’s gaze on her, and she shifted her legs.

  “Indeed. Well then. The colonies cannot be so dreadful,” Miss Theodosia Fitzroy said.

  Miss Haskett sniffed. “A single solace does not a great nation make.”

  Miss Fitzroy leaned toward Veronique. “People say she’s in this region.”

  “Oh.” Discomfort tightened Veronique’s stomach.

  They couldn’t…know?

  Veronique raked her hand through her hair, but halted, deciding that awkward jerky movements would not make her look less guilty. “Why would you think she’s here?”

  Lord Worthing had thought the same thing, but being in a carriage filled with people interested in seeing her was not reassuring.

  Her voice sounded definitely higher than normal, and her cheeks warmed.

  “Oh, there was an article about it in Matchmaking for Wallflowers,” Miss Fitzroy announced.

  Veronique blinked.

  “Are you unfamiliar with the illustrious pamphlet?” Condescension filled Miss Haskett’s voice.

  “Well—” Veronique tried to laugh, even though she felt as if she’d accidentally wandered into a wartime interrogation chamber. “I recently arrived from America…”

  “Here’s the article about Loretta Van Lochen.” Miss Fitzroy passed the magazine to Veronique.

  Veronique stared at the pages. Women in beautiful clothes, arched to reveal the exact cuts and patterns to interested fabric shoppers and tailors.

  She spotted her pen name and read the letter to herself.

  Matchmaking for Wallflowers

  Fall 1817

  Lamenting the Anonymity of a Certain Splendid Author

  Can there be any writer of greater popularity than Loretta Van Lochen? Governesses throughout England have remarked on finding her books slipped inside French grammar guides. We at Matchmaking for Wallflowers will be spending the colder months clutching hold of her books.

  The world-renowned author’s last three books were set in Scotland, and we hope that the mysterious author’s new fascination with the land’s rugged terrain and lax elopement laws might translate to an actual visit by the writer.

  Alas, the only information on her which her publisher has shared with us is that she uses a pseudonym.

  One day we shall find her, and all women will rejoice.

  Until we do, let us just remind you that Matchmaking for Wallflowers is offering a reward for anyone who produces the true identity of this most famous novelist.

  Veronique’s fingers shook when she closed the magazine and handed it back to Miss Fitzroy. “How curious.”

  Her popularity had earned her a substantial amount of money and provided her with a sense of safety she appreciated, but her readers must never discover her identity. Her publisher had made that clear.

  “When was the reward announced?” Veronique strove to retain some semblance of calm, and pride rushed through her when she managed to keep her voice from wobbling.

  The two Fitzroys frowned, but Miss Haskett didn’t hesitate. “Two years ago.”

  “I see.” Perhaps Veronique had spent too long writing books about the Highlands. Ever since she’d learned about the lax elopement laws there, she’d dreamed that the baron and she might marry there.

  That particular dream wouldn’t come true, but she would make sure that they would marry. And then she would start writing books set far, far away. Such as Africa. Or the Orient. There were likely a dearth of books set in Kathmandu.

  She resolved not to mention Loretta Van Lochen again.

  “Do tell me about Yorkshire. Is there much to see there?”

  “They’ll be attending a house party,” Miss Haskett said. “Sightseeing is an occupation for the lower classes.”

  “But there must be some things you would desire to see?”

  “It is a sign of the horrors of the former colonies that they might possibly believe there is anything of cultural importance in Yorkshire,” Miss Haskett said.

  “Well there is York Minster,” Miss Theodosia Fitzroy said. “I suppose some people might find that of interest.”

  Her sister nodded. “The Duchess of Alfriston even started an archaeological project because of the region’s supposed abundance of history. She finds the area quite interesting despite the inability of the population to speak in any understandable English.” Her cheeks pinkened. “But I suppose as an American might not find incomprehensible English any barrier.”

  “Exactly,” Miss Haskett said with a strident voice that she’d likely used to order her charges to study their Latin, or Veronique supposed, their stitching, which might be more likely for them.

  “You are fortunate indeed that you have been able to visit Britain for even a few weeks. It far surpasses any other country.”

  “I must applaud your confidence,” Veronique said. “Though perhaps it comes naturally to a woman whose only experience of travel is in an uncomfortable carriage.”

  The governess’s eyes narrowed, but she remained silent.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The coach swept through the Scottish Highlands, climbing steep inclines only to follow the winding lane down the other side. Snow dotted rocky peaks, and their reflections glittered in clear lochs. Swathes of fog fluttered over the water, imbuing the area with the sort of romanticism that had probably driven Loretta Van Lochen straight here.

  Miles scowled. He remained exhausted from his journey to the Highlands, and the week-long journey back to respectable society did not enthrall him.

  He peeked out the window, as if he might spot some quill clutching authoress whom he might jump out to interview, but it was hopeless.

  He wouldn’t find her, even though his editor had emphasized the importance of the story.

  Currently Miles remained more known for the supposed symmetry of his facial features than for his articles, their function fading from memory, despite the effort it had taken him to research and write them.

  Perhaps he was foolish to cling to his career. His reputation had been strong once, and that was a greater triumph than most might experience. The fact that the workers at gaming hells did not know him by name would be considered a victory for some of the ton.

  He sighed.

  It didn’t matter. He would ensure he delivered Veronique to her fiancé.

  The coach slowed, and the driver announced that they migh
t eat at the nearby coach inn while the horses were changed.

  Miss Haskett and her charges swept past him.

  “Shall we go to the pub?” he asked Veronique

  Veronique tilted her head. “You’re not fond of the others.”

  “Well—”

  “Why not?” Her question was so blunt, that he blinked.

  Most of the ton didn’t ask such direct questions. If they were curious about something they would ask their servants or friends, by which time whatever gossip they wanted to obtain seemed to grow to a larger significance, if only by involving more people in it.

  “They are perhaps overly interested in my name,” he said finally.

  He needn’t speak to her about Miss Haskett’s blatant pursuit of him.

  “The mere fact that both the Miss Fitzroys and I might be invited to the same events does not mean we have anything in common.” Miles flushed. Confessing emotions to practical strangers was not a practice he advocated. Still, even though Veronique and he had only met two days ago, they’d spent far too much discussing things. More perhaps, than he even spoke about with his brothers.

  “Let’s find a post chaise,” Veronique announced.

  He frowned. “Excuse me?”

  “Someone must desire to drive us. A mail coach cannot be our only option.”

  “But any other option would be most expensive,” he said carefully.

  She gave him another mysterious smile. “So be it.”

  He followed after her. “You need not hire another form of transport for my sake.”

  She shrugged. “If it will take us over a week to get to London, I would rather do so under the most pleasant possible circumstances.”

  “Why don’t we just purchase a post chaise,” he joked.

  Her eyes widened. “That’s a brilliant idea.”

  “Really?” Miles rather liked his ideas to be bestowed with labels asserting their brilliance, but he hadn’t considered that spending vast amount of coin would render such enthusiasm.

  “You can be the driver.”

  “We’ll need to hire new horses every fifteen miles,” Miles said.

  She hesitated. “Do your capabilities extend that far?”