“You’re one year older than I am,” Isla said. “And I was always taller until you were fourteen.”
“You’ve always been exceptionally tall,” Wolfe grumbled. “And that doesn’t negate the fact you shouldn’t be here.”
“Are you saying your security is not strong?”
“Naturally not,” Wolfe said. “It is exceptional. Excellent. Quite ex—”
“Exquisite?” Isla’s eyes glimmered. “Jonas does wear a nice uniform.”
“I was going more for exemplary,” Wolfe grumbled.
“I would expect nothing else from you,” Isla said in a soothing tone. “Besides, I wanted to surprise you.”
“Not a worthy goal.”
“I take it I’ve achieved it,” Isla said. “Now sit down. No good having you tower over me, even if you are trying to make up for lost time.”
Wolfe frowned but he took a seat in the rather less luxurious chair opposite Isla. Despite his irritation at his sister’s careless regard for safety, he was happy to see her.
“What brings you here?”
“I’m going on a trip,” Isla said. “And I wanted to say goodbye.”
“You’re leaving London?”
“I’m leaving Britain.” Isla stretched her arms nonchalantly.
Devil it.
Wolfe glanced at the drawer that contained the remaining invitations. “And where exactly are you going?”
“The French Riviera,” Isla murmured, as if it were utterly natural for an unmarried woman to declare an intention to visit that cesspool of French immorality.
“I forbid it,” he growled.
Her eyes widened in feigned innocence. “But brother dear, the French Riviera will be good for my health.”
“Your health is already excellent.”
“Maintenance, my dear.”
“You shouldn’t be gallivanting on the continent. You need to marry and be taken care of by someone.”
If he’d any doubts in the intelligence of holding a Christmas ball, they vanished. His sister needed to find a new betrothed. The holiday she proposed was dangerous.
“My last engagement hardly went well. I have no desire to while away in some acquaintance’s country home.”
He sighed. Her broken engagement had left her adrift, but he would solve that. “When do you intend to leave?”
“Next week.”
Devil it.
“That’s very soon,” he remarked.
His sister shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“You are an unmarried woman.” He forced himself to sound casual. “Whom do you intend to travel with?
“Mrs. Fitzroy,” Isla said. “She’s married to Admiral Fitzroy, who rather emanates safety. Even though you were in the army, you must be aware of his reputation.”
“Naturally,” Wolfe admitted, and his shoulders relaxed somewhat. At least his sister had not lost all reason.
From what he knew of Mrs. Fitzroy, the admiral’s wife was not prone to such instances of logic. She was far younger than the admiral and was hardly known for being serious.
Still, Isla was correct. She would be safe under the admiral’s care. The man didn’t lack money and his protective instincts were strong and honed by the Royal Navy.
Isla rose and gave him a wide smile. “I will see you for Easter.”
He cleared his throat. “You mustn’t forget the Christmas ball.”
“What Christmas ball?” Isla toppled back into her seat.
He strode to his desk, opened a drawer and found her invitation. “Here you go.”
She undid the scarlet seal and scanned the contents. “You’re arranging a Christmas ball in Scotland?”
“Indeed.”
“I haven’t been to McIntyre Manor in a long time,” she said wistfully.
“Nor have I.”
She paused but then shook her head. “Who will attend? People won’t want to make the long journey.”
“Oh, they will for this,” he said confidently, “and we will have the very nicest ball.”
“Truly?”
“It’s a new tradition,” he said blithely. “So it’s important you be there for the grand beginning.”
She pursed her lips. “But I couldn’t possibly travel to the French Riviera and then go to Scotland so quickly. I’ll have to join Mrs. Fitzroy after Christmas.”
“That does seem reasonable,” he said lightly.
Isla frowned and reread the invitation. He could see she was curious and he suppressed the instinct to grin.
Isla always did care for festivities. A ball was an occasion for her to select a beautiful dress, look divine and swathe herself in the inevitable praise. And heavens knew, he wanted to give that to her. Wolfe knew running Hades’ Lair only tarnished his sister’s reputation. He should have insisted Callum marry her earlier, if only so the duke could have come to the realization then that a match with her was impossible.
Perhaps he even could have convinced Callum that whatever Wolfe’s father’s sins had been, they were none Wolfe desired to repeat himself. It hadn’t worked like that, and now Callum was blissfully, happily married to someone else, and Isla was unwed and speaking nonchalantly about crisscrossing the continent.
“We need some traditions,” he said. “You won’t want to be with another family for Christmas. It’s not the same thing.”
“But we never celebrated Christmas.”
That was true. In truth, he’d never had much interest in the holiday. His newfound love for it had more to do with its convenience in the calendar.
He didn’t want to subject his sister to a season. She would be far older than any of the debutantes. No. She needed to find a husband soon. Christmas was the time to do it, whether he cared about the holiday or not.
He’d already invited the most eligible bachelors of the ton. Anyone who couldn’t brave the cold would be automatically discarded, since it didn’t bode well for continued visits. There was no point procuring a brother-in-law if it meant he’d lose his sister. He’d invited Callum and his new wife, just so everyone would see Isla was not despondent, no matter what the gossip magazines proclaimed in salacious, fabricated details.
Isla sighed. “I suppose I can consider it.”
“You can accept,” he said. “You can join Mrs. Fitzroy and her husband in the new year. I know you just want to avoid the season.”
She gave a wobbly smile. “Very well. I’ll attend.”
He grinned. “I’ll escort you from here.”
His sister stood reluctantly. Wolfe offered her his arm, and his sister took it. They exited the office.
“I didn’t know you had such fondness for Christmas.” Isla moved her gaze over Hades’ Lair, and Wolfe’s cheeks warmed. Usually the only emotion Wolfe felt when he saw the place was pride. He may have been raised in an isolated region of Scotland, but the club was never quiet. His guests laughed and gossiped, and every night, Wolfe was richer than he’d been before.
For the first time, the constantly flickering candles perched in regularly polished gilt candlesticks seemed...garish. The laughter was at coarse jokes, and the money they lost might matter to them. Perhaps he should not feel pride at having created this gaming hell. He didn’t want this to be where he met his sister.
She tilted her head and scrutinized him. “I hope you don’t intend me to organize your Christmas ball.”
Devil it.
Wolfe had never hosted a single ball, much less one that contained centuries-old traditions. He knew nothing about Christmas.
“You don’t want to? I’d rather hoped you would.” Wolfe flashed his most charming smile, but though it worked on debutantes and wallflowers, it was rather less successful on his sister.
“I’ll agree to attend, but I have no desire to prolong my visit. I haven’t forgotten the cold in Scotland.”
“You can showcase your talents at organization.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I hope you don’t desire to use the ball as an opportunity for me to
find another fiancé.”
“Er—naturally not. I—er—simply adore the holiday.”
“Adore?” She laughed. “What do you even know about Christmas?”
“There’s pleasant music and mulled wine and—er—maybe garlands?” His voice rose uncharacteristically as he uttered the last word. He’d never actually attended a Christmas festivity before.
She smirked. “What sort of pleasant music? People will have high expectations. Some of the guests will care about the holiday.”
“A surprise, dear sister,” he said and assisted her into his coach. He waited until his driver had hooked up the horses and started on the journey to bring her to his London townhouse.
Wolfe reentered Hades’ Lair and called for his secretary.
Isla was correct: a Christmas ball was a large venture, and their parents had never expressed fondness for the holiday, dismissing it as unnecessarily German, just like the current royal family.
Isla had made her disinterest clear, and he wasn’t going to plan it himself. What did he know about Christmas?
No. He needed help. He needed a...Christmas consultant. He’d hire the very best expert in Christmas there was.
Harrison soon appeared. “My lord.”
“I would like you to hire a Christmas consultant for me.”
“A Christmas consultant, my lord?” The man’s eyes widened.
“Indeed.”
“Forgive me,” his secretary said, “but I am unfamiliar with that occupation. It is possible no one with those qualities exist.”
“Then we must hope that person exists.”
Harrison nodded and left the room.
Wolfe sorted through some sheet music and began to play a song on the piano. The melodic notes distracted him, and he found joy in gliding his fingers over the keys.
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 entered 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 termed 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.
The Earl's Christmas Consultant (Wedding Trouble Book 3) Page 2