The Earl's Christmas Consultant Page 3

  She shivered. Perhaps he chose his clothes with the intent to blend in, like some form of cosmopolitan masquerade. The day before the last day she saw him, she would have only remarked that Mr. Warne was an adequate pianist. But on the last day she’d seen Mr. Warne, he’d been running after her, and ten minutes before that, he’d been murdering her father, the best man in the world.

  Her heart abandoned its regular rhythm. Terror surged through her. She tried to move to the other side of the road. Unfortunately, this was Covent Garden at its busiest. People swarmed about her, hindering her ability to cross the street.

  She knew she shouldn’t look at the man, but had he noticed her? Was he noticing her now?

  Carefully she turned her head in his direction, and a moment later his eyes locked with hers.

  Perhaps he won’t remember me.

  Then a cloud drifted over his face, one that did not appear when most people looked at her. His gaze was one of fury, the exact sort of fury one might have if one had murdered someone years ago and now, had spotted the only witness.

  Nausea tinged her throat, and her legs felt faint, as if she’d transformed into a Silesian marionette. Her knees buckled.

  “Excuse me,” a woman said, jostling her, and Flora remembered to walk.

  She plodded her legs over the cobblestones. She tried to not remember the man stabbing her father, and she tried to not remember her father’s screams, and she tried not to remember staring at her father’s limp body, conscious her father’s murderer would now want to do the same to her.

  She’d spent so much time fleeing and she would need to do so again.

  Her heart drummed a crazed rhythm, and she wove through narrow streets until finally she ascertained no one followed her. Tears prickled her eyes.

  I have to leave London.

  She couldn’t wait until the assignment in Cornwall.

  Her heart thudded, tangling up with her ability to breathe. If only she’d taken better precautions. She’d felt so hopeful.

  Mrs. Drakemore had told her there were no new assignments before January. Could she take on another position and then quit it so soon? Her stomach squeezed. Mrs. Drakemore knew she desired the Cornwall position. She could hardly show up and announce a sudden passion for being a scullery maid.

  But perhaps...

  An idea occurred to her. If no current positions were available, perhaps she could create her own position. The agency also advertised positions. She only needed to have a position until January. What sort of position would be so short?

  The carolers.

  Perhaps... She smiled. If there was no assignment for her, she would have to create her own assignment. She knew the ton. They always were throwing balls. Perhaps she could call herself a Christmas consultant, for people who didn’t want to extend their housekeeper too much.

  She could advertise her services. Her father had been Bavarian. He’d taught her all about Christmas. They’d even lived there for a while.

  She hurried through the streets and back to the duke’s and duchess’s townhome. She forced herself to not sprint up the stairs to her room. When she arrived she lit a tallow candle, took out a piece of paper and began to write an advert.

  Do you desire someone to help you create splendid holiday festivities on your country estate? You need the services of Fräulein Schmidt, an expert in everything Christmas. Fräulein Schmidt comes from Bavaria and is highly knowledgeable about Christmas traditions. She has worked for the British aristocracy and plays the piano.

  Flora smiled. Tomorrow morning she would give this to Mrs. Drakemore’s agency along with the advertising fee.

  Please let this work.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Wolfe entered Hades’ Lair. He’d delivered his last invitation, and he hummed a Christmas tune. He strode through the gaming hell and entered his office.

  His secretary rose. “I believe I’ve found a Christmas consultant for you, my lord.”

  “Magnificent, Harrison.”

  His secretary was not prone to smiling, perhaps under the impression it was best to devote all his energy solely to assist Wolfe, but his lips twitched. “There is an advertisement in Mrs. Drakemore’s Agency for Good Servants that matches your specifications precisely. May I read the advert?”

  “Please do.”

  Harrison cleared his throat and read a short paragraph lauding a Miss Schmidt’s expertise in Christmas and a willingness to work anywhere on the British Isles.

  “Good work,” Wolfe said. “I never doubted you.”

  “Thank you.” Harrison’s eyebrows were perched slightly higher than normal, as if he were also shocked to have procured someone.

  “To think you were questioning the authenticity of the position.”

  “Er—yes,” Harrison said, evidently reluctant to mull over his mistake. “I felt it highly unlikely someone would want to travel to Scotland for such a short assignment... Evidently I miscalculated the attractions of Scottish snow and sleet.”

  “Don’t worry, Harrison,” Wolfe said lightly. “People say Christmas is magical.”

  “I hadn’t realized the power of Christmas magic.”

  “I’d thought it a myth as well, equal to stories of centaurs and cyclops.” Wolfe grinned. “But after this Christmas, everyone will be aware of its power. I will host the very finest Christmas party.”

  “Ah,” Harrison said.

  “Now be sure to answer the advertisement immediately.”

  “Indeed, my lord.” Harrison gave another nod, somehow managing to appear more regal than any of the aristocrats at court, even when he was showing deference. “I will contact this Fräulein Schmidt.”

  “And after that you must pack my cases. We’re going to Scotland now. Immediately.”

  Harrison’s eyes widened, and he dipped into a bow. Wolfe wondered if the servant’s sudden lowering of his torso had been to disguise his shock rather than simply as a token of respect.

  “I will arrange for a carriage,” Harrison said. “I gather you do desire that form of transport? Not the—er—mail coach?”

  Harrison’s voice was strained, and Wolfe almost smiled. Harrison was not fond of twisting roads in winter, and the cramped mail coach exacerbated his discomfort.

  “The carriage will suffice,” Wolfe said. “I’m not in so much of a rush to subject us to such unpleasantness. In fact, perhaps you should stay at Hades’ Lair in my absence.”

  Harrison’s shoulders relaxed. “Splendid, my lord.”

  “But let’s not tarry,” Wolfe continued. “This will be the most wonderful Christmas.”

  And my sister’s reputation will be restored.

  “Very good, my lord.”

  “I would appreciate it if you not mention to anyone that I am hiring someone to assist me,” Wolfe said.

  “Indeed, my lord?” Harrison’s eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch.

  “Not just yet. I wouldn’t want word to get back to my sister. I implied I would be planning everything myself.”

  “Might I venture to suggest that in that case perhaps you should plan it yourself?”

  “Absolutely not. What my sister does not know will not harm her. Just make sure to procure the services of this Fräulein Schmidt.”

  “I will do so at once,” Harrison said.

  “Good, good.” Wolfe settled back into his chair.

  Harrison dutifully left Wolfe, and Callum arrived shortly after.

  “I heard you called on me yesterday,” Callum said.

  “I did,” Wolfe replied, somewhat surprised. After his interaction with the maid, he wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d taken the invitation he’d left on the silver platter by the door and thrown it in one of the burning fires in the room.

  Their interaction had been unideal. He despised people who lied.

  For a moment he wondered whether he should inform Callum his wife’s lady’s maid was only feigning to be French, but decided against it. It was the sort of thing that could be p
etty, and from the enthusiastic manner the duchess spoke about her lady’s maid, he had the feeling they were close. His status with Callum was still frail after Callum had told him about Wolfe’s father’s poor treatment of Callum and his twin brother Hamish. Wolfe’s father had become Callum’s and Hamish’s guardian after their parents died, and the twins had lived with Wolfe and Isla for much of their childhood.

  “I did call on you,” Wolfe said. “It seemed you went to listen to some music?”

  Callum’s cheeks became a ruddier color. “So I did.”

  “Our former piano tutor would be most proud of you,” Wolfe said.

  Callum shrugged. “He wasn’t spending time with me at the piano, and you know that.”

  “No,” Wolfe said pleased.

  Callum and Hamish had consistently impressed their tutors, but Wolfe had always excelled at music. It had been his one skill, until he’d founded Hades’ Lair of course.

  “I received your invitation,” Callum said.

  “Splendid.”

  “I wasn’t aware you liked Christmas,” Callum said.

  “Then you thought wrong. Frankly, I adore Christmas.”

  “You tend to complain that members are visiting family then rather than Hades’ Lair.”

  “That was in the past,” Wolfe said matter-of-factly. “And this is the present. The new reformed me likes nothing better than—”

  “Roasting chestnuts? Singing yuletide songs? Sitting by the yule log?” Callum suggested.

  Wolfe winced. Perhaps it did sound all a bit overly sentimental. He’d forgotten about that. He raised his chin anyway. “Yes. I adore all of that. I trust you will join?”

  “Are you certain you desire my company? My treatment of your sister was—”

  “—atrocious,” Wolfe finished for him, and Callum’s cheeks took on an even darker shade.

  “That was in the past,” Wolfe said, more gently. “If she can forgive you, I can.”

  Callum rubbed the back of his neck. “I suppose I could take Charlotte to the Highlands. She still hasn’t visited...”

  “Splendid. Perhaps you can even host some men.”

  Callum’s eyebrows rose.

  “I’m trying to matchmake Isla,” Wolfe admitted. “Not that you should tell her. These are—”

  “—prospects,” Callum finished for him. “I see.”

  “They’re all quite well regarded,” Wolfe said.

  “Perhaps you should let her choose her own prospects,” Callum said.

  “No one is courting her,” Wolfe said.

  “Er—right.” Callum removed his gaze. “I suppose I may have damaged her reputation.”

  “Broken betrothals have a tendency to do that.”

  “Yes.” Callum kept his gaze averted, and he shifted his legs. “I will consult with Charlotte...”

  “Splendid.” Wolfe clapped his hands together.

  With the help of Miss Schmidt, everyone would love the ball and be impressed. He would show everyone his sister came from a good family, despite Hades’ Lair, and someone would propose to her.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The kitchen bustled with movement, and Flora glanced at the door, waiting for a sign the post had arrived. Someone needed to answer her advert.

  “You’re spending a good deal of time in the kitchen,” the housekeeper remarked.

  Flora squared her shoulders. “There is quite an abundance of mending, and the light is better in the kitchen.”

  “Ah.” The housekeeper dropped her gaze to Flora’s sewing. “I don’t see any holes in those clothes.”

  “A stitch in time saves nine,” Flora said.

  It would have been more convenient if the duchess had torn her attire. If there was a letter for her, Flora wanted to read it. It was probable the other servants might not assume mail directed to Miss Flora Schmidt was meant for her. She’d used the first German name she’d thought of. At least she wouldn’t be feigning expertise in a new language this time.

  Finally, the mail arrived, and Flora rushed to it with the enthusiasm of a person waiting for a letter from a loved one abroad.

  There was a letter. Her name was written in faultless curves, and Flora’s heartbeat quickened. The quality of the paper was evident, and Flora unfolded the paper quickly, lest someone spot the false surname.

  Someone wanted her to be a Christmas consultant in Scotland. She reread the letter twice, but she hadn’t mistaken the contents. She wanted to scream with delight.

  Scotland.

  It had worked.

  Someone had hired her.

  She would be a Christmas consultant in Scotland, and then she would travel to Cornwall to work for the widowed baroness. Mrs. Drakemore did not even know Flora was the Miss Schmidt who’d placed the ad.

  Thank goodness for Christmas.

  She’d loved the season before, but now it had saved her.

  The letter instructed her to correspond with a Mr. Harrison. The employer, it seemed, desired to be anonymous, but that was fine. People might appreciate discretion. People hired scullery and chamber maids, but they might not like to admit they needed to pay for help for Christmas. Perhaps some widower with children was flummoxed by the approaching holiday or perhaps a new bride simply wanted advice for her first ball.

  Her heart sang.

  Not only would Flora be able to be a Christmas consultant, but she would be one in the Highlands. No region on this island was farther from London. It made even Cornwall appear close.

  Christmas was the very nicest holiday.

  The thought of returning to the Highlands sent butterflies twirling and dancing through her body, as if contemplating the possibility of lifting her there by sheer exuberance.

  She clutched the letter in her hand. It denoted hope and impending happiness.

  I’ll have to resign.

  She swallowed hard. It had been so nice to work for the Duchess of Vernon. They were almost the same age, and she’d assisted the duchess and her sister before they’d married, when they’d still been dismissed as vicar’s daughters.

  She gathered the duchess’s garments.

  The housekeeper raised her eyebrows. “You finished mending all of them.”

  “Indeed,” Flora said smoothly, before sweeping past her and carrying the clothes to the duchess’s chambers. She moved briskly up the winding servant’s staircase and then pushed open the door to enter the far grander corridor that led to the duke’s and duchess’s chambers.

  She knocked on the duchess’s door and entered.

  “Flora,” the duchess said.

  “Your Grace.”

  The duchess scrunched her nose, and her pince-nez wobbled. “It’s odd to have you call me that.”

  “Things have changed,” Flora said.

  “I suppose.”

  Flora surveyed the room. It faced Grosvenor Square and golden light spilled through the windows. The duchess’s bed was always immaculately made, a testament to the frequency with which the duchess spent the night in the duke’s room. Everything in the room seemed to sparkle.

  Flora set down the basket of garments, conscious her fingers were wobbling.

  “Do you have a moment?” she asked.

  The duchess nodded, but her eyebrows rose slightly. Flora shivered, aware of the other woman’s intelligence.

  “I’m afraid I must resign,” Flora said rapidly, as if the speed in which she said it could make the duchess forget about the meaning of the words, could make Flora forget about the words’ meaning.

  “Truly?” the duchess asked.

  Flora nodded. “I do love it here, but I-I just can’t be here longer.”

  “Oh.” The duchess drew back.

  “You’d rather work for someone else than me?” the duchess asked.

  “Yes,” Flora said.

  The answer did not seem to be the right one. Her mistress appeared crestfallen.

  “I mean, of course I would rather work with you,” Flora said hastily. “But not—”
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  “In Guernsey,” the duchess finished.

  “Precisement.”

  The duchess tilted her head, and appeared thoughtful. “And you don’t much like London.”

  “No.” Flora shook her head, glad that at least this was not a lie.

  At one time she’d adored London. But that had changed once her father was murdered. But the duchess did not need to know that.

  When she’d taken on a position with the Butterworths, she’d done so because they’d lived in a hamlet in Norfolk. She’d felt safe working in the vicarage. Mr. Butterworth was a good man, and she’d been happy to attend to his wife and two daughters. She’d felt at times uncomfortable maintaining the charade of being a Frenchwoman, but she’d been concerned for her safety.

  Mr. Warne was a powerful man. He was much admired in society. Everyone had marveled at the rapidity with which Mr. Warne had made his fortune, even though he’d been only the third son of a viscount, and even though the wars on the continent had been raging, and even those not battling overseas struggled. She had no doubt people would rather continue to believe in Mr. Warne’s magnificence than her.

  She sighed. Her father had simply tutored Mr. Warne in piano, and she still wasn’t certain why that would cause Mr. Warne to murder him.

  “I’ve already found a new position,” Flora said, returning her attention to the duchess. “I would like to start immediately. If you can do without me.”

  “I will miss you very much,” the duchess said.

  “I’m sorry.” Flora felt her lips tremble. She’d expected this conversation to be difficult, but it was proving even more so. She would miss the duchess. “I’m so grateful for everything you did.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “I found a placement in Cornwall,” Flora said.

  “I see,” the duchess was silent for a moment. “You are always welcome to call on me. I consider you a friend. If something is troubling you, you can tell me.”

  Flora’s breath caught. This was the moment when she could confess. Yet how could she? Mr. Warne was too dangerous, and Flora would be safe soon.

  “If you decide you would like to return here after all,” the duchess continued, “I am certain I can find something.”