The Traitor (26 page)

Not every husband would confide such a thing in a wife, much less in a duchess.

“You feel responsible for this.” Christian’s sense of responsibility was bred in the bone, unshakable, and—in Gilly’s opinion—not entirely rational. “Explain this to me, lest I develop a headache trying to fathom the Stygian abyss that passes for male reasoning.”

Ahead of them, the dogs caught the scent of something fascinating, for they both went dashing off into the undergrowth amid a great lot of flapping ears, sniffing, and woofing.

“I was the first to challenge him,” His Grace reminded her. “Called him out at his very club, with witnesses all around.”

Gilly’s mare wanted to chase after the dogs, so Gilly had to check her rather firmly. “And then you stood down, the both of you.”

Christian whistled for the dogs, a piercing shriek that startled the horses and did not agree with Gilly either. Nor did it produce any dogs.

“The gentlemen of Polite Society do not know that St. Clair and I reached an accommodation, but until I challenged him, he was permitted to live quietly, resuming civilian life like the rest of us.” After a moment of watching the undergrowth to no avail, His Grace added softly, “Wellington has forbidden me to interfere.”

In terms of precedence, Mercia outranked Wellington, who for all his military successes was merely a
first
duke.

“Wellington is no longer your superior officer, Christian. If you wish to interfere, you’d be within your rights to ascertain why Wellington has taken a hand in matters. What can those dogs have found?”

“Running riot, no doubt. This time of year, the young of many species lurk in the hedgerows.”

The mastiffs were both enormous and too immature to have any self-restraint around fawns, baby rabbits, fox kits—all of them helpless and unsuspecting, much like St. Clair’s brand-new baroness.

“Lady St. Clair believes her husband is safe from honorable gentlemen who want to blow his brains out. I do not like that she’s being deceived, Christian. She pronounced herself smitten with the brute.”

His Grace let forth another ear-piercing whistle and bellowed for the dogs by name in what his daughter called his Papa-Is-Vexed voice.

“He’s smitten with her too, though I doubt he realizes it. Said ‘his Milly’ likes to garden. I can ask Wellington for more details, though Old Hookey doesn’t take well to pestering.”

A rustling in the bushes suggested the mastiffs were heeding the duke’s summons.

“Consider this, Christian: the Baroness St. Clair will not take kindly to being widowed a week after saying her vows, and the aggravation that was Bonaparte will pale compared to the wrath of that woman if harm befalls her baron, particularly if those who could have aided him did nothing.”

“You don’t even like him.”

“True.” The dogs emerged from the hedgerow some yards up the lane. “But I love you, and you feel responsible, so you must bother dear Arthur, regardless of his temper. You haven’t refused his most recent invitation, you know.”

His Grace heaved a martyred sigh. “Another hail-fellows-well-met at Apsley House?”

Gilly gave him the date, upon which, she knew for a certainty, he had no other obligations.

“You see before you a doomed duke, then. Some matters do not admit of handling by post. What is that smell?”

As the dogs bounded closer, tongues lolling, plumed tails swaying in the breeze, Gilly caught the same sweet, noxious odor. “Whatever it is, it’s quite dead, and your dogs have thoroughly rolled in it, Your Grace.”

“
My
dogs?”

“You brought them into our home.”

They argued agreeably all the way back to the stables, though when they went into the house, Gilly penned an acceptance of Wellington’s invitation—His Grace’s penmanship being deplorable—and Mercia signed it. He grumbled, he complained, and he generally tried his duchess’s patience first—and then rewarded her patience generously—but he did sign it.

“I do not understand this.” Henri affixed a perplexed look to his features and studied the scarred table, into one corner of which some philosopher of the grape had carved the words, “Fuk the Frogs.”

“She’s married him,” Upton reiterated. “Married a damned baron, and her the closest thing to a dimwit.”

Upton sounded more bewildered than affronted, as if barons were immune from mating with dimwits, when in Henri’s experience, intellectual abilities were the last thing a titled lord considered in a prospective spouse.

“I thought women required the permission of their next of kin before taking a spouse in this most civilized country. More ale?” The women of France, of course, no longer tolerated such interference, which was fortunate, given that few adult Frenchmen were extant to do the interfering.

“Please. Milly’s of age. She’s damned on the shelf, in fact, or she was, so she can marry where she pleases. Mrs. Upton is in quite a taking, quite a taking indeed.”

Hence Mr. Upton’s refuge in this cozy tavern.

Henri lifted a hand to signal the barmaid. “Your lady, she is not pleased to have a baroness in the family?” Because what was wanted here was not wallowing in self-pity, but action.

“Any other baroness would do famously,” Upton said, swiping his finger around the rim of his tankard then licking the wet digit. “Milly has gone and married the Traitor Baron, though, and that’s rather a different thing altogether.”

“Ah.”

Upton was marginally sober—the man could hold prodigious quantities of ale—and he was sly, but not particularly astute. The single syllable—a bit knowing, a bit commiserating—provoked him to turning an annoyed gaze on Henri.

“What? I’m not in the mood for any of your Frenchie subtleties, sir. Mrs. Upton in a taking is a formidable challenge to a man’s peace.”

“The ladies have no strategy.” Henri fell silent while the barmaid replenished Upton’s drink, but he waved her away rather than befoul his own palate with any more English ale.

“The ladies have a damned lot of strategy, most of it intended to keep a fellow from his marital bliss, if you know what I mean. My wife is the only lady to have three children and remain almost a virgin.”

Suggesting Mrs. Upton was a formidable woman even when
not
in a taking. “You must show yourself the wiser person, and congratulate Millicent on her nuptials.”

Henri offered this suggestion with careful diffidence, because Upton was a pawn who could be led but not pushed.

“Congratulate her? You mean send around some fussy note? The damned girl can barely read.”

“She’s a baroness now. She’ll have a secretary or a companion, somebody who handles her correspondence.”

Henri was counting on it.

“Mrs. Upton ought to be the one to send such a letter, and she’ll swim the Channel in her stays before she offers Milly any congratulations. The girl’s portion was half the means…”

Upton took a judicious gulp of his ale, but he’d confirmed one of Henri’s favorite theories of human behavior: it all came down to money. Henri’s own motivations were rooted at least partly in pecuniary concerns, though France’s best interests would not be damaged when Henri’s goal had been achieved—not much.

“Do you know why the baron turned traitor?” Henri asked.

“Haven’t the foggiest.”

And Upton wasn’t inclined to wonder how Henri knew, which was a lovely oversight on Upton’s part.

“England abandoned him. I have puzzled on this, you see, because you English take the succession of your titles quite seriously. St. Clair is the last of his line, and if he’d been killed or convicted of high treason, then his estate would have reverted to the Crown. At one time, it was a wealthy barony, while the Crown is not so wealthy, hmm?”

The debts incurred by the Regent and some of his siblings would have occasioned a revolution in any other country—particularly when the common English man or woman typically faced jail for even minor debt.

Upton took another gulp of ale, belched, and then seized upon the heart of the matter.

“Milly is the Traitor Baroness now. That’s not good, not even for her.”

Such compassion for a woman who’d probably been little more than slave labor in Upton’s nursery. She would likely thank Henri for his efforts before matters were concluded.

“You must warn her, then.”

This time, Upton took the bait. “Warn her about what? She can’t help but know St. Clair’s past. Even if she can’t read the papers, she’ll hear the gossip in the man’s own house. The aunt’s received, and you can bet Milly’s heard plenty already, trailing that old woman about in Polite Society.”

Henri used the ring finger of his left hand to trace the lettering carved into the table. “Your dear cousin knows of his past, but you must warn her of his future.”

“I’m not a damned fortune-teller—” Upton’s gaze fell on the lettering. “What do you mean? And speak plainly, for I must return to Mrs. Upton’s side before supper.”

Another burp followed, this one musical. Flatulence was sure to ensue directly, so Henri spoke quite plainly.

“Even among my countrymen, it’s known that St. Clair has been challenged to several duels, and has come away unscathed each time. He faces another challenge, though, and the man he meets this time is noted for his ability to fight in close quarters. By this hour on Tuesday, your cousin could well be widowed.”

“The nobs and their damned duels…”

“Even a traitor baron makes provision for his baroness, should she be widowed.”

Henri spared a moment’s pity for this Millicent creature. Henri had not seen her at close range, but Upton described her as plain by English standards, none too bright, illiterate in a land that took to heart at least the reading of its Bible, and no longer young. She was ideally situated to overlook St. Clair’s numerous shortcomings, and provided she was fertile, St. Clair was probably happy to overlook hers as well.

“You’re saying Milly will come into some blunt, if St. Clair’s killed.”

Henri traced the letters again, the smooth feel of the ancient wood oddly comforting. “She well could, but nobody will warn her of her husband’s approaching folly. If the other fellow dies, St. Clair could face charges of murder, and his lady will want to distance herself from any further scandal, I’m sure.” More to the point, Mrs. Upton wouldn’t care for it.

“Tuesday, you say?”

“I have it on reliable authority. And your Milly has nobody else in the entire world who will explain to her the depth of her error regarding this marriage.”

Upton tilted sideways on his chair, and predictably, a low, rumbling noise escaped. His gaze, however, was fixed on the table, so Henri could watch as thoughts linked up in the murky recesses of Upton’s mind and became conclusions.

“I’ll drop her a note, and Milly will see who her friends are. Mrs. Upton never understood the girl, but Milly isn’t entirely stupid, not about common sense things.”

“Milly will appreciate your honesty, and if her baron is killed, she will know to whom she can turn in her grief.”

Henri did not expect St. Clair to be killed in a round of fisticuffs—far from it. St. Clair was big, fit, quick, and hard to kill, for Henri had tried on several occasions to accomplish just that goal. Before a court martial, at the hands of an impoverished whore, and by direct means.

St. Clair needed killing before certain decisions of Henri’s came to light. The sullen Scot might see it done, but Henri was not about to depend on such means, not when the field of honor had proven so hospitable to St. Clair in the past.

“Milly’s not here,” Upton said, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the St. Clair town house. “Off in Surrey with her baron, probably ordering maids and footmen about when she’s not flouncing around in the St. Clair jewels and dreaming of new gowns.”

“So send word to her in Surrey.”

For this was the vital contribution Upton could make to the game. He could summon the baroness from the family seat and bring her back within range of Henri’s grasp. The arrival of a lone Frenchman in the wilds of Surrey would be remarked by all and sundry, and doubtless come to St. Clair’s attention. If Henri was to acquire the baroness for his own purposes, she must be brought back to Town, and before Wellington’s next gathering of his officers.

Another occasion of flatulence ensued. “Suppose I could.”

“If she were my cousin, I would feel honor bound to put the truth at her misguided feet. You’d think St. Clair would have had enough of killing his countrymen when he served the Corsican.” A slight, necessary exaggeration of St. Clair’s record of service.

Upton grimaced, downed the rest of his ale, and rose. “I’ve never shirked m’ duty where Milly’s concerned. Wretched girl has been nothing but trouble.”

Henri rose as well, and clapped Upton on a beefy shoulder. “She is luckier than she will ever know, to have family as devoted as you.”

Because such affection was likely outside of Upton’s experience, Henri twinkled a smile at his friend for good measure. Upton looked momentarily confused, slapped his hat onto his head, and waddled out, muttering about “Tuesday next” and “disobliging women.”

***

The foot of the adult male was an interesting appendage and surprisingly susceptible to tickling, but Milly knew she was in a sad case indeed when she missed Sebastian’s feet in her lap. In less than a week, Milly and her husband had developed the habit of repairing to the library after dinner. Sebastian would read to her, his head or his feet in her lap.

When she’d had her fill of stroking his ears or examining his toes—his second toe was the longest of the batch on both feet—he’d pass Milly the book, and she’d take a turn at thrashing her way through some Wordsworth or Byron.

Sebastian was endlessly patient with her, always correcting and never scolding. He said she was improving, and Milly had to agree. Once, he’d asked her if she recognized the shape of the words without being able to recite the letters, and the question had proven insightful.

So now, when Sebastian had left for London and Milly had the evening to herself, she repaired to the library and prepared to trudge through a stack of correspondence.

“You are not Peter,” she informed the red-and-black cat curled in the opposite chair. “You aren’t even purring.”

The cat formed a perfect oval against the cushions, and the chair had been angled to catch the fire’s heat. Milly doubted the beast was even awake, while Peter—or Sebastian—would never have abandoned her for anything so prosaic as an evening’s nap.

“Sebastian is meeting with the solicitors tomorrow, and said he ought to be home by sundown. I should have gone with him.”

Except he’d decided to travel to Town on horseback to make better time and take advantage of the full moon, and Milly’s equestrian confidence wasn’t up to a moonlit ride the entire distance to London.

Or maybe her confidence as a baroness had failed her. Sebastian had taken her upstairs directly after dinner and made slow, silent love to her, then kissed her forehead and slipped into his riding attire while Milly had watched and tried not to feel abandoned.

“Trust is complicated,” she informed the cat. “And difficult. Reading is difficult too, though it was once impossible. Would you like to hear some of my correspondence?”

The very tip of the cat’s tail moved once.

“A hearty endorsement.” Milly picked up the first epistle, a single folded sheet that bore, of all things, Alcorn’s sprawling, untidy hand.

“Felicitations, no doubt, and a scold or two.” Milly pried off the seal, wondering why, if congratulations were to be extended, Frieda had not troubled herself to make the overture. Frieda had a daughter, after all, a cheerful girl who might someday have need of a titled aunt.

Milly fell silent as she read. When she finished the note, she went back over it again, word for word, to make sure she had the correct sense of Alcorn’s letter, and then—much to the cat’s apparent displeasure—she started bellowing at the top of her lungs.

***

“Bloody goddamned rain.” And bloody goddamned coffee, because the kitchen staff at the town house had prepared only coffee for Sebastian, their habits being driven by his own. A hot cup of tea would have been ever so much more soothing to his belly.

Michael drew his horse up. “You’ve dueled in the rain before.”

“With pistols,” Sebastian replied, bringing Fable to a halt. “How likely is sloppy footing to make a difference when a man knows his powder is dry, and all he must do is turn, aim, and fire into the boughs?”

“So change your choice of weapon.”

“We did not bring the pistols or swords. Bare knuckles it will be. If I survive this, remind me to order the kitchen to throw out every bean of coffee in the larder.”

Michael swung off his beast and ran up his stirrups. “You aren’t generally nervous before a dawn meeting.”

“I am not nervous, I am frustrated.” Sebastian climbed off his horse, which made him more
frustrated
. Riding into London by the full moon, tossing and turning the night away, and rising before dawn to a damp and chilly morning did not agree with his joints—another legacy of his years at the Château.

“What has you frustrated?”

“This business with MacHugh. It won’t solve anything. A half-dozen others, at least, can come after me should MacHugh fail to kill me.”

Michael paused in the act of loosening his gelding’s girth. “I thought MacHugh didn’t want to kill you.”

“He doesn’t. Not really. If he kills me, I won’t have to suffer the results of all the damage he plans to inflict on me. Make sure the rules stipulate no blows below the waist.”

“With an attitude like that, I hope your affairs are in order.”

They fell silent as MacHugh and his seconds rode into the clearing, the same place, ironically, where the Duke of Mercia had chosen to spare Sebastian’s life.

“I will greet my counterparts.” Michael tied his horse’s reins to a convenient sapling, and would have crossed the clearing to confer with the kilted associates flanking MacHugh, but Sebastian stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“Tell Milly I’m sorry.”