The Traitor (14 page)

His hand remained under her chin, as if he’d will Milly to repeat his ugly words. His gaze pleaded with her to agree with their import, to accept the truth of his self-characterization.

“And nobody was torturing French officers, were they?” Milly spat. “Englishmen are too noble, too decent, too moral to engage in such activities, even in times of war?” She rose, though she was too short to stand nose to nose with him. “But I forget! Here in England, we torture each other when needs must. I’m told there are all manner of ghoulish devices stored at the Tower for just such purposes. We’ve tortured Catholics and Jews, witches and imbeciles. Of all the Englishmen engaged in tormenting their fellow creatures, I suspect you were among the few whose justification qualified as typical wartime behavior.”

“Milly, please don’t shout.”

Milly. She loved that he called her Milly, and hated the sorrow in his eyes.

“You are not a diversion to me, my lord. That you think I would consider you thus suggests it’s you who cannot keep the role you played separate from the man you are now. I am the paid companion. You are my employer’s nephew and a titled lord. You are a decent man, and my regard for you is decent as well.”

She’d surprised him with her bold speech, and that felt good. It felt right to set him back on his pins, to punch through his self-absorption.

Which did not explain, not in any way, why she went up on her toes and kissed his cheek—gently, the way she might offer comfort to a friend on a sad occasion.

“You are a man like any other, and they are silly, bored women whose husbands have neglected them for years. You are not depraved because you considered giving them something of what they wanted so that you might have something of what they offered.”

One dark eyebrow quirked, and
monsieur
le
baron
abruptly joined the conversation. “What does a chaste companion know of such transactions?”

“I know nothing of such transactions, but I know worlds about being lonely and invisible. I’ll thank you not to insult me for it.”

That was her exit line, but he spoiled it, the wretch. He spoiled it by letting something show in his eyes—not humor, exactly, but tenderness, regret, and possibly respect tinged with self-mocking.

“Mademoiselle is tired and must not be kept from her prayers.
Bonne
nuit
.”

He’d caressed the words, making them courtly and old-fashioned,
ma demoiselle
. My lady.

And then he caressed her cheek, one large male hand cradling her jaw against his palm. His touch was gentle, warm, and enticing—also blessedly brief.

“Good night, my lord.”

A woman in a dressing gown and nightgown didn’t curtsy, not when the hour approached midnight and she’d accosted a fellow in his shirtsleeves by the light of a few candles.

St. Clair’s lips quirked—the closest thing to a smile Milly had seen from him. She took the warning and turned to go, just as the blasted, treacherous, infernal rascal blew her a kiss.

More Gallic foolery. His petty flirtation didn’t for one moment hide the fact that he was as lonely as Milly, and even more starved for tenderness.

She picked up one of the few lit candles and left him to his darkness and shadows.

***

Surveillance was more difficult than Henri wanted to admit, particularly when it involved sitting on a hard bench, hour after hour, pretending to swill ale and eat brown bread smeared with mustard while
not
appearing to stare out a flyspecked window.

The ale grew flat, the brown bread stale, and the mustard—acidic, stinging, not a hint of spice to cut the most abrasive vinegar—was such as no self-respecting French innkeeper would have served to his pigs.

And yet, surveillance gave a man time to think.

St. Clair had walked in the park with a petite sparrow of a woman last week, the same sparrow of a woman who apparently went about with Lady St. Clair. The baroness took the sparrow with her shopping, socializing, and on the Sunday church parade in the park, suggesting either a poor relation had been added to the household, or a lady’s companion.

Though St. Clair would not be walking out with a lady’s companion—would he?

Henri tore off a bite of execrable brown bread and appeared to study it, when in truth he was watching the progress of a rotund fellow who had shown up twice earlier in the week at about this time.

Too early for a proper morning call, suggesting the fellow was family or wanted to be certain to catch the family at home. Not a tradesman, though—St. Clair was scrupulous about paying bills when due, and the trades would skulk around back rather than lose custom by presuming on the front door.

As on both previous occasions, Monsieur Well-Fed Englishman rapped on the front door, exchanged a few words with whoever answered, and then a few more words.

Henri left some coins on the table and took his time pulling on his gloves—the English were to be honestly commended for their workmanship when it came to gentlemen’s gloves—the better to watch the little drama taking place on St. Clair’s front steps.

The argument went on, for it was an argument. The Fat Fellow gesticulated with his walking stick as if it were a drover’s staff, and from within the house, the door was drawn closed.

My
enemy’s enemy is my friend.

This little aphorism was perhaps Roman in origin, so honestly did it summarize one reality of warfare. Henri tapped his hat onto his head squarely, in the English fashion, mentally imbued his walk with an English strut, and quit the Jugged Hare as if late for an appointment.

By maintaining the same attitude, Henri neatly intersected the chubby man’s path as that worthy came waddling down St. Clair’s steps, muttering under his breath about idiot women and ungrateful cousins.

Henri fell in step beside this beleaguered soul because clearly, like all of God’s creatures from time to time, this Englishman was in need of a sympathetic ear.

***

“My lady, you should know that your companion was closeted with his lordship for a good twenty minutes last night when the rest of the house was abed.”

Dear Michael was clearly not happy to be peaching on his employer, while the baroness was ecstatic with his report.

“Which of them do you expect me to scold, sir? They are both of age, and need I remind you, at least one of them has a duty to the title he has yet to fulfill.”

Sebastian’s bodyguard-stalking-about-as-a-valet picked up the cat stropping itself around his boots. “Shall we conclude they were discussing that duty late at night, behind the closed door of the library?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

The cat squeezed its eyes shut and began to purr as Michael scratched its hairy head.

“Baroness, you seek to provide St. Clair companionship, secure the succession, and perhaps even see the young lady well married, but that is not what awaits them.”

Lady Freddy had managed the St. Clair holdings for more than ten years without benefit of a baron at her side, or many material resources, and she’d learned in those years whom she could trust and whom she had to watch.

Michael Brodie fell into both categories.

“What aren’t you telling me, young man? Sebastian and Milly will soon be head over ears for each other, and neither one is in a position to be picky. In my day, we were more practical about these things. I did not hold the barony together so Wales could fritter away our valuables on his infernal art collection.”

George would forgive her for that characterization—he’d always been a tolerant boy when sober, particularly where the ladies were concerned.

Michael wanted to pace. Lady Freddy could sense it in him, the way the switching of a cat’s tail presaged a great pounce.

“St. Clair’s enemies are not rational,” he said. “They do not tell themselves, ‘Oh, well, five challenges would be excessive and vindictive, and St. Clair has paid enough for the crime of loyalty to his mother’s people. Surely we should let him go in peace to raise up a passel of babies in the grand English tradition.’”

He shifted the cat to cradle it like an infant, and the shameless beast only purred more loudly.

“Michael, what do you know that you aren’t saying?”

“Nothing. I hear things, though, rumblings and rumors, and none of them suggest Sebastian’s troubles are over.”

Well, of course they weren’t. “Wellington stood up with me the other night.”

Michael left off scratching the cat’s chin. “His Grace is said to be an excellent dancer.”

In more ways than one, as Lady Freddy could attest. “He gave me a different version of the same warning you’re delivering.”

Michael paced to the window, which, being at the back of house, overlooked the mews. Soldiers never really lost the need for reconnaissance, good soldiers anyway.

“What did he say?”

“He cautioned me to mind my own business, essentially, because Sebastian’s business could become untidy at any moment.”

The sunlight streaming in the window showed lines of fatigue at the corners of Michael’s handsome mouth and around his eyes. If he didn’t soon give up the task of safeguarding his former commanding officer, he was at risk for growing prematurely old.

“What did His Grace mean, my lady? Sebastian’s business has been chronically untidy for years.”

“That’s the challenge in the game we play, isn’t it? What did he mean? Arthur and I are old friends, such as one can be friends with such a scamp, and in that context, I believe he was telling me to look after my nephew. Milly Danforth would look after Sebastian better than I ever could.”

“Milly Danforth got a dose of cold, hard truth last night. St. Clair explained to her exactly what his role was at the Château, used the words
torture
and
inquisitor
because calling himself a traitor didn’t drive the woman from the room.”

The cat squirmed, as if Michael might have been holding it too snugly, but rather than set the beast down, Michael shifted it against his shoulder, another posture suited to cuddling infants.

“Michael, those who listen at keyholes are seldom happier for it.”

“Those who don’t listen at keyholes often live only long enough to regret their virtue. You might want to advertise for a new companion.”

Lady Freddy rose from her escritoire and approached the man so intent on bringing old wars into her sitting room. He watched her with the wariness of one who did not entirely understand women.

“He’s such a handsome beast, this cat.” She ran her hand over thick, dark fur. “More placid than many of his kind. You should allow him to be a good influence, Michael. He permits himself regular doses of rest and affection, while you eschew both.”

“I do not want to see St. Clair’s brains spattered across some sheep meadow, but even more, I do not want to see him lose a woman he’s come to cherish. You—”

Lady Freddy left off petting the cat and waited, because in the way of men, Michael had finally come around to the point.

“You can take care of yourself,” he said, setting the cat on the floor. “Miss Danforth is an innocent. She’s a liability to Sebastian because of it, a liability to the household.”

“Love is not a liability, Michael, though I have to wonder if this great excess of protectiveness is directed toward Sebastian. He can take care of himself, too, can’t he?”

Michael’s gaze stayed on the cat as it sauntered out of the sitting room.

“Sebastian cannot protect himself from a woman who regards torture as part of the ordinary course of battle. She scolded him, not for having men beaten and starved and questioned for hours, but for beating himself with his memories.”

Sebastian had never starved anybody—except himself, very likely—and yet, this news was fiercely gratifying.

“Stay out of it, Michael. Sebastian will not thank you for interfering, and I shudder to think what Miss Danforth would do should she learn you were eavesdropping and carrying tales.”

“It’s my job to carry tales, and well you know it.”

She did know it, which had probably been another aspect of Arthur’s cryptic warning. “So you’ve done your duty, Michael. I will share this news with the professor, and we’ll double the figurative guard. And, Michael?”

He paused with his hand on the door latch.

“Miss Danforth is not your sister. She’s not anybody’s sister.”

He nodded once, an acknowledgment, not an agreement, and left without making a sound.

***

“I was told I’d find ye here cowerin’ among the lilies.”

The words were not particularly menacing, but the Scots burr with which they’d been delivered sent a cold, sinking weariness through Sebastian’s body.

Sebastian rose, glad he’d at least been alone in the Society’s reading room—but for the potted lilies making the place smell like a house in mourning.

“MacHugh.”

To say anything more—“You’re looking well,” “A pleasure to see you,” or even, “Good day to you”—would be to invite rage, and Sebastian had had enough rage to last a lifetime.

MacHugh glowered as only a big, mean Scot in a killing temper could glower. “I hear ye’ve been bragging.”

“Then you, or someone else, has heard mistakenly.”

Emotion flared in icy green eyes. Surprise maybe, more likely pleasure at meeting with resistance. “My hearing is excellent, Girard.”

The name under which Sebastian had traveled while flying the French flag, and a bitter taunt. Sebastian said nothing, but noted that MacHugh was in Highland attire and would likely have a dagger in his right boot.

Though the fellow could kill with his bare hands easily enough.

A movement at the door had MacHugh glancing to Sebastian’s left. “Do ye want company for this, Girard?”

The same sort of exaggerated consideration Sebastian might have shown his prisoners.
Sacre
bleu
, not again. “I am at your pleasure,
monsieur
.”

“So polite.” MacHugh fired off a toothy smile at the fellows standing in the door to the reading room—old Postlethwaite, a devotee of the rose, and a nervous young fellow named Chester, who had an avid interest in the sex life of the bean. “Ye lot will keep out of this.”