Mad About The Baron (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 4)

by Bianca Blythe

  Miles glanced down at the letters. Sentimental endearments flashed at him. Endearments that Veronique deserved to hear.

  “What do you say now?” Her voice was defiant.

  “You place too much trust in this person. Just—just prepare yourself.”

  “So you don’t believe—” She glanced at the letters, and her voice was more forlorn.

  “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I do know that you deserve to be treated well.”

  Something flickered over her face, and he looked away. For some reason his voice was wobbling.

  “So this is it,” she said finally.

  They strolled to the town house.

  Rose bushes, not yet blossoming, lined the path. Everything was quiet, a testament to the excellent property.

  Their feet sounded impossibly loud over the stone gravel, and a servant poked his face in their direction.

  This was a beautiful townhouse, he admitted to himself. Even the small garden was pristine, and expensive-appearing statues were scattered about. Somehow he’d been expecting that there was no Lord Braunschweig, that there was only a person feigning to be him.

  “You know nothing of him,” he said. “Perhaps he’s aged. Perhaps he’s corpulent.”

  Veronique’s face stiffened as she glanced at the letters. “That won’t matter. And you should be more open-minded.”

  “Me?” He frowned, but perhaps, just perhaps she was right. Perhaps he was just imagining flaws for Lord Braunschweig. He would find out soon.

  Miles clutched hold of the lion knocker on the door. He rapped against the glossy ivory paint and wondered about the home’s owner.

  Perhaps it was some abandoned townhouse, and the gardener was just some eccentric gentleman with an unnatural love for plants.

  But in the next moment the door swung open, and a man peered down at him. “May I help you?”

  “We wanted to see Lord Braunschweig,” Veronique said. “Or rather—I wanted to see him. I am Veronique Daventry.”

  She paused, but the butler did not so much as flicker his eyes. “Lord Braunschweig is out.”

  “Oh.” Veronique’s shoulders slumped.

  Miles sighed. The man was probably cowering upstairs. Clearly he didn’t know how to face the woman he’d misled for years. Miles stepped into the corridor, ignoring the sudden flare of the butler’s eyes.

  “Now, look here, I am Lord Miles Worthing. We have traveled quite far to see Lord Braunschweig. I intend to see him.”

  The butler sighed. “How very dramatic of you.”

  He glanced at Lord Worthing, as if assessing his attire.

  Miles sighed. Perhaps he did look a bit scruffy from the days-long carriage ride. He hadn’t exactly put on his best when he’d climbed down the castle wall, and he hadn’t managed to entirely wash away the stains from his time in the pit.

  “As I said, Lord Braunschweig is not here.”

  “Oh.” Veronique’s voice sounded so sad. So pitiful.

  “He will not be here for some time, I imagine.”

  “We are prepared to wait for him.” Lord Worthing headed down the corridor. “Please show us to your drawing room at once. Where is it?”

  The butler cleared his throat. “Lord Braunschweig is in Scotland, I believe.”

  “Scotland!” Veronique’s eyes widened.

  “Yes,” the butler said. “It was a matter of some importance.” The man shuddered. “He’d never been to Scotland before. I don’t know why he would start so now. He said I would be surprised when he returned.”

  “Oh.” Veronique’s eyes sparkled, and her normally large vocabulary seemed reduced to a single wondrous moan.

  Lord Worthing sighed. He’d been so certain of his poor intentions, but Lord Braunschweig must have just been waylaid. Veronique had been right to hope that the man would arrive, and he had been bloody awful for attempting to dissuade her.

  “Do you by any chance know the path he took?” Lord Worthing asked.

  “I suppose I can ask the groom,” the butler said.

  “That would be wonderful.” Miles glanced at Veronique. He’d been horrible. “Don’t worry, we’re going to go after Lord Braunschweig.”

  *

  He had come for her after all.

  Veronique’s heart thrummed with happiness. Or at least, it should be thrumming with happiness. It would certainly thrum with happiness very soon.

  Somehow casting an “I told you so” glance at Lord Worthing did not prove as rewarding as she would have thought.

  Never mind. She was just tired at the thought of a long trip toward Scotland. That was it. It had nothing to do with a thought that perhaps her life’s happiness did not rest on Lord Braunschweig’s presence in her life after all.

  Lord Worthing’s face was still grim, and she watched him follow the butler.

  She sat down on a stone step underneath the portico. From here she could see the street. Gilded phaetons and carriages pulled by white horses sauntered down the street, driven by grooms in sumptuous striped uniforms. Trees lined the pavement, their leaves stirring ever so slightly in the breeze, the weather less dramatic than that of Barbados or even Scotland.

  Home.

  Not yet, but soon.

  Once she caught up with Bertrand, he would bring her back here. She would learn the names of all the servants. She stepped up and looked over at the massive town house.

  It was every bit as wonderful as she’d hoped.

  Her dreams were coming true.

  Somehow the thought did not make her smile.

  “Ah! There’s a hack,” Miles said. “Follow me.”

  “You don’t have to do all of this,” she said.

  Miles peered at her. “What do you mean?”

  “We’re heading back toward Scotland.”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  She smiled. “You could just find me a chaperone and send me up that way. You live in London. You must know someone.”

  He paused and frowned. “The thought hadn’t occurred to me.”

  Oh. That was nice.

  “Would you like me to do that?” Lord Worthing asked carefully.

  “I—” She hesitated. Thoughts of being passed around to some efficient chaperone, someone like Miss Hatchett, did not seem enticing.

  It was the correct thing to do though.

  And Lord Worthing—hadn’t she told herself that she would be relieved to be rid of him? Hadn’t she told him of her discomfort that he’d joined her journey?

  And yet…

  Not seeing him anymore seemed…odd.

  “I suppose you’re going in the direction of Scotland anyway.”

  He nodded. “Yes, I want to find Loretta Van Lochen.”

  She attempted not to cringe.

  “And I suppose it might take a while to find someone else… I doubt my reputation can become more damaged.”

  “Let’s go now,” he said and strode toward the hack. He waved to the driver, and Veronique had the strange sensation that everything would be fine.

  Chapter Seventeen

  They moved swiftly toward Scotland. This time they took all their meals together, and he did not insist she dine alone in her room.

  He’d warned her about Lord Braunschweig, but he’d been wrong. The man had intended to marry her after all.

  Veronique and he spoke of other things instead, musing over the political situations in the West Indies and the continent. The woman was intelligent, and it was pleasant to be with a woman who was so strong-minded and whose knowledge was not confined to selecting haberdashery.

  Finally they arrived in Yorkshire, and the coach stopped. The public house squatted on a hill. The stones seemed to buckle underneath the weight of the thatched roof, but light shone from the window, and Miles entered the public house to arrange accommodation and to a mail a message to Gerard. Likely they would arrive at the same time as the letter, but if they were separated from the mail coach, he wanted to assure Gerard that Veronique and he we
re well and were making their way as quickly as they could. Perhaps Gerard and the true baron were even conducting search parties through the Highlands for Veronique and him.

  Miles pushed away the guilt that swept through him and headed up the snowless path. He was in England now, and the thought made him smile. He wouldn’t find any overly patriotic Scotsmen traipsing around in tartan, and none of them would speak joyfully at the possibility of scaring Englishmen away with pitchforks and haggis.

  He marched to the tired looking publican behind the counter. A swarm of men were in the place, and the publican likely had exhausted himself hauling huge tankards of ale to the men.

  “Yer a right posh one.” An old man gave a toothy grin, oozing the self-satisfaction of a man who’d made it to a sufficiently advanced age that his hair had changed color, and who was bestowed respect from the sheer fact of his continued existence.

  Miles shrugged and smiled modestly.

  “Reckon ’e’s going to the house party on the hill,” another man said.

  “No parties for me.” He put the letter on the table. “I wanted to mail this.”

  One of the men peered at the address and then his eyes widened. “Yer mailing that to Scotland.”

  “Yes,” Miles affirmed.

  “That means he knows people who are Scottish,” a burly man said glumly.

  “Ah, dear,” a white-haired man said. “Reckon you better have a drink then.”

  “I really shouldn’t,” Miles said.

  “And ponder the misfortune of your acquaintances’ heritage without the benefit of drink?” The white-haired an shook his head. “And I thought people were brave during the Napoleonic Wars.”

  “It’s really not so tragic,” Miles said.

  “But you can still drink something.” The burly man patted the chair next to him. “Mr. Nicholas and I are used to dealing with people in your class.”

  “My class?”

  “Fancy folks with accents.” The burly man shrugged. “We work for a duchess.”

  “Oh.” Miles tilted his head. There was only one duchess in this area. “It wouldn’t be the Duchess of Alfriston?”

  He knew the Duchess of Alfriston. His brother Marcus was married to her younger sister.

  The man beamed. “She is indeed.” He shook his head. “It’s funny how all these fancy folks know each other, ain’t it.”

  Miles smiled as the men continued to ponder the smallness of their world.

  “She’s a right nice woman,” Mr. Nicholas mused. “We do archaeological work for her.” He jutted his thumb at the burly man beside him. “This man is good at digging.”

  Miles smiled. “I see.”

  “Yeah, everyone’s good at spotting my muscles,” the burly man said proudly.

  “I didn’t know this would be such a hub of activity,” Miles said thoughtfully.

  “Oh, yes. Why, we had a baron in ’ere recently.”

  “Who?” Miles asked.

  “Sir B something or other. Brown, perhaps? Bernard?”

  Oh.

  Miles swallowed hard. “It wouldn’t be Lord Braunschweig?” He ordered a tankard of ale.

  The man slapped his knee. “Yer right! I told you, you posh people all be knowing one another.”

  “I’ve never actually met the person.” Miles was suddenly very grateful when his drink arrived, and he took a long swig of ale, though the prickly sensation of bubbles against his throat didn’t quite manage to soothe him. “What was he like?”

  “Oh, solemn fellow,” Nicholas mused. “Right proper, he was. He weren’t drinking ale like you.”

  “I see.” Miles took another sip of his ale. It didn’t surprise him that Lord Braunschweig was the proper type.

  Had Lord Braunschweig had second thoughts on Veronique?

  “When did you see him?”

  “Ah, reckon it was last Tuesday. Three nights past.”

  Lord Worthing nodded. The man could be anywhere. Up in Scotland or well on his way to Cornwall.

  “But you can see ’im yerself if you like,” Mr. Nicholas said. “’E’s at Lady Mulbourne’s.”

  “Lady Mulborne?”

  “Just down the road from ’ere. She’s ’aving a house party. There’s a ball tonight.”

  “Oh?” Miles asked.

  Mr. Nicholas looked surprised. “I’m sorry, sir. I assumed that’s where you was going. Ain’t that often we see fancy folk like you ’ere.”

  Miles finished his drink. “That’s a pity. It’s quite pleasant here.” He smiled. The men were very nice. “I might stop by the house party though.”

  He arranged for accommodation and then brought Veronique inside.

  *

  Veronique stuffed some papers in her packet as he approached. Likely she was composing love letters to the baron.

  He sighed.

  “Was there a room?” she asked.

  He nodded, his glance solemn, and her smile wobbled.

  Miles sighed.

  He had to tell Veronique.

  “I found him,” he said.

  She blinked, but she didn’t ask who.

  His heart toppled downward, and he wondered despite himself just how much Veronique thought about Lord Braunschweig. The baron had been charming her for two years.

  “Where is he?” Veronique asked.

  “Not far from here. He’s at an—” Miles looked down. He couldn’t look her in her eyes. “He’s at a house party.”

  “Oh.” Veronique’s eyes widened momentarily, and then she flung her gaze downward. “I see.”

  “Perhaps he was on the way to see you and got…waylaid.” The excuse sounded weak to him, but Veronique nodded, more happily now.

  Miles hated that the man was so close. The only viable excuse should have been that he’d been stuck in a foreign country.

  If Miles had made the journey to see his brother, Lord Braunschweig certainly should have been able to make the journey to see his fiancée.

  “I’ll bring you to him,” Miles said.

  “Splendid,” Veronique said.

  Miles thought she might have said that a trifle weakly, but he decided the usual force of her words may have been hampered by the wind, and his own distracted mind.

  “We’ll go this evening. I learned they’re having a ball there.”

  Veronique’s face fell.

  “I’m not dressed for a ball,” Veronique said. “My attire is most suited for travel.”

  “On horseback? By yourself?” Miles smiled, and he tucked a stray lock that had fallen from Veronique’s hair behind her ear.

  He stepped away.

  He shouldn’t be so familiar with her.

  He shouldn’t remember the feel of her lips against his with such clarity, and he shouldn’t desire to pull her toward him.

  His embrace wouldn’t comfort her. The only person she craved was Lord Braunschweig.

  And Miles had the horrible feeling that Lord Braunschweig was wholly unworthy of her.

  He cleared his throat. “Let’s go.”

  “I’ve never even been to a ball,” she said. “I hoped our first meeting would be…nicer.”

  He nodded. She’d looked exquisite in her dress when he first met her.

  “You’ve never been to a ball?”

  She shook her head.

  “But they do have those in Boston.”

  “My family lived in Salem. But yes, they do have those in Boston.”

  He still looked at her strangely, and she sighed.

  “My stepmother didn’t want me to attend one. She thought my presence might distract from that of her daughters. They were wallflowers.”

  He nodded. “I see.”

  “I mean, it was right for her to be concerned. You can see why people might talk about me, and well, the colonies are not as comfortable with people of my kind as they are in England. Or at least, I hope they are in England.”

  “I’m sorry. But you should have been there. Your father is an important man. He shouldn�
��t have distinguished between you and your sisters. That doesn’t help people learn anything. If they are scared of people of your complexion.”

  “They wouldn’t call it scared,” she said

  “I think they’re scared. Of the strength, the power, that they associate with the slaves in the south and the Caribbean. Nothing is going to change if you don’t put yourself out there to help people to change.”

  She tilted her head. Lord, she’s so pretty.

  “You mean how you went to the continent to report on the war even though very few people were doing that, and all the enemies must have supposed you a spy?”

  He nodded. “Something like this. Though I would not wish discomfort on you. But a ball, with your family?” He shrugged. “I don’t know. If you had been prepared for the occasional gossipy comment and mean-spirited language? I think you should have gone. I’m sorry, I don’t need to agree with your father on everything.”

  She laughed, still staring at him.

  “And I will find one for you.”

  She looked at him strangely. “And just how are you supposed to do that? It takes ages for a seamstress to make something, and…” she smirked, “…you’ve forgotten your purse.”

  He scowled. “Nothing will stop me. Besides, I know people.”

  “Is that so?” she asked.

  He nodded. “I’ll arrange something for you.”

  *

  Ballgown selection might be a task relegated to others with more experience bargaining with haberdashers, perusing fashion prints, and maintaining some knowledge of color theory and trends, but if Veronique desired a gown, Miles would find one for her. No matter that gowns took weeks, even months, to make.

  Miles exited the room. Ever since Veronique had managed to find some paper, she’d been happily occupied. He tried not to think about the love notes she must be composing to Lord Braunschweig as he rode his horse.

  The leaves, pale green imitations of summer’s emerald finery, did not fully adorn the trees yet, and Lady Mulborne’s estate was easily visible. Men in tweed jackets escorted women toting ruffled parasols through the gardens. Some entered the medieval maze and others seemed content to marvel at the rose bushes, not yet in bloom, perhaps seizing the chance to display a mastery of botany and fearlessness at the prospect of pronouncing lengthy Latin words.