“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 Mr. Hamish Montgomery, the duke’s twin brother. sShe 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.
Mrs. Montgomery was the duchess’s older sister.
She did not want to explain to Mrs. 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 Miss Potter, the housekeeper.”
The woman had a friendly smile and warm eyes that twinkled.
“Th-thank you, Miss 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 in his library.”
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 parl
or. 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.
“Are you mocking me?” he asked.
She widened her eyes.
Damnation. He’d wanted to give Isla the perfect Christmas. He could send Harrison to find someone else, but by that time whomever was the replacement would have no time to actually do the job.
“Do you know what you’ve done?” Wolfe asked.
The woman was irritatingly silent.
He stepped closer to her. “You’ve ruined Christmas.”
She inhaled.
The woman looked upset. What on earth did she think would happen by coming here of all places?
But then he remembered Harrison had found her advertisement. Devil it. She was probably as horrified to see him as he was. The only problem was he knew who she was. She was a woman who’d until recently been solely concerned with her mistress’s hair and attire. He didn’t need someone with passable skills in sewing. He needed a Christmas consultant.
Footsteps sounded behind him. His housekeeper approached them, carrying a tray. “I’ve brought some tea up for you both.”
“Now is not the time,” Wolfe said, striving to sound polite.
“It’s always the right time for tea, my lord,” Miss Potter said with a smile. “I have some shortbread too.”
Shortbread.
He wrinkled his nose, but he couldn’t fight the pleasant aroma emitting from the silver tray his housekeeper clutched. The shortbread looked enticing.
“I suppose you can put it down,” he said brusquely. “No point you carrying it all the way down to the kitchen again.”
“No, my lord,” Miss Potter said, though she appeared somewhat befuddled.
He swallowed hard. Even his housekeeper had noticed how excited he’d been to have a Christmas consultant. He’d made a point of telling them to be nice to the new employee. As if the housekeeper and her staff weren’t already naturally nice.
Flora took the teapot. “How do you take your tea, my lord?”
“Black,” he said.
“With quite a bit of milk and sugar,” the housekeeper said. “The earl does have a sweet truth. He was always raiding the sugar here as a child.”
“I wasn’t the only one doing that,” Wolfe grumbled.
“Have a shortbread,” the housekeeper said. “They’ll be cold soon.”
“It’s not necessary.”
“My lord.” The housekeeper fixed a stern gaze on him, as if she still remembered him as a child and thought he was of immediate need of growing. Evidently no amount of muscle or inches had dissuaded her from that opinion.
Wolfe took one dutifully. “Er—thank you.”
The housekeeper beamed.
Flora poured herself some tea, though he noticed she did not take quite as much as she’d poured for him and she’d added no sugar.
He frowned and pushed the sugar toward her. There was no point in drinking tea without adding all the other delicious things one could add to it.
“If I’d thought you were the person whom Harrison represented, I never would have come here,” Flora said, once the housekeeper left.
“I already invited people,” Wolfe said. “I sent them invitations promising the most lavish Christmas ball in Britain. And now I’m to have some...maid arrange it?”
Flora stiffened. “I’m a lady’s maid to a duchess.”
“Does she know you’re here?”
“No,” Flora admitted. “But I gave my notice. I have a new position in January in Cornwall and wanted something before then.”
“I see.” The duke inhaled. “It doesn’t matter. We both know she duke’s bride was never supposed to become a duchess. Vernon didn’t marry her for her beauty and style.”
“The duke is very happy.”
Wolfe stiffened. He did not care to be reminded that Callum did not regret breaking his engagement with Isla.
“My lord,” Flora said, and her voice was softer. “I assure you I do have all the skills necessary for a Christmas consultant.”
“You mean to say you’re intimately familiar with Bavarian holiday traditions? Perhaps you even speak German?” Wolfe smirked. “You also said you spoke French. And your skills were abominable.”
Flora’s cheeks pinkened.
“Did you come here to ridicule me?” Wolfe asked.
“What? No. Of course not. I had no idea you would be here,” she said quickly. “Harrison said the person in question wanted his identity to be secret.”
Wolfe groaned. He had. Having someone organize a Christmas party was the sort of thing that could make other people in the ton laugh. It was the sort of thing people said wives could be helpful for. He didn’t need matchmaking mamas to thrust their daughters at him with even greater glee than they were doing now, and he certainly did not want anyone to know how bad a job he was doing at helping his sister.
“What do you even know about Christmas?” Wolfe asked.
“Many things.”
“You lied.”
“Not in the advertisement,” she said truthfully. “I can do the job,” she said.
“You’re not Bavarian.”
“I am,” she countered. “At least, my father was.”
He gave her a hard stare, but she didn’t waver.
“You might think I lied,” Flora said, raising her chin, “but I assure you I did not.”
“You mean you didn’t want to be caught,” Wolfe grumbled.
Wolfe thought about the other people in his house. He didn’t know Christmas, and he was certain the housekeeper and Harrison, brilliant as they both were, could not be asked to plan a festivity. He’d wanted to rival the very best balls of the ton.
“And why exactly should I keep you?” he asked.
“I don’t want you to keep me,” Flora said. “I want to leave. Immediately.”
“Then why don’t you?” He fixed narrowed eyes at her.
“I-I tried to, but the coach driver laughed at me. He—er—thought I was jesting. And I didn’t recognize the location until it was too late.”
“Oh.” The earl frowned. “Recognize?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Flora shrank back.
“This is the Highlands, lassie. You shouldn’t be recognizing anything here.”
“Of course not. I used the wrong word.”
Please let him believe that. Please. Please. Please.
Emotions fluttered through her body, causing her heart to tip and totter against her ribs.
He continued to assess her.
“Have you been here before?”
She wavered.
“Don’t lie to me again.”
“I—” She relaxed her shoulders.
He’s not Mr. Warne. Whatever he was—angry, handsome, he had not murdered her father. He’d even liked her father.
She inhaled deeply. “My father worked here for a while.”
“Indeed? And what nationality was he?”
“Bavarian.”
The earl blinked. His eyes remained on her, as if assessing whether she resembled her bearded father.
“Bavarian?” he asked softly. “Then you’re—”
She nodded. “I’m Greta. Greta Braun.”
His eyes widened.
“You didn’t forget me?” she asked.
He shook his head, and a flurry of emotions danced in his eyes.
“You can’t be,” he said finally, and his features hardened. “You have a habit of lying. You must have heard somehow I had a music tutor with a daughter. I won’t believe you.” His chest puffed out. “I refuse to believe you.”
“It’s true,” she said softly. “And I’m not lying. I-I didn’t want to tell you, remember? If I were trying to trick you, I wouldn’t be posing here as a Miss Schmidt.”
He was silent, perhaps contemplating the logic of her statement. “The girl I remember had dark hair like you and hazel eyes like you.”
She blinked. Most people assumed her eyes were brown.
“But the girl I remember couldn’t have been older than six—”
“I was seven when I left,” she said.
“The fact remains that is not enough to convince me.”
“Then what should I do?” She stared at him. “Tell you everything I remember about the household?”
He winced. “Follow me. I have a method to solve this quickly.”
A prickle of nervousness went through her, but she followed him. The walk was short, and he gestured to a grand piano. It was magnificent, and she inhaled.
“Play something,” he demanded.
She walked slowly to the glossy piano. “It’s so beautiful.”
“Yes,” he said proudly.
The Duke of Vernon had a piano in his townhome, but music was never a passion of his and the piano sat against the wall. This was a grand piano. A Broadwood.
The Earl's Christmas Consultant (Wedding Trouble Book 3) Page 4