The Earl's Christmas Consultant

by Bianca Blythe

  She was gone.

  The ballroom was filled with people, but none of them were her. No one had her precise facial shape, and no one had her precise form.

  Why would she leave now? Was it possible she didn’t want to dance with him, didn’t want to be with him?

  He despised the hint of doubt that drifted through him, twisting his organs in odd manners, so that he felt simultaneously nauseous and faint.

  Wolfe clenched his fists. He had no intention of spending the rest of his life knowing he’d met the perfect person for himself, one who shared his interests, and that he’d let her walk from his very own ballroom.

  “Isla,” he said, drawing his sister from a bevy of men.

  “Brother dear?”

  “Come talk with me,” he said abruptly and pulled her away.

  “You know, I thought the whole point of this affair was to get me to talk with these men, who are quite interesting in fact. Do you know anything about Lord Terrence?”

  “I don’t have time to discuss that,” Wolfe said. “Where is Flora?”

  “Your Christmas consultant? Your bedtime companion?” Isla frowned. “I don’t know. Is it so important?”

  Wolfe sucked in a deep breath of air, though the fact didn’t manage to calm his thundering heart. Perhaps she really had run away.

  “You needn’t look so upset,” Isla said. “This is a fine evening. I was wrong to say otherwise. I’m actually enjoying this evening, and I do like the Christmas theme even though I did think it was quite silly before.”

  “You did?” Wolfe blinked. “You mean I didn’t even need a Christmas theme?” He shook his head. “Anyway. That’s not the point. Flora is missing.”

  “She’s probably just doing something behind the scenes,” Isla said.

  “No, she’s been gone too long, and we were going to waltz together.”

  Isla’s eyes widened. “You were going to waltz with the maid? I know you bedded her, but—”

  “I love her,” Wolfe said. “I adore her. And after the ball, I was going to propose to her.”

  “Oh.” Isla blinked.

  “The waltz has already happened though.”

  “Perhaps that’s for the best.” Isla averted her eyes, and her hands fluttered uncharacteristically. “After all, she’s not of our class. She’s not educated.”

  “Her father was a court musician for years. He wasn’t exactly penniless, and she knows the ton’s desires as well as any society woman.”

  “Yes, I do see that,” Isla said. “She arranges events with the aplomb one rather expects of a countess.”

  “I’m glad you see that too,” Wolfe said. “Though I’m not marrying her for her prowess in etiquette.”

  “Why don’t you speak with the grooms outside?” Isla suggested.

  “She wouldn’t have left. She doesn’t have a form of transport.”

  “Perhaps she was not alone.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The coach moved over the snow. Now would be a wonderful time for a snowstorm.

  Actually, a snowstorm wouldn’t do. Flora wanted a blizzard.

  The kind rumored to occur in Upper Canada and the more removed sections of the foreign colonies. The kind where they measured the snowfall in feet rather than inches. The kind where one could only go outside if one had a rope firmly attached to one’s waist, and even then, one couldn’t wander for long lest one find one’s toes frozen.

  Unfortunately the weather had been pleasant all day.

  “They’ll find you,” Flora said. “You can’t get away with this.”

  Mr. Warne smiled. “I don’t know what kind of idealistic notions you have. But they have no basis in reality. You’re like your father. He thought he was too important too. But he wasn’t.”

  She stiffened. “Why did you kill him?”

  He grinned. “I knew you saw me. Good thing I went after you.”

  “It was brutal.”

  He shrugged. “I wouldn’t worry about that. Any death with a knife involves a bit of blood. No more brutal than other ways to die, I can assure you. I might use one of the more creative manners for you.” There was a strange tone in his voice she detested immediately.

  “Your father was spying on me,” Mr. Warne continued. “He was using me, even though I was his employer. I never thought that I’d have to kill him and I’m sorry that you had to see it. I think we both know why you have to die.”

  “They’ll find out.”

  Mr. Warne laughed. “Once again, these are my friends.”

  “They’ll find out I was missing. They’ll worry about me.”

  He shook his head. “Are you certain? They might have wanted you to play as some entertainment, some novelty, a girl pianist not part of the ton, but I assure you that is the end of their interest. I might even tell them that you were upset and fled early. Perhaps you were embarrassed by the poor music.”

  “It wasn’t poor,” she said. “It was wonderful.”

  “Oh? I’m not going to compliment you, dearie.”

  She knew.

  She didn’t care what he thought, but his words still stung. Would people believe it if he did say that? Was this the end?

  “What did you do with my father?”

  “Oh, you don’t know? He fancied himself as caring about the war. He was passing information about us to the British. Can you imagine that? We were just trying to make a living. We weren’t harming people. Creating jobs isn’t that bad.”

  “You were a smuggler,” Flora said softly, realizing it for the first time.

  “Quite. Your father was going to report me.”

  “But smuggling is bad. It prolonged the war,” Flora said.

  “He wanted to destroy my life.”

  “He wouldn’t have killed you.”

  “You underestimate the importance of a good reputation,” Mr. Warne said.

  WOLFE WOULD JUST LOOK for her outside. That was it. He rushed through the ballroom and told his surprised-looking butler to get his coat and boots. He then poked his head outdoors and waved until the grooms, who were managing the coaches, appeared.

  “Have you seen Miss Flora Schmidt?”

  They nodded.

  “She left.”

  “Alone?” His heart squeezed.

  The grooms looked at each other, and shifted their legs. Devil it. Perhaps they’d heard rumors about Flora and himself.

  “It’s very important you tell the truth,” Wolfe said. “No one will get in trouble. Flora won’t get in trouble. In fact, she may be in danger.”

  Wolfe wished he didn’t believe the latter. She couldn’t be in danger, he told himself. Perhaps someone desired to harm her, but that person was in London, hundreds of miles away.

  “She was with a man,” one of the grooms said finally.

  “Who was it?”

  They looked at each other.

  Finally, one said, “Mr. Warne.”

  Mr. Warne.

  A man he’d invited all the way from London. A man who loved music. A man who had been asking questions about Flora at the public house.

  Guilt gnawed him. He shouldn’t have surprised Flora. He’d put her in unspeakable danger. Was she already dead? Did he want to kill her in a location that would not involve staining his conveyance?

  “Can you describe the coach?”

  “Well, it’s a black coach, my lord. Shiny.”

  “No family crest?”

  They shook their heads.

  “Devil it,” he said.

  Well.

  It would be fine. He would go after them. The horse wouldn’t like the snow, but perhaps he could catch up.

  “How long ago did they leave?”

  “Reckon it’s been ten minutes.”

  Devil it.

  No matter. He could catch up with them. He had to.

  The butler came quickly, thank goodness, and he put on his coat and boots. The butler had also had the foresight to include a hat and gloves.

  “Wou
ld you like me to inform anyone at the ball of your absence, my lord?”

  “I—”

  “It is possible that they might find your absence distressing.”

  Right. He was the host after all.

  What was he going to do? Was he going to find it by himself? What if he chose the wrong road at some point?

  This was supposed to be the most wonderful ball in the world. How could he disrupt it? But Flora was more important.

  Instead he rushed to the ball. Everyone needed to help. It would be too easy to lose her otherwise. He rushed into the room, spotting the footmen carrying delightful dishes. He grabbed a drink from the footman and a spoon and clanged them together.

  “Excuse me! Excuse me! May I have your attention?” he said.

  The room gradually stilled.

  “It’s a very fine ball you’re having here, my lord,” one of the men from the public house said.

  “Aye,” said another. “Speech! Speech!”

  They thought he wanted to bask in the glory of the ball. But he had something more important to tell them.

  “I am sorry to inform you that Miss Schmidt, the woman who played the piano for you and who composed the most magnificent music, has been captured.”

  A few men blinked.

  “We ain’t in the war any longer,” one of the rougher men said. “No one should be capturing anyone.”

  “That may be so,” Wolfe said. “And it is true that capturings are rare occurrences, but I’m afraid Miss Schmidt has been taken by Mr. Warne.”

  The crowd murmured. His sister and friends appeared shocked.

  “I need your help,” Wolfe said. “They left fifteen minutes ago. I don’t know which direction they took, but if we split up, perhaps we can find them. We must find them.”

  “That lovely girl has been taken?” one of the men from the public house said. “That’s horrible, my lord.”

  “We’ll help you, my lord,” another man hollered.

  “Obviously it’s not mandatory,” Wolfe said, “but I would be ever so grateful.”

  And then the room filled with noise and everyone rushed forward.

  Isla strode toward him. “She’s really been taken?”

  He nodded to her solemnly.

  “Perhaps it’s some sort of misunderstanding,” Lord Pierce said, who Wolfe noticed had been staying very close to Isla all evening.

  “No.” Wolfe shook his head. “It’s something else.”

  “Perhaps they desire to be alone,” Lord Pierce said gently, not quite meeting Wolfe’s eyes.

  “No,” Wolfe said flatly. “They have a past, and there’s a reason why he would want to harm her.”

  “In that case, let’s go.”

  FLORA’S HEART SEEMED to be permanently lodged in her throat.

  She was opposite Mr. Warne, the man who’d changed her life so completely.

  Was he going to decide now that they were far enough from the manor house that he could kill her? Did he want to do it in a quiet location away from his driver? Or was his driver someone who would be happy to assist? Perhaps he was one of those former smugglers from Sussex.

  Would keeping him talking be a good idea? Did he enjoy having a listener to whom he could tell his deeds without fear of reprisal, confident that he would soon murder her? Or would it hasten his desire?

  The driver slowed, and irritation spread on Mr. Warne’s face. He hammered on the roof. “What’s going on? I said hurry!”

  Voices sounded from outside.

  Flora doubted that the driver had developed a sudden proclivity to speak to himself.

  “Hurry up!” Mr. Warne shouted again. “Go! Go!”

  The door opened, and Wolfe stood before her. “Now, Mr. Warne, so eager to leave? I thought you said you enjoyed Scotland.”

  “Good evening, my lord,” Mr. Warne said hastily. “I—er—”

  “Don’t have a response?” Wolfe finished for him. “Perhaps you can think of one when you are driven to the magistrate.”

  “I don’t need to go to the magistrate,” Mr. Warne said. “What nonsense. What utter nonsense.”

  “I think you do,” Wolfe said sternly. “For killing this lady’s father and for attempting to kill her.”

  “You can’t prove it,” Mr. Warne said. “I just wanted to have a romantic evening with this servant.”

  “I would suggest,” Flora said, “that you also inform the magistrate that Mr. Warne was involved in a large smuggling operation. I think they might find that very interesting.”

  “Nonsense,” Mr. Warne sputtered, but his voice seemed to grow more nervous.

  “Did you hear that?” Wolfe turned and spoke to some people behind him. “This man also smuggled.”

  He extended his hand to Flora. “Come sweetheart.”

  WOLFE PULLED FLORA from the carriage and into his arms.

  He’d found her, with the help of the guests at his ball. They’d taken shortcuts to put up barricades on all these roads, and luckily they’d caught Mr. Warne.

  “I love you, Flora,” he said. He said the words again. “I love you,” testing them out.

  She stared at him, uncertain, as if she couldn’t quite believe what he’d said. He said it again, just in case something had happened to her hearing. “I love you,” he said a third time.

  Her eyes became dewy, and he realized tears had formed over her eyes.

  “I should have told you before,” he said. “This isn’t the first time I’ve thought it.”

  “You don’t mean it.”

  “I do. I think I’ve loved you ever since that first day when you came here.”

  “Not when you discovered me learning French grammar.”

  Wolfe blushed. “It may have been more romantic if I’d said that.”

  Flora laughed. “It was French grammar. It hardly gives one the feeling of romance.” She tilted her head. “How did you know where I was?”

  “I didn’t. I was searching for you. We all were.”

  “But this is your ball. I know how much it costs to put on, and I know how badly you want it to be a success. To have all the guests tramping around in the snow...”

  “They had a memorable ball,” he said. “But for me, it’s the most wonderful ball of my life.”

  “Is that so?”

  He nodded. “The first part wasn’t the best part,” he said. “But I have high hopes for the next part.”

  “Indeed?” her voice trembled.

  In the next moment he knelt down into the snow. It was cold, and it was wet, but he couldn’t care less. All that mattered was Flora. “Flora, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife? You’re already in my heart and I want you to be by my side forever and ever and ever.”

  “Wolfe,” she murmured.

  “Will you marry me, Flora?”

  “Yes,” she breathed, and he beamed.

  “Well then, I think we should return to the manor house.” He swept her into his arms and carried her to his carriage.

  “My dress is dirty.”

  “I’ll buy you a new dress.”

  “I’m getting your clothes dirty.”

  “Don’t worry.” He took her into his carriage, and they arrived back at the manor house. He carried her in his arms and headed for the ballroom.

  “You’re not taking me upstairs?”

  “You want to? I think that sounds quite good.” His voice sounded husky.

  “I hadn’t meant that,” she said, and butterflies danced in her chest now. “What did you mean?”

  “We still need to have a dance at the ball,” he said.

  “But...”

  “The musicians are still there, I believe. The guests will come.”

  They walked into the ballroom. The room was filled with people, and they cheered when they saw her.

  “You found her!”

  “I certainly did,” Wolfe said. “May I present the future Countess of McIntyre to you.”

  The room cheered, though he noted the con
fusion on Hamish and Callum’s faces. They always had been a bit blind, even if they were good at math.

  He put her on the floor.

  “We’re dancing for everyone now.”

  The musicians played a joyful dance because they were united and everyone danced together, hopping and turning. It was a country dance, requiring frequent changes of partners. Everyone was happy at her presence. No one dismissed her, and she realized she’d gained so much more than just a husband. She’d gained a community and she’d gained a home.

  Then the musicians played a Christmas song, and for a moment the dancers were unsure how to approach it. Then the earl, her betrothed, began to twirl her in his arms, just as if they were dancing a waltz, and other couples followed them. It was Christmas, and magic had happened.

  The ballroom was rather more untidy than it had been before. Some people were in muddy boots, and some had not changed from slippers to boots when they went outside. Their clothes were disheveled, and others had simply tossed their cloaks on the floor. It was messy and unlike anything a ball should be, and yet it was entirely perfect all the same.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Flora was safe and at his side. Wolfe squeezed her hand.

  Last night had been a smattering of conventions. Nothing had mattered except ensuring her safety and proclaiming his love to her.

  His heart swelled. It had seemed to have expanded these past weeks, as if he’d realized not only how wonderful Flora was, but also how wonderful everything else was.

  Right now it was wonderful to be in his room. It was wonderful to hear the chirps of the countryside, and not the bustle of curricles bounding down his street on the way to Hyde Park and the angry cries of other drivers.

  The Duke and Duchess of Vernon, Mr. and Mrs. Montgomery, had all elected to spend the night at McIntyre Manor after the ball, and they were occupying the various guest rooms. And yet, Wolfe vowed never to spend another night without Flora. The nights before the ball, after Isla had arrived, had been dreadful.

  Flora had slept soundly beside him throughout the night, clinging to him, but now she stirred.

  “Sweetheart.” He kissed her head, and then watched as her eyes opened. Her lips swerved into a slow smile that tugged his heart, and he made a decision to devote the next few minutes to kissing her.