The Traitor

by Grace Burrowes

  Anderson had been cavalry, which meant he could also be counted on to move about and conduct himself with the subtlety of a horse. He stopped immediately inside the door, thereby announcing to all and sundry that a fellow had arrived who was not a regular patron. He glanced left; he glanced right. Nervously.

  And then—may the merciful God have pity—Anderson put his hand up to his face and brushed his fingers over an overly groomed mustache, as if to say, “and don’t forget this aspect of the tall, blond, expensively dressed, gentleman stranger’s appearance, should any passing constable need a description.”

  Amateurs were a trial beyond endurance. Henri took a hearty swallow of his ale—Englishmen did not sip ale—and, as intended, the movement drew Anderson’s attention.

  The captain did not go to the bar—of course, he did not—but rather, clomped straight over to Henri’s table, hung his hat and cape on the nearest hook—lest his exquisitely tailored riding ensemble also go unremarked—and scraped back a chair.

  “I do not have good news.”

  Henri offered the man a blazing, toothy smile. “Perhaps your not-good news can wait until the tavern wench has come trotting by?”

  Another twitch of the glorious manly mustache, also a nod.

  “The ale is surprisingly good,” Henri said as he caught the serving maid’s eye, lifted his tankard an inch, and jerked his chin toward Anderson. She moved off toward the bar, and Henri realized he’d erred. An Englishman would have bellowed, but then an Englishman would have sounded like an Englishman.

  Anderson’s jaw firmed. “English ale is the best in the world.”

  So subtle, this glossy English gelding. “Bien sûr, else I would not have come this distance to enjoy it.”

  Anderson’s drink was put before him, and he spared the maid neither an appreciative look nor a thank you, lest he be mistaken for a relaxed swell—that was the English word—enjoying a casual tankard with an acquaintance.

  “Pierpont missed. St. Clair deloped. Again.”

  Bad news, indeed.

  “Drink your ale, mon ami.” Because Pierpont had missed and because Anderson’s usefulness was not yet at an end, Henri made his tone consoling. “One did not expect success on the first or second attempt. Our governments are prepared to be patient.”

  Anderson eyed his drink, which sported a head of foam only gradually receding from the rim.

  “Then you need to find somebody else to assist you. The word in the clubs is that St. Clair has deloped three times, and outright refused to fight when the Duke of Mercia challenged him. He tells them all to go home to their womenfolk, and that the war is over.”

  A conscience was a great complication in a subordinate, but then, Anderson in no way saw himself as Henri’s subordinate.

  “You found it difficult, to see a man fire into the air when his life had been threatened, even when threatened by one who had a right to take that life. This does you credit, Captain. Nobody disputes that St. Clair has courage.”

  The baron had rather too much courage, in fact, which Henri might have regretted, had he been interested in retrieving his conscience from the dusty confessionals of his long-distant boyhood.

  Anderson relaxed fractionally and reached for his ale, then set it down untasted.

  “It was difficult—bloody damned difficult, and St. Clair is right. The war is over, so you’d best find somebody other than me to aid you. I’ve agitated twice now for St. Clair’s victims to challenge him. If I second at another duel, my involvement will be too conspicuous.”

  This flare of scruples was tedious, like a mistress who pretends she must be wooed and aroused as well as paid. Henri manufactured what he called his French Philosopher look. Soulful, understanding, wise, and sincere—it required tired brown eyes and a thin nose to be carried off properly. A graying beard would have been nice, but that had been sacrificed in the interests of anonymity.

  “Your government selected you to work with me in this venture, Captain. My government chose me to see it through.” He considered a biblical allusion to removing this cup from his lips and rejected it—his objective was murder, not martyrdom. “We are patriots, we have that in common, and both England and France want to be rid of the embarrassment that is Monsieur le Baron St. Clair.”

  Anderson scrubbed a hand over his face, tweaked the mustache, and peered at his drink.

  “One more. I’ll see if I can talk one more former prisoner into calling him out, and I’ll find others to serve as seconds, but then, that’s it. To hell with England and France. If God wants St. Clair to survive five challenges and four duels, then who am I to question the verdict of the Almighty?”

  A comfort, to know that at least the hand of God provoked an Englishman to humility.

  “Then we will choose our next champion carefully,” Henri said. “There are eight candidates that we know of. Eight more officers who suffered abominably at St. Clair’s hands, eight men who will never sleep as well, or feel safe even in their lovers’ arms. Who among them do you think has the best aim, the steadiest nerves, and the greatest chance of ridding the world of the blight of St. Clair’s existence?”

  Anderson took a prissy sip of his ale, but hadn’t waited quite long enough, because his mustache now sported evidence of his libation. “Dirks or the other Scotsman, MacHugh.”

  The Scots were bloodthirsty. Despite their propensity for drinking whiskey, this was something Henri admired about them. He attributed a pugnacious nature and tolerance for strong drink to having to share an island with the English.

  He passed Anderson a plain linen handkerchief and tapped a finger above his own lips. As Anderson daintily blotted ale from his mustache, Henri sorted through options.

  “Approach both Dirks and MacHugh and assess their receptivity. We can afford to be patient and careful, but not too patient.”

  Henri tossed a few coins on the table, including a bit extra for the wench, and rose. He did not settle his greatcoat around his shoulders with a subtle flourish—that would be French of him—but rather, put his arms into the sleeves and left the coat hanging open, English fashion.

  When he’d also tugged on his gloves, he clapped Anderson on the shoulder in a hearty parting gesture. Because remaining unnoticed in a foreign country started with walking in exact imitation of the locals, Henri strode out the door like he’d just spent time with a pretty, conscientious whore.

  Which, in effect, he had.

  ***

  “No matter how many times you glance at that door, I will catch you at it every time, and Tante will not join us.”

  St. Clair’s voice was not exactly accusing. Milly regarded her breakfast companion over a plate of sinful lemon pastry and saw something in his eyes though. Humor? A challenge?

  She lifted the pot—more old-fashioned Sèvres. “Tea, my lord?”

  “If you please.”

  He had a way with silence, just as Aunt Mil had had. Milly poured but did not ask him how he preferred his tea. She set the pot down, went back to savoring her lemon tart, and did not glance at the door.

  The lemon pastry was lovely—flaky crust cooked to an even, golden brown, the sweet, rich filling still warm. The very scent of it proclaimed wealth and ease; the taste of it comforted in ways the jingling of coins never could.

  “What will you do with your morning, Miss Danforth? It appears we’re in for that most rare of English treats, the sunny day—or a sunny morning, at least. One doesn’t want to tempt the gods of English weather.”

  He picked up a slice of bacon and tore off a bite with his teeth, appearing both savage and elegant even in so mundane an activity.

  “If your lordship is going out, I thought I’d spend some time with the piano. Lady St. Clair said I might use the music room when she has no duties for me.”

  The bacon was dispatched in about three bites. He paused with a forkful
of eggs halfway to his mouth.

  “She will not have use for you this morning. She is resting, and also plotting. Tonight is that bacchanal known as Lady Arbuthnot’s card party. Like witches, the coven gathers on the Tuesday nearest each full moon. They tell everybody they’re playing whist, but in truth they’re casting spells on fashionable bachelors for all their nieces and granddaughters.”

  He was…teasing. Like any other nephew might tease about an elderly aunt upon whom he dotes.

  “And has Lady St. Clair spared you from her magic, my lord? You would seem to qualify as a fashionable bachelor.”

  The baron also qualified as titled, wealthy, handsome, and at a marriageable age without an heir to his name, which constituted a puzzle.

  He held up another crispy, aromatic strip of bacon as if regarding a bottle of wine or a fine miniature.

  “This is curious, now that you mention it. Aunt has powerful magic—she claims Gypsy blood on her dam side—and yet I sit before you unscathed by holy matrimony.” He bit off an inch of bacon and crunched it to oblivion. “Much like yourself.”

  Milly took refuge in her pastry, because just possibly, that was a rebuke.

  Very likely that was a rebuke.

  He waved his fork with an elegant gesture of the wrist. “Who is your favorite composer?”

  “Herr Beethoven.”

  “You prefer a German over your native talent?”

  Not “our” native talent. Perhaps that was why he was unmarried. He did not favor English beauties, and they did not favor him. He was large, dark, and French, after all.

  Milly considered her lemon pastry. “Herr Beethoven’s music balances abundant technical talent with abundant passion. He’s not afraid to rage or laugh or grieve in his music, though one is told the man is stone deaf.”

  She braced herself for another tease/rebuke/challenge, but St. Clair only twirled his teacup a quarter turn by its tiny handle.

  “Well put. Would you like a few pages of the paper, Miss Danforth? The society pages, perhaps?”

  He was neither teasing nor rebuking nor challenging, and yet his polite question was worse than if it had been all three.

  “No, thank you, my lord. Would you pass the jam pot, please?”

  The question came out too brightly, and Milly endured a baronial perusal before he moved the raspberry jam closer to her plate. Raspberry symbolized remorse, and it was her favorite flavor of jam.

  “I enjoy Beethoven as well,” St. Clair said, getting back to his eggs. “Though Clementi is a pleasure for the hands, and Mozart can be a wonderful confection for the ear. More tea, Miss Danforth?”

  “Please.”

  She wasn’t used to him, was the trouble. He seldom came down for breakfast and had accompanied his aunt on an evening outing only once in the two weeks since Milly had accepted this post. He’d joined them in the coach as far as Haymarket, seen them deposited at the theater, then gone off on some gentlemanly errand and sent the coach back for them.

  Which meant he’d walked home alone through the streets of London in the dead of night—or spent the night with his mistress.

  He poured for her, set the teapot down, and added cream and sugar to her cup. “What else will you do with your liberty, Miss Danforth? One can play Beethoven for hours, of course, but a day is also livened by variety.”

  Milly appreciated that making small talk with the paid companion was gallantry of a high order for a baron at his breakfast, so she mustered a response rather than commit the public eccentricity of applying raspberry jam to her lemon tart.

  “If the day holds fair, I’ll likely walk in the park.”

  “Take a footman, at least. Take Giles, in fact. He enjoys the park and is sent stepping and fetching all over Town the livelong day because he’s such a brute.”

  Giles was a genial giant, and his company would be pleasant, but the idea that Milly merited such an escort was absurd.

  Also…flattering. “Yes, my lord.”

  He stirred her tea and set the spoon on the saucer, another nicety, done with both elegance and a casual ease.

  “And if it rains, Miss Danforth? Will you let the footmen make you a blazing fire in the library, order a pot of chocolate, and curl up with one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels?”

  His tone invited a confidence, and his green eyes were so grave as to invite all manner of nonsense. He was being French, for all he’d served her tea like an Englishman.

  The image his words evoked, an image of an afternoon spent in a world of fictional adventure and happy endings, was painful nonetheless.

  “I might sketch, my lord. I also enjoy paper cutting, embroidery, and knitting.”

  He downed his tea in one gulp, then shuddered. “Knitting. You are a paragon of domestic virtue, Miss Danforth, and as such, I pronounce you entitled to apply that jam to your tart. You’ve been staring at it with shameless longing, you know.”

  No, she had not. She’d been thinking of an afternoon in the library with shameless longing. “Yes, my lord.”

  Her response was the most innocuous ever manufactured on a pretty English morning, and yet, St. Clair narrowed his eyes at her.

  “You have been good for Tante. She’s laughed more in the past fortnight than in the previous season. She flirts with the help, and she dwells less on me and my endless shortcomings, matrimonial or otherwise.” He came to an internal conclusion. “She worries less. I am in your debt, Miss Danforth.”

  He was not an easy man to spend time with, but he knew how to give a sincere compliment. The occasion was so rare for Milly, a blush rose up, along with a pleasant warmth in her middle.

  “Thank you, my lord. One wants to be useful in this life.” One also wanted a decent place to sleep and some food, too, and the St. Clair household provided that in generous abundance, along with a tidy bit of coin.

  Aunt Hyacinth had been right. A good position could be far better than the crusts and criticism handed out among one’s own family.

  “One does want to be useful.” He slid the jam pot closer to her plate and rose. “If you will excuse me, madam. Like my aunt, I have correspondence that demands my attention, though your company has been a delight.”

  He might have bowed to her, but Milly was staring at the jam, trying to ignore his meaningless flattery. She heard him move off toward the door, and reached for the preserves.

  “Miss Danforth?”

  He’d stopped by the door, a big, elegant man who could carry off lace at his throat and wrists even in riding attire.

  “Sir?”

  “You must not begrudge yourself that rainy day in the library. Nobody can be a paragon all the time.”

  And then he strode off, while Milly dipped her knife into the jam, and wished—and wished and wished and wished—she might someday have that afternoon with Mrs. Radcliffe.

  ***

  Though Sebastian wished it were not so, another infernal duel was brewing. He could feel it, could sense it in the way the members of his club barely met his eye when he nodded to them across the reading room.

  They would not speak to him if they could avoid it. That he even had membership was only because the Benevolent Society for the Furtherance of Agrarian Science had been too unsophisticated to realize that Sebastian St. Clair was the Traitor Baron himself. By the time they’d become aware of their blunder, Sebastian had made a contribution of unignorable proportions to their experimental farm out in Chelsea.

  He’d spent those precious funds because a man needed the company of his fellows, even if it was silent, nervous company lured close with coin, and tacit acceptance of the fact that he was merely tolerated in their midst.

  “Ah, there you are!” Tante came fluttering into his study without knocking, a gleam in her eyes Sebastian had learned to respect. “You look quite intellectual, St. Clair. Those spectacles are deceiving.”r />
  “The spectacles are necessary if I’m to make sense of your figures, madam.” Years of figures that she’d kept meticulously in the absence of husband, son, nephew, or grandson.

  She settled into a chair opposite his desk, a sparrow coming to light. “I wear them too, when I’m at my correspondence, but spectacles become no one. Will you accompany Miss Danforth and me to the Levien musicale?”

  No, he would not. “When is it?”

  “Next Tuesday. Tuesday evenings are when all the best events take place. I’m having some new gowns made up for Milly, and the woman adores music. There’s a pianist on offer, a single gentleman who’s the son of a duke. I think he might do for your cousin Fern, or perhaps Ivy, though not Iris. The girl can’t carry a tune, tipsy or sober.”

  God help the pianist. Tante would set loose an entire flower bed of eligible young ladies on him before his recital was complete.

  “I’m afraid I must attend a meeting at the club Tuesday evening. I’m trying to convince the members that peaches are worth investing in.”

  They were not, particularly. Peaches liked a sheltered location, a good lot of sunshine, and a mild but discernible winter—exactly what half the valleys in Provence offered, but not quite the English climate.

  “Peaches.” Aunt rose, a wealth of scorn in one word. “You would rather take up breeding peaches than pursue your own succession. The war is over, Sebastian. You’ve been pardoned for your errors, and life moves on. You were just a boy when the Corsican resumed his nonsense, and you can’t be held responsible for your family making an unfortunately timed visit to relatives in France.”

  How did one breed a peach? Sebastian set that conundrum aside and prepared to deal with being The Despair of the House of St. Clair, as his aunt would no doubt term it in the next five minutes. Tante did not lack for accuracy in her scolds.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  The paid companion stood at the door, which would normally have been a pleasant sight. She diverted Tante from pestering Sebastian for the most part, and she was a pretty little thing in a not-very-English way.