The Traitor

by Grace Burrowes

  Fight back against what? Or whom?

  “We made progress with my letters.”

  “I daresay you did.” Lady St. Clair snapped open another set of drapes, the light falling this time on the piano. “Well, no matter, but you must not allow any more such nonsense. Sebastian is not as sturdy as he believes himself to be. I can’t have you trifling with him.”

  Trifling with him? He thought himself either indestructible or expendable, and Milly was not sure which was worse. “Do you suppose he was trying to scare me into quitting my post?”

  Lady St. Clair’s gaze fell on the tulips. “Those flowers go so well in here. And no, Sebastian was not trying to scare you into quitting your post. Were he intent on that end, you’d be writing out your notice this instant. Sebastian will, however, believe I’d think him capable of such machinations. Come along, my dear. You must assist me to choose my jewelry for the Hendershots’ musicale. Early evening wants tact, and tact has never been my strong suit.”

  She swept from the room, while Milly shot a longing glance at the escritoire. Her e’s, l’s, and o’s lay forgotten, no obliging shaft of sunshine to illuminate them where they looped and swooped across the page.

  Thank God Milly had had the sense not to attempt any v’s.

  ***

  A duke generally ascended to his title knowing exactly how many princes, royal dukes, and other dukes stood between him and the British throne. In order of precedence, Christian, eighth Duke of Mercia, far outranked the first Duke of Wellington, and yet, when the summons came from Apsley House, Mercia did not tarry.

  He kissed his duchess good-bye, kissed her good-bye some more (the roads being unpredictable between Surrey and London, and his duchess being the affectionate sort), and presented himself in Wellington’s soaring foyer well before supper.

  “Married life agrees with you,” Wellington observed with the slightly puzzled, wistful air of a man whose own duchess was seldom on the premises.

  “It emphatically does, Your Grace.” This time, for Christian was a widower whose fortunes had improved with his second foray up the church aisle. “My duchess sends her regards, and charges me to invite you to Severn whenever you’re inclined.”

  “Pretty little thing, your duchess.”

  Wellington was an observant man, and a favorite with the ladies. From Christian’s perspective, His Grace was making the transition from general officer, to politician, and even statesman with enviable ease.

  “More to the point, sir, my duchess puts up with me. I’d like to return to her side before nightfall, if possible.”

  His Grace led Christian up the ornate staircase to the floor above. “You young fellows, haring in all directions, galloping about under the full moon… How’s the hand?”

  Wellington was also a man who took the welfare of his staff—his former staff—seriously, which was not always convenient.

  “Well enough. I can write with it—I can write with either hand now, thanks to Girard—thanks to St. Clair’s—guards and their penchant for violence.”

  Wellington ushered him into a high-ceiling parlor that sported walls full of portraiture and other art. “It’s about St. Clair that I wanted to speak with you. Shall I ring for tea, or would you like something stronger?”

  If they were to discuss St. Clair, then a tot of the damned poppy wouldn’t go amiss.

  “Something stronger. The roads were dusty.” Not too dusty to dissuade a man from traveling home by moonlight when that man slept ever so much better beside his duchess.

  Christian crossed to an open window, where the fragrance of stabled horses came wafting in from Tattersall’s not far upwind.

  “To your health,” Wellington said, extending a small glass to him. “And to the Regent’s damned health.”

  Christian took a sip of excellent Armagnac. “You’re spending time at Carlton House these days?”

  “Not if I can help it, but I have ascended to the status of universal expert, you see. If there’s a bit of scandal brewing, then I must sit on the committee to investigate same. If a charitable commission is to be got up, then we must have old Wellington’s imprimatur on the thing. One doesn’t miss the battlefield, but one does sometimes appreciate what an honest, efficient place it was.”

  No, one did not. In the strong afternoon sunlight, Wellington’s age was showing. He was a handsome man, his posture impeccable, and his nose, in particular, worthy of some of the nicknames given to him, but Wellington was also no longer young, and that…made Christian sip his drink.

  “Excellent libation, Your Grace.”

  “Thank Lady St. Clair, of all people. She knows my weaknesses, and indulges them from time to time. Our paths crossed in India when she was married to a younger son who never expected to inherit the title.”

  Christian took a larger swallow and moved away from the window. “How does she deal with having St. Clair for a nephew?”

  “Easily. He’s the last of his line, she loves him and will hear no wrong spoken of him. Nobody would dare cross her in this publicly.” Wellington’s tone suggested he wasn’t about to take on the elderly baroness either. Not directly.

  And Christian hadn’t recalled, hadn’t wanted to acknowledge that St. Clair’s title was teetering toward escheat.

  Which St. Clair alone was in a position to rectify.

  “I saw St. Clair in the park the other day. He was walking out with a woman.” For her sake, Christian hoped the lady was some unassuming Continental, or even an American, a woman whom Society’s scorn would leave largely untouched.

  “She was not…her origins looked humble,” he went on. “Humble but decent.”

  Also lamentably English, though Christian could not have said why he reached that conclusion.

  “The ladies tend to be more practical than we gentlemen.” Wellington fell silent as a footman arrived bearing a cold collation. A second footman brought along a tea tray, though Christian would have preferred more of Lady St. Clair’s Armagnac.

  “St. Clair’s situation is not resolving itself.” Wellington settled on a gilt love seat upholstered in rose velvet, a delicate piece for a man of his height and bearing.

  “What has St. Clair to do with me? My dealings with the man are over, and I intend that they stay that way.” Christian resisted the urge to rub the fingers of his left hand, also the urge to make a fist with it.

  “Several others have challenged him since you slapped a glove across his face. They’ve all missed, and then St. Clair has deloped. My officers are excellent marksmen, but St. Clair’s luck thus far exceeds their skill.”

  Christian returned to the window rather than remain where his host could see his expression.

  “St. Clair is a perverted excuse for a human being, one who could inflict suffering on his captives and watch that suffering without so much as flinching. His immediate superior at least took obvious pleasure in our humiliation, and under the circumstances, that humanity—evil though it was—was far preferable to St. Clair’s disinterest.”

  St. Clair had watched that suffering, day after day, and then ensured the most competent doctors and best available rations were reserved for the prisoners he’d abused.

  “This is, of course, loathsome behavior,” His Grace observed, arranging slices of cheese and ham on a plate. “Also the same treatment French officers captured out of uniform were shown by our own forces, minus the medical care and food.”

  Christian heard the philosophical thread in the duke’s voice and recalled this was the same fellow who’d reportedly once been given a clear shot at Napoleon himself, and had declined to fire on the basis of battlefield protocol. General officers do not fire upon one another.

  “I should tell you I hate St. Clair,” Christian said, “and the truth would be that I do, but I also don’t know what to make of him. As you point out, his treatment of me was loathsome, t
hough consistent with the situation.” Christian clenched and unclenched his left hand, grateful that he could. “St. Clair gave me my freedom when Toulouse fell, though he left it to his pet jailer to unlock my cell. I owe him my life, and that is…complicated.”

  Owed him his life many times over, and owed him every single damned nightmare he’d had in recent years as well.

  “Complicated, yes,” Wellington said between bites of cheese. “The French share your consternation. He’s an embarrassment, a traitor to both of his heritages, and an intelligence nightmare from which two countries would like to waken. Have some food, Mercia. One must keep up one’s strength.”

  One must keep up one’s strength. The same admonition St. Clair had used to coax Christian into eating, when Christian had once again decided to die rather than endure more of St. Clair’s abuse.

  Christian took a chair at an angle to Wellington’s pretty love seat. “Just some cheese, please, and a slice of buttered bread.”

  “You’ve become abstemious in your dotage, Mercia. I’m sure your duchess would want you to eat more than a schoolboy’s ration.”

  His duchess. Even the thought of that dear lady soothed something that discussion of St. Clair had set amiss. “A spot of tea to wash it down, too, then.”

  Wellington loaded up a plate with three kinds of cheese, a few slices of ham, and three slices of bread slathered with butter.

  “We must do something about St. Clair. More duels are in the offing, and while his death under such circumstances wouldn’t be remarked, there’s the off chance he might injure an opponent, and then all hell will break loose.” His Grace paused with the teapot poised above a jasperware cup. “Cream and sugar?”

  “Neither, thank you. You’re sure more duels are in the offing? There’s little honor in challenging a man who has deloped on three previous occasions.”

  “Little honor perhaps,” the duke said, passing Christian the steaming cup of tea, “but significant satisfaction. Eat your food, Mercia, and pay attention. You are not yet acquainted with all of the salient aspects of St. Clair’s situation, and yet you of all people ought to be consulted before further action is taken.”

  Christian listened as Wellington provided a concise, dispassionate military briefing on a situation Christian wanted nothing whatsoever to do with. His tea cooled in his cup, bars of sunlight crept across the thick carpet, and something akin to pity stole across Christian’s heart for a man he ought to go to his grave hating.

  Eight

  Strategic retreat was a tactic in every commander’s arsenal, and Sebastian resorted to it shamelessly. If Miss Danforth was in the parlor playing cards with Aunt Freddy, Sebastian was in his study, poring over pamphlets on the cultivation of herbs and flowers. If she took tea in the music room, Sebastian went riding. Avoiding her was not complicated.

  Neither was it easy.

  “Go to bed, Michael. If the weather holds fair, we’ll hack out at first light, and you need your rest.”

  Michael set aside the volume he’d been reading—Byron?—and rose.

  “You and your flowers. Are they really so much more enjoyable than your dreams would be?”

  Sebastian’s dreams were usually of men in chains, spewing vile curses then begging God to take their lives, moaning for their mothers then begging Sebastian to take their lives. He had been unable to oblige them, and thus the moaning and cursing had gone on endlessly.

  “My French lavender is not thriving here. I give it the best soil, the most careful pruning, the most sheltered start in life, and it does not thrive.”

  Michael put Byron back up on the shelf where Aunt kept her favorite volumes. “Is your concern financial or sentimental?”

  Curious question from a man who struggled mightily to hold himself above matters of sentiment. “It’s both. Go to bed. That’s a direct order, mon ami.”

  Michael gave an ironic salute and sauntered off into the darkness of the corridor. Only half the sconces were kept lit, another manifestation of financial worry, and the fire in the grate had been allowed to burn down to coals.

  The lavender would not thrive, but it did not die either. Sebastian’s fellows at the Society muttered sympathetically, but were either too politically delicate to venture any ideas why this should be or too involved with the appearance of horticultural enthusiasm rather than the substance of it.

  He tried for another hour to absorb himself in translating some old Roman doctor’s maunderings about the medicinal qualities of lavender, and was making some headway when the door creaked open.

  Milly Danforth stood in the gloom, her nightclothes making her look like a pale shade. “Excuse me, my lord. I wasn’t aware the library would be occupied.”

  And yet, even clad in her nightgown and dressing gown, she did not withdraw.

  “Miss Danforth, hadn’t you best be in bed?”

  Alone. Immediately. Dreaming virginal dreams about…her cat, perhaps?

  Or Sebastian’s kiss from five days ago.

  She advanced into the room, gathering a paisley shawl more closely about her shoulders. “I could not sleep. Why have you let the fire nearly go out?”

  With the efficiency of a woman comfortable shifting for herself, she took up the wrought iron poker and moved the coals about, poured more coal onto the andirons, then used the bellows to inspire the flames to life. She finished by tidying up the hearth with the ash broom and dustpan, then replacing the screen and dusting her hands together.

  “Perhaps I was trying to save on coal.” He would certainly hoard up images of her, auburn braid swinging down her back as she built up his fire.

  She gathered the shawl around her again, a pretty blue-and-green peacock silk that contrasted with her plain bedclothes.

  “Lady St. Clair knows about the jewels, my lord.”

  Sebastian took a moment to fathom the mental leaps Miss Danforth had executed. “You think I let the fire go out because I need to economize, so that I might finish replacing Aunt’s jewels before she knows what I’m about?”

  “She says pinchbeck and paste don’t weigh the same as gold and gems, don’t feel the same against the skin. She knows when you replace the paste with something real, and she wishes you would not bother.”

  He ought to say something imperious and French, go back to his old Roman doctor, and shame Miss Danforth into leaving the room. He rose and came around the front of the desk.

  “My lavender is not thriving. This keeps me awake at night, but I am like wine, Miss Danforth. I prefer darkness, cool, and calm.”

  And, apparently, he preferred stubborn little redheaded women who were eager for his kisses and had middle names like Harriette.

  She sidled over to the desk and appropriated his seat—an audacious move that left him with another image to memorize. “My aunts’ lavender always did well. You’ve been puzzling over this for some while.”

  “How do you know?”

  “This chair still holds your body heat.”

  Said in all innocence, while Sebastian’s body heat decided to focus behind his falls.

  “Why do you come to the library when you can’t sleep, Milly Danforth? You’ve told me reading confounds you late at night.”

  She glanced up sharply, probably to see if he was insulting her. He wished he were, wished it wasn’t curiosity driving his question.

  “I like to smell the books. They remind me of my aunts’ cottage.”

  This admission was made as she tidied up the mess Sebastian had created on the desk’s surface. She capped the inkwell, set the quill pen in its stand, straightened his papers, and otherwise put to rights the implements of reading and writing that had caused her so much frustration in life.

  “You say your aunts did well with their lavender. Did they start their seedlings in frames?”

  The fire was giving off more heat, but also light, and
that light played with the highlights in Miss Danforth’s hair and put a sheen on her paisley silk shawl.

  “They started new plants from cuttings, not seedlings. Aunt Hy said cuttings worked better, and no, the frames were too hot for young plants.”

  “What do you mean, too hot?”

  She opened the ink and dipped the pen. He liked the look of her there, among his things, the pen in her hand.

  “The frames are filled with fresh horse manure, and it holds heat for weeks. Aunt said it was too much heat, and too wet.”

  “What has wet to do with it?”

  And was this the real reason she’d come through the cold, dark house? To practice her letters when nobody would be about?

  “Lavender is tough—the bugs don’t go near it, the blights and rots and such seldom bother it, but too much rain, and it falters.”

  “Rain bothers it?” And here he’d been lavishing water on his plants, thinking to foster luxuriant growth.

  She dipped the pen again. “The wetter our summers, the less the lavender grew.”

  How could he have not known this? How could all those stalwart plant enthusiasts at the Society not have passed this along to him? How could his grandparents, who’d known everything about their herbs, not have imparted this signal fact?

  Madam Agronomist looked up from her penmanship. “You are angry. Do not be angry at the plants, St. Clair. Would you like your seat back?”

  “You lied to me, Milly Danforth. You did not come down here to sniff books. You came down here to write your name.”

  And she hadn’t let Sebastian’s presence stop her.

  “One can do both. You are not my conscience, St. Clair. Hadn’t you best go up to bed? One hears you clattering out of the mews before the sun is even up.”

  Did one? Did one listen for him clattering out of the mews at such an hour?

  He took his time, wandering about the room, though his objective was quite, quite fixed.

  “If a man wants to gallop his horse, the early hours are the only ones suited to it. The sun comes up earlier and earlier this time of year, and the park grows crowded.”