The Traitor (18 page)

“If the young lady is not well in the head, then could your Frieda’s plan have merit?”

“It could not.” A long, slow burp followed this pronouncement, one of those masculine vulgarities that was nearly melodic and the pride and joy of boys under the age of fifteen when in one another’s company. “Milly makes up in memory what she lacks in letters. She can recite the entire New Testament from memory, like a monkey…like a monk.”

He enunciated the last word carefully, suggesting Frieda also begrudged her spouse strong spirits in any quantity.

“Even dumb animals can be taught tricks,” Henri observed mildly.

“Milly ain’t dumb,” Upton countered, his head swiveling as a buxom barmaid sashayed by. “The house ran ever so much better when we had the keeping of her. The help did their jobs, the place was clean, the meals decent, the children…”

He took another swallow of brandy that any fool would know had been watered.

“You miss your young cousin, and you are worried for her. Your devotion does you credit.”

Upton shifted his considerable bulk on his chair, his hand disappearing under the table in a manner Henri would not dwell on when he sat less than three feet away.

“I miss her, right you are. Vincent has stopped asking about her, though.”

Henri was drinking ale, the better to endure Upton’s presence with a clear head.

“You say the ungrateful girl has gone into service?” She wasn’t a girl. The sparrow was small and plain, but she wasn’t a girl.

“Service, of all the queer notions. Vincent was ready to offer for her—he did offer, in a manner of speaking—and she upped and went for a companion. The Traitor Baron’s old auntie employs her now, and I’ll never get my money.”

Henri’s grasp of English law was tenuous, but he failed to see how a mother’s funds left in trust to her daughter were any property of the daughter’s cousin. He tut-tutted the way
his
old auntie would have.

“This must be
very
trying, and after you sheltered the girl for years and saw to her every need.”

“For five years, anyway, though Grandfather left a sum for her needs. We spared her no expense, of course, and that meant little dowry was left from Grandpapa’s funds, but who’d want a chit that ain’t rigged up right in the brainbox?”

The girl had lived in a poorly ventilated garret on crusts of stale bread, wearing mended clothing. Henri would have bet the same old auntie’s last bottle of cognac on it.

“A man with low expectations would take on such a woman, of course, or a saint would. Have a bit more brandy. It’s rare to find an Englishman who’ll pass the time with a visiting Belgian.”

The same auntie would have slapped Henri stoutly for lying about his nationality. Henri would have slapped her back, and had on more than one occasion.

“Fine stuff, this,” Upton said, smacking his lips. “Helps a man forget his troubles.”

He passed gas, the sound muted by his own sitting bulk, then sighed with contentment, while Henri allowed a pang of sympathy for the sparrow who’d left her cousin’s tender care.

“You might consider watching the baron’s aunt’s comings and goings,” Henri suggested, “get a sense of what the old woman does with herself. If she’s exposing your cousin to untoward influences, then the young lady might thank you for rescuing her.”

“Milly has manners. She’s good about the please-and-thank-you business. Not like Frieda.”

Poor Frieda, who’d whelped three little acorns for her mighty, flatulent oak.

“You must finish this bottle for me,” Henri said, rising as a sulfurous stench came wafting to his nose amid the inn’s perfume of fish, beer, onions, and humanity. “I’ll tell the proprietor that you are to be served at my expense, and I’m sure if you keep an eye on the aunt, you will soon find compelling reasons to retrieve your cousin. Frieda cannot begrudge you this endeavor, and Vincent will thank you for it as well.”

He shrugged into his coat, though the afternoon was warm. “I will look forward to hearing the details of your reconnaissance efforts when we meet next week.”

Upton blinked up at him. “Next week?”

“Same time, same day, at this very table. I’ll see the sights until then, and you can tell me what I’ve missed in this great city of yours. Acorn, it has been a pleasure.”

Henri bowed smartly, smiled like a whore spotting a half-drunken mark, and put his hat on his head.

“That’s
Al
corn, not acorn.”

“I do apologize. English is a sophisticated language, and you must excuse my errors. Through conversation with tolerant gentlemen such as yourself, I hope to improve.”

Al
corn looked dazed by that spate of words. Henri left him with the dregs of the bottle, watching the barmaids, and looking like a fat, old hound so far gone with the rheumatism he would not venture far from the hearth even to piss.

Alcorn was a suffering animal in need of a charitable trip to the woods, though first, Henri would earn the tacit thanks of at least two governments, and dispose of the damned Traitor Baron.

Sebastian’s bride was not radiant, she was worried.

“You’ll sign your name as legibly as any woman on her wedding day, Millicent. Stop fretting.” He’d meant this as a reassurance, but his comment apparently fell short of its mark.

Their nuptials would transpire in the morning, God willing, and then seven days of marital bliss would commence—for Milly at least.

She paused mid-stab at her embroidery. “I’m not concerned about writing my name.”

Sebastian’s instincts begged to differ. She wasn’t worried about the wedding night; yesterday’s frolic in the drying shed had reassured him of that.

“You’re anxious over something. I can see it here.” He scooted to the edge of his reading chair and drew a finger between her brows. “You must learn to share your burdens with me, baroness.”

She jerked the needle through the fabric. “I’m not your baroness yet.”

Something struck him about the way she hunched closer to her hoop, the way her cat, cuddled beside her on the sofa, did not purr.

“You are worried your odious cousin will attempt to interfere with the ceremony.”

She put the hoop down and scooped the feline onto her lap. Immediately, the beast began rumbling.

“Alcorn can be very determined. Frieda is the more devious of the two, though. She’s had to be.”

“Sympathy with the enemy is never convenient, Milly, and seldom well-advised, though often unavoidable. I’ve not put a notice in the newspapers, you know.”

Her hand paused mid-stroke over the cat’s fur. “You haven’t?”

“Most people don’t. I have enemies, and they are not above hurting me through you. The more time I have before word of our marriage is generally known, the less likelihood that threat will reach you.”

“But Lady Flynn and Lady—”

“Are keeping their powder dry in anticipation of the announcement. When one has played whist as long as Aunt has, one develops a store of ammunition for use in emergencies.”

Milly resumed caressing her beast while Sebastian gave her time to put together some of the puzzle pieces: Lady Flynn had been indiscreet at some point in the past. Milly did not need to know that the indiscretion had involved a Russian diplomat who’d shared the occasional bottle with the professor.

“Both of them? Lady Flynn and Lady Covington?”

“Aunt holds a few of Lady Covington’s markers, so to speak.” Whist being occasionally played for imprudent stakes.

“They seem like such nice women.”

She sounded so forlorn, Sebastian shifted to take a place beside her on the sofa, his arm around her shoulders. The moment was sweet, domestic, and laced with sorrow, because a lifetime of such evenings with his wife would be denied him.

He kissed her temple.

“They are nice women. They will deal with each other civilly, and I daresay, the ladies will call upon you to admire your ring and congratulate you on your married state.”

Outside, darkness settled over the city like a soft summer quilt, and a heavy wagon jingled past, putting Sebastian in mind of MacHugh’s gift of time. A week would not be enough, but then, neither would a lifetime.

“I feel guilty for not notifying my only relations that I’m marrying, Sebastian. They are my family.”

“Sometimes, my dear, the kindest thing you can do is leave your family in ignorance.” Soon enough she’d be widowed, if not thanks to MacHugh, then thanks to whoever next stepped from the shadows, intent on ending Sebastian’s life. Time enough to deal with her family then.

She let her head rest on his shoulder. “You were with the solicitors for quite a while.”

“I am to be married tomorrow, which creates a substantial change in my situation. When we come back from St. Clair Manor, you will take your turn with the solicitors too. You will be not only my wife, but also my baroness.”

And she would need to sign many documents in that capacity. Would she think of Sebastian each time she made her signature?

“I would rather be your friend, sir.”

Between a pat to the cat’s head and a delicate yawn, she had put her finger on the greatest sorrow of their situation, one Sebastian could spare her for the present: She did, indeed, have the potential to be his friend. He would not be marrying her otherwise. In the course of walks through lavender-scented fields, quiet evenings before the fire, and quieter nights of loving, Sebastian might well have found the courage to share with her every shadow on his soul, every regret and hope.

“You’re falling asleep, madam. This is no compliment to your fiancé’s company.”

“It’s a compliment to how comfortable I am in his arms. Is there something about this wedding you’re not telling me, Sebastian?”

“Yes.” This time he followed up his kiss to her temple with a nuzzle to her hair. “You’ll be a wealthy woman, eventually. You must plan for your loving family to try to exploit that, and maneuver accordingly.”

She was silent, perhaps falling asleep. The weight of her against his side was dear and comforting. “I thought the barony was impoverished.”

“The barony struggled badly, but Aunt held matters together. Lately, things have gone much better, in part because I have connections on the Continent for anything I wish to dispose of there. Then too, I had some personal wealth, which my uncle and then his solicitors managed for me. Because I was stuck in France, I was unaware of those funds until after the hostilities were over.”

Which was fortunate, or he would have frittered them away too.

“My life was so simple before,” she said, bestirring herself to kiss his cheek. “I intend that it remain simple after we’re married.”

He loved that she cuddled and kissed him so easily, so generously.

“How will you do that? If nothing else, you’ll have the infrequent occasion of state, the household duties at St. Clair Manor, and quite possibly a baby to contend with.”

“None of which matters much, except for the baby.” She set the cat aside. From his expression, Peter did not appreciate being deprived of her lap, and Sebastian could only sympathize. “What matters, the only task to which I must attend without fail, is to love my husband.”

She snuggled against Sebastian’s chest, which was well done of her. His arms came around her, while grief, joy, a distant sense of Gallic irony, and a sharp twinge of anger collided inside him.

She’d sidled up to the sentiment quietly, avoiding notice but paying attention all the while, and then she’d ambushed him, only a small kiss of warning before she fired her broadside.

Sebastian cuddled her closer. “He’s a lucky fellow, this husband of yours. Damned lucky.” And he wasn’t a coward, either, though he hardly knew in what direction lay the kind, honorable thing to say. “He will make loving his wife his highest priority too.”

He kissed her cheek, stroked a hand over her hair, and wondered how much love two people could cram into a week, or a few weeks, before one of those people was left widowed, her love turning to sorrow, then hatred.

***

The clergyman recruited to perform the wedding apparently understood that excesses of sentiment were not called for, though he was both quick and credibly friendly. Milly spoke her vows sincerely, and when it came time for her to sign the documents, she dipped the quill in the ink pot, blotted the tip, paused…

And panicked.

The professor cleared his throat. Mr. Brodie, looking fierce and handsome in his kilt, took to studying the opposite wall of the library where the hound painting hung in its usual location.

Sebastian, however, appeared amused. “We can pursue an annulment if you’re having second thoughts, Baroness.”

Mr. Brodie glowered rather gratifyingly at his employer. “There’ll be no damned—”

“Mr. Brodie,” Milly interrupted. “His lordship is teasing.” And he was challenging, and in some male way, also being helpful. The signature would not be binding unless witnessed, so Milly dipped the pen again, wiped the tip on the blotter and…

The letter
M
was the same shape as a lady’s décolletage when her hands were at her side. And
i
was a simple dance maneuver…

Sebastian began humming a waltz, and Milly’s pen picked up momentum. She’d practiced this and practiced it, until her signature became a rote recitation for her hand, and one by one, thirty-three letters flowed onto the page.

“I used to wish my name were Ann,” she murmured as she set the pen back in its stand.

Sebastian sprinkled sand over the ink. “And now?”

“I wish our last name did not use the abbreviation.”

Our
last name. His smile was so proud and naughty, Milly wanted to kiss it—to kiss him, because he understood that she wished for more hours closeted with him in libraries and private sitting rooms. He shuffled papers and presented additional documents to tend to, and on this, her wedding day, that was a sort of kissing too. Michael and the professor appended witness signatures where needed, and Aunt—Milly was to call her Aunt now—herded everybody to the formal dining room for a wedding breakfast.

“You’re not eating much, Baroness.” Sebastian held up a bite of cake on a fork right before Milly’s mouth.

“The sooner this meal is over, the sooner we depart for St. Clair Manor.” She took the bite, savoring the sweetness and…lavender in the icing, exactly as she’d requested.

“You will need your strength, Millicent. The day is not over.”

He sounded stern, as if he worried about her fainting dead away over a fifteen-minute formality in the library. Milly held a bite of cake up to his mouth.

“I’m not the only one who will need to keep up my strength, Sebastian St. Clair. Did you or did you not promise to make your regard for me a priority in all things?”

“You and your memory.” He took the cake from her fork and dispatched the remainder of his serving without lecturing Milly further.

The trip to St. Clair Manor, a rambling pile in the wilds of Surrey, was accomplished by midafternoon. And Milly’s
husband
—a lovely word beginning with an
h
, much like Harriette—carried her over the threshold to the cheers of a platoon of servants. Milly endured the introductions to some thirty souls, from the butler to the boot boy, each of whom seemed genuinely happy to see the master married.

As Milly was genuinely happy.

“Shall we retire above stairs, Baroness?”

Sebastian’s question was a study in domestic consideration.

“We shall not. It’s a beautiful day. We’ve been shut up in that coach for nearly two hours, and I want to move.”

In his morning attire, Sebastian looked quite handsome, also severe—except for the boutonniere of lavender on his lapel.

He winged his arm. “A tour of the gardens then?”

A tour of the gardens—with servants watching from every window, as Milly tottered around in her wedding finery like some…some baroness?

“I will change my clothes, Sebastian, and then you will take me on a picnic. I want to see your favorite place to dream when you were a boy.”

Her request—well, it hadn’t quite been a request—did not appear to please him. “The most likely spot is a good mile from the house, if you’re willing to hop a few stiles.”

Sebastian was not usually so dense, but perhaps he was suffering the nerves of a new husband.

“Bring a
blanket
, Sebastian, and some of that food Aunt packed for us, and give me twenty minutes to change my clothes. I suggest you do likewise, because hopping stiles can be hard on wedding finery.”

Milly could have managed a blink in the time it took the commander of Castle St. Clair to realign his understanding of her intentions.

“I will meet you on the back terrace in twenty minutes, madam.”

Milly made in it fifteen, and the fellow she found pacing before the irises was every bit as handsome as his earlier incarnation, but more relaxed, more
at
home
.

“Lead on, Sebastian, and tell me about your parents.”

He took her hand, and she hadn’t even had to ask. “You’re to interrogate me?”

“I’m to be your wife and the mother of your children.” How satisfying, to say that in the King’s English. Milly wished she could write it as easily, but someday—married to Sebastian—she might.

“When I think of my mother, I think of her in those last months in France. She was not happy, she was not well.”

Milly closed her grip on his fingers and tugged him back, slowed him down as he marched them off past a bed of roses not yet blooming. “Tell me of a happier time with her, then. A time when you realized your mama was pretty.”

He paused before one lone, precocious rosebud. “She was always pretty.”

“Don’t snatch it away. Leave it to bloom and show the way for the others. When was your mother happy?”

His stride lost its parade-march quality, and he became a man wandering through a garden on a late-spring afternoon.

“She was overjoyed to go back to France, radiant to at last see her parents, her cousins, her old nurse. I was only a boy, but I recall her standing against the rail on the packet we took to Calais, her gaze fixed on the shoreline of France as if she beheld the approach of heaven. My father stood beside me, beholding her with the same expression she wore watching the shoreline of her homeland.”

“They loved each other.”

Milly was careful to survey the garden as she drew this conclusion. Talk of love made Sebastian go quiet. One had to deal with the topic casually, with every appearance of unconcern. She attributed this to a dearth of such expressions of regard in his life, rather than to a lack of receptivity on his part.

“They loved each other passionately. A boy can’t know that, but looking back, I can only imagine what my father suffered, to part from her when she fell ill. Her last thoughts, her last words were of her love for him. I never got to tell him that.”

Milly waited while Sebastian unlatched a gate in the garden wall, the pause giving her a moment to check an anger directed at two people who’d been more absorbed with each other than with their only child.

“I will make you a promise, Sebastian,” she said as she took him firmly by the hand. “If I lie dying at some point, while our young son endures that trial in a strange land without the comfort of your presence, I will use my last breaths to assure him that he’s a wonderful boy. I will tell him how proud I am of him, and how much I have loved being his mama.”