Mad About The Baron (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 4) Page 11

  He frowned. “Naturally.”

  Her eyes glimmered, and he had the curious sense that she’d only feigned doubt in his abilities to equal that of coach drivers.

  Veronique marched toward the groom, and her plain dark dress, likely chosen for its suitability for horse riding, swept against him. He turned his head. No use contemplating her elegant strides over the gravel.

  He smirked. Perhaps the other ladies of the ton were so shielded that a fallen twig in their path would be a sign for concern. Perhaps her childhood, wandering about on a tropical island as her grandmother toiled had made her more self-reliant. A puddle was not an occasion to reach for a gentleman’s arm, when she might evade it quickly herself.

  Miles contemplated Veronique as she approached the men. Even in this it seemed to have never occurred to her to let him handle these administrative matters. An independent spirit was not a quality he was accustomed to encountering in high society women, unless it was to spend more than their allotted allowance despite their husbands’ wishes.

  The groom’s eyebrows darted up.

  Miles smiled. Veronique must have declared her intention of buying transport.

  The groom fetched another man, and after some animated discussion, judging from the frequent movement of their hands, Veronique waved at him. “All settled.”

  “How quick.” Miles joined her, and he smiled.

  “The sooner to get to London,” Veronique said, her dark eyes sparkling

  Miles averted his gaze, lest he linger too long on the shards of gold that danced in her eyes.

  “This way.” A Scotsman led them to a canary colored post chaise. “Ain’t ever seen such people in a hurry. This will save you the trouble of changing in Glasgow.”

  Miles and Veronique murmured their thanks, and the groom hitched up two horses.

  Miles climbed onto the driver’s seat, and Veronique entered the post chaise. She spread her skirts over the two seats, and he couldn’t help but glimpse her triumphant smile.

  Perhaps her generosity hadn’t been entirely without benefit to her.

  Miles wasn’t certain how he’d given up his assignment to take on the role of driver, but he was certain he didn’t like it.

  Much.

  The scent of fresh air, mingling with that of pine trees, contrasted favorably to the liberal dousing of perfume, supposedly formed with the most unctuous portions of whales in order to best preserve the equally questionable floral scent.

  Unlike their Mayfair counterparts, the horses did not appear as if they’d been bred for delicate limbs, and they jaunted easily up the hill likely relieved to not be toiling in a rocky field, and to be cantering on some semblance of a path.

  The Highlands spread before him, and the gray sky was replaced with pink and orange beams. The steep hills seemed to darken in contrast, as if to allow the viewer to marvel at their shape.

  It had been actually damned good of Veronique to do this. Thank goodness she was not one of the prim and proper ladies of the ton who went about quoting etiquette rules with the vigor of an actor reciting Shakespeare.

  He’d make sure she was well and sorted in London. Take her to the church himself.

  Miles pulled into a tiny public house. Only a few carriages were scattered before the inn, and the light from the windows emitted a dim orange glow. “This should suffice.”

  “Last time you said that I was sleeping on hay,” Veronique said, but he couldn’t miss the amusement in her tone.

  Veronique slipped him some coin, and Miles spoke with the innkeeper. The few locals, perhaps unimpressed with the meal and ale offerings, seemed hardly the type to go storming rooms in search of a lone woman, and he arranged for two rooms.

  Veronique followed him up a narrow staircase, and he opened the door to her room.

  “I’ve asked the landlady to send up some food for you from the kitchen,” he said.

  “Thank you.” She smoothed a section of her hair. The action was nonsense. Her hair always looked divine, and she averted her gaze from him. “Where will you dine?”

  “Downstairs,” he said. “I want to ask the locals if they’ve heard any rumors about Loretta Van Lochen.”

  “Oh.” Her expression remained inscrutable. Clearly she remained unimpressed with his work. He sighed. She’d been inside the post chaise, and they hadn’t had much time to speak more.

  “I would invite you,” Miles said, “but it’s not every day people here see a beautiful girl.”

  She nodded slowly. “I see.”

  “Wish me luck,” he said.

  “Naturally,” Veronique said after a pause, and he headed toward the sound of the pub.

  *

  Veronique lowered her eyelashes, conscious her heart was beating with an unnecessary vigor.

  Men didn’t give her compliments.

  The men in Salem knew the rumors of her background, and on the few occasions when she’d been in public, she’d caught their gazes on her, as if assessing the width of her nose and shade of her skin to compare them to their families’ slaves.

  But Lord Worthing knew about the rumors, knew the veracity of the rumors, and yet he still called her beautiful.

  She smiled.

  He hadn’t once spoken demeaningly of people “like her.”

  He hadn’t even given her the vague compliments that some people did when attempting to be nice. He hadn’t praised her people’s singing or their superiority at hauling huge packets upon their backs.

  Veronique locked the door and settled onto the bed, willing her heart beat to normalize.

  Guilt that she hadn’t told Lord Worthing her identity swept over her. She despised that he was spending the evening searching for Loretta Van Lochen, not knowing that she was right here.

  She sighed. But it would be unfair to tell him the truth and then to tell him not to share the news with his publisher. She couldn’t let a man like him know who she was.

  If her identity was revealed, if everybody learned they were reading the stories of a mulatto from Barbados—well, perhaps her publisher was correct in supposing that the sales of her stories would dwindle.

  And she couldn’t let that happen.

  Writing her stories was the dearest thing in the world to her. She wouldn’t permit anyone to take that opportunity away. Even if the man was kinder than she’d expected.

  Lord Braunschweig, she reminded herself sternly.

  Any favorable thoughts on men should be relegated to him.

  Perhaps he hadn’t made it to their wedding—that didn’t mean he was necessarily bad husband material, did it? That simply meant he struggled with some time management issues. And time management was not everything—was it? If it was, every woman in high society would be eloping with their father’s steward.

  No, she was marrying Lord Braunschweig because he was good and wonderful.

  He might have forgotten the date of their wedding, or perhaps something else had delayed him, but when Veronique saw him, all would be wonderful and they would live happily ever after.

  She smiled, lulled into sleep by her peaceful thoughts.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The days passed quickly, and Veronique and he settled into a routine. During the day she rode in the back, while he sat in the front, guiding the horses. The steep inclines of the Highlands succumbed to smaller hills, and wagons, likely bound for London, frequented the road.

  No one seemed to know about any authoress, but Miles was certain he knew who the person was.

  Thankfully, he’d already met her.

  Once he went to London, he could do more research and find proof.

  Even if Loretta Van Lochen had recently developed an interest in Scotland, none of her previous books were set there. In fact most of her books were set in the glittering balls of London. What better person to write about it than someone on the fringes of society?

  Yes, he knew exactly the person.

  Loretta Van Lochen was someone who frequented London, who visited
other locations with her charges, and who even was in Scotland on an excursion.

  What person kept track of when rewards for people were issued in certain magazines?

  A person who wanted to evade discovery.

  It had been odd that Miss Haskett had had so much information on Loretta Van Lochen.

  He was quite sure that Miss Haskett was Loretta Van Lochen. After all, she was prone to being overly romantic. He’d always supposed Miss Haskett to be clever. If only she did something worthwhile with her intellect rather than scolding young girls and speaking derisively of others. He’d heard enough demeaning comments when people spoke of his parents, as if no one cared that they’d both passed on. Writing penny dreadfuls did not qualify as a worthwhile occupation.

  Bang.

  The coach tilted, and he forced himself to keep the porte-chaise on the road, steadying the horses as they whinnied. The coach plopped downward.

  Blast.

  “Lord Worthing?” Veronique cried.

  Miles jumped from his seat, ran over the muddy ground and opened the carriage door. His heart raced. “Are you injured?”

  “No. Just taken aback. What happened?”

  He sighed. “The horses were startled by a hunter. You mustn’t worry. Just need to get the horses back on the road.”

  Her face remained serious. “The roads have gotten worse.”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  “I think we should move to a mail coach,” she said. “You shouldn’t be doing all of that work.”

  “If you’re certain…”

  “You’ve been wonderful,” Veronique said, and his heartbeat quickened more at the words than it should have.

  After another night at an inn, where they slept in two rooms as they always did, they took the mail coach toward London.

  He almost missed the Fitzroy sisters and Miss Haskett. The heavyset male passengers who spoke of the weather in broad Yorkshire accents seemed more intimidating.

  Veronique’s shoulders tensed, and Miles sighed. She would always have other things to worry about among strangers.

  The men, though, spoke happily about their businesses, and the coach jostled forward and they moved swiftly toward the capital.

  *

  The fields grew smaller, interspersed with idyllic thatched cottages and windmills at an ever-increasing frequency. No signs of snow were here, and the carriage moved easily over the road, well-maintained due to its proximity to the capital.

  “Reckon we’ll be in London by midday,” one of the merchants said.

  Veronique stifled a yawn, and Miles smiled. “Go to sleep.”

  She shook her head.

  “My shoulder makes a good makeshift pillow,” he whispered.

  “That wouldn’t be proper…”

  He shrugged. “You need to get some rest before you see the baron.”

  He abhorred using that excuse. He despised thinking of her pining for a man who hadn’t bothered to appear at his own wedding.

  But his words were enough for her to nod, and enough for her to lean back, enough for her to tuck herself against his arm. Her long eyelashes fluttered down, and he Miles strove not to contemplate the pleasant warmth coming from the feel of her body pressed against his in the crowded carriage.

  The buildings thickened, and cobblestones replaced the dirt. The clamors of hackney drivers competing for space on the road and street vendors hawking their wares ousted the occasional bird aria. Horse riders cantered beside the mail coach, and the horses’ hooves caused dust to swirl.

  Veronique stirred, and Miles smiled at her.

  “Welcome to London.”

  “Oh.” Veronique scrambled up and peered out the window.

  Brown cloaked men and women padded the streets, their uncombed hair evident as they bargained with street vendors.

  “It lacks the sumptuousness of other sections of the city,” Miles said carefully.

  Veronique sat back. “I adore it. So much energy. Like the marketplaces in Barbados.”

  Miles smiled. Most women of the ton would be fearful of even peering out the window, as if the sight of a velvet portmanteau or feathered hat might compel a passerby to attack a coach in broad daylight before thousands of people.

  “Do you know where Lord Braunschweig resides?” Miles asked.

  Veronique nodded and undid her satchel. “The address is on all his letters.”

  Stacks of neatly tied letters lay in her satchel, amidst her small selection of clothes.

  Naturally.

  She’d probably memorized the address long ago.

  What must it be like to forge such a strong connection with her?

  She placed an envelope in his hand. “Do you know where to find this?”

  He glanced at the address.

  Mayfair.

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  She would soon be living amongst all the ton.

  He sighed. He had to speak with her. This was his last chance. For all he knew this man would usher Veronique into his townhome, and Miles would never see her again.

  He told himself that this is what he wanted to happen. He wanted her to be happy, and for whatever reason, happiness for Veronique seemed to come from Lord Braunschweig, this Austrian stranger.

  Miles considered not saying anything. He shook his head. He’d witnessed too many unhappy marriages over the years. He’d spent too many nights with too many unhappily married women, and he’d attended the clubs where even the supposedly happily married men regaled themselves with stories of this opera singer, or that widow.

  The coach stopped, and they stepped onto the cobblestones.

  “Let’s get a hack,” Miles said, leading Veronique to the row of black carriages. He offered her his hand, and he grimaced at the firm grasp of hers.

  Not being with Veronique seemed to be a ridiculous idea for his nerve endings, which urged him to sweep her into his arms again.

  He sighed.

  Should he tell her?

  He shook his head. Confusion in her life could not be a welcome addition.

  Still…

  He couldn’t permit her to amble into the man’s townhouse with the confidence of a heroine in a fairytale.

  For all he knew the man was no diplomat at all, but merely a servant, making good use of his employer’s address. A man with the patience to wait for two years to marry a woman he’d never even see before, might well lack a pleasurable physique and personality. Heavens, he might be aged, wary of making the journey to Scotland without a good doctor on hand. And even if he were indeed an Austrian baron, who was to say if he’d really written the letters, or if he’d just tasked it to a female sister whenever his own work at diplomacy grew too hectic.

  Veronique couldn’t wed a man she’d never met before.

  No one deserved that.

  And Veronique—Veronique deserved everything.

  Miles cleared his throat. “I would not be doing my duty if I did not warn you—”

  “Warn me?” Veronique turned her head at once, and her eyebrows raised. “What foreboding vocabulary you use.”

  He shrugged. “This is an occasion for that.”

  Her features stiffened, and he cursed himself. He despised that he was spending possibly their last moments together making her uncomfortable.

  “Marriage is not an institution to be entered lightly.”

  “I’m aware of that,” she said tersely. “I’ve been corresponding with Lord Braunschweig for two years.”

  “Yet he did not show up at the wedding. Perhaps he does not desire to be married to you. Surely you must have considered it. Does he know about—” He did not know how to broach the subject of her heritage, and her eyes darkened with what could only be anger.

  She raised her chin defiantly. “I told him. We have no secrets.”

  “When did you tell him?”

  “Well,” she paused. “In my last letter, when we discussed the elopement.” Her voice faltered. “Believe me, I know what you must t
hink. And I’ve thought about it too. But I was so certain…I told him so many other things.”

  “What other secrets do you have?”

  “I wouldn’t tell you.”

  She may as well have slapped him. But why should she tell him her secrets? He stepped toward her and grabbed hold of her wrist.

  She stopped in obvious surprise. She was standing still. He should let her go, but his hand just squeezed hers more tightly as if memorizing the exact width of her wrist, and the exact shape of its circumference.

  “Perhaps he’s simply interested because you’re the sister of a duke.”

  “Stepsister,” she said, but her voice wavered. She was listening to him now.

  “How do you know this man is truly a baron?”

  “I’m sure of it,” she said.

  “I hope you’re right.” He felt like he should be saying more to her.

  “Love,” he said, “is something in stories for little girls.”

  “What exactly are you trying to say?”

  “You might find Lord Braunschweig lacking—”

  “In what?” She asked.

  “Well…”

  “A leg, like the dear Duke of Alfriston?”

  “I was thinking more a brain for not managing to be at your wedding.”

  “Oh. We do not know why he wasn’t there.”

  “It was very likely he did not desire to be there.”

  She stiffened further. “You know absolutely nothing about my relationship with Lord Braunschweig.”

  “I know men.”

  “Just because you are devoid of morals does not mean Lord Braunschweig does. I’ve heard about you, Lord Worthing. Don’t think I haven’t. I’ve heard your brothers worry about you before you arrived. That’s what they discussed. About how you were a perpetual bachelor, a perpetual rogue.”

  “Did they really say that?” He stiffened.

  “Yes.”

  “I always thought they admired my lifestyle.”

  “No, it’s pathetic. You have everything in the world going for you, but you only complain.”

  “I—”

  She opened her satchel and grabbed a bundle of letters. She thrust yellowed pages into Miles’s hands. “Read these. This is from a man who loves me. Who believes in me.”