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.”
Michael’s features lost their typical veneer of irritability, becoming downright bleak. “For?”
“I am sorry I did not tell her…” The words felt foolish and impotent. At that moment, Sebastian’s whole life felt foolish.
“You did not warn her she might go to bed a widow tonight?” Michael took Fable’s reins and tied them to the same sapling.
“I did not tell her I love her.” Had not told her she deserved much better than a traitor baron, and had not told her so many other things that now seemed far more important than allowing MacHugh to indulge a Scotsman’s injured pride.
“If you love her,” Michael said, “then knock MacHugh’s arse in the mud, and go on a tour of the Continent with your lady wife. At least give her a few babies before she’s widowed, so she isn’t left on the charity of the Crown.”
Milly would be well provided for from Sebastian’s private wealth, though that gave him little comfort.
“Acknowledge MacHugh’s seconds. The ground will only become muddier the longer we wait to deal with this unpleasantness.”
Something an intelligent man might keep in mind when he deceived his new wife.
MacHugh was draining the contents of a silver flask, his seconds keeping their backs to Sebastian. As Sebastian shed cravat and coat, Mercia’s words came back to him: MacHugh was good with his fists, but overconfident. Didn’t mind his defenses, and overused his right.
Or words to that effect. Milly would have been able to quote His Grace word for word. Sebastian’s shirt came off next, and then his boots and stockings. The ground was cold and slippery beneath his feet, and the occasional rock or root would no doubt make the footing even more interesting at precisely the wrong moment.
As Michael conferred with the kilted bear holding MacHugh’s horse, Sebastian focused on the gnawing ache that had plagued him since he’d ridden away from St. Clair Manor the previous evening.
Ridden away from Milly.
What he felt did have some frustration in it—would Wellington’s minions never stop bothering him?—but also despair, and a quality of homesickness. He’d endured this feeling for years at the Château, until he had nigh choked on it with each thick, bitter cup of coffee he’d downed.
The feeling was worse now though, when, as Michael had said, Sebastian could dream about a real peace, one that included a wife and children.
“MacHugh’s ready,” Michael said, shifting Sebastian’s boots so low-hanging branches gave them some protection from the rain.
“Did you offer an apology?”
“Tried that. No luck.”
Sebastian passed his signet ring over. “Any words of advice?”
“Stay the hell alive. You’re the last excuse I can use to put off going North.”
Sebastian willed his body to relax, despite the damp and the chill. “I will make every effort to oblige you. Do I assume one of those skirted mastodons is a surgeon?”
“The shorter one. MacHugh thinks he owes it to your widow to clean up your corpse before he sends you home to her.”
“Most considerate of him. Let’s get this over with.” They walked forward into the clearing as MacHugh tossed his flask to his second. “You’ll tell Milly?”
“Bloody hell. Yes.”
A damp, drippy silence went by while Sebastian studied the terrain. The left side of the clearing rose slightly, suggesting the ground might be less boggy. Rocks jutted toward the right, rocks a man would not want to fall against but ought to maneuver his opponent into.
“Your lordship, good morning,” MacHugh said, swaggering into the clearing. “Brodie says we’re not to kick each other in the balls, which suggests—contrary t
o all rumor and inference—you have a pair.”
MacHugh’s version of civilities.
“You’re not to bite me, either, MacHugh, lest the taste of my treasonous flesh fatally poison even so stout a constitution as yours. Shall we chat away the morning, or be about our business?”
Any conflict had a psychological aspect that a combatant ignored at his peril, so Sebastian had allowed a hint of a French accent to slip into his words, the better to goad MacHugh.
“My thanks for the reminder,” MacHugh said. “Gentlemen?”
The seconds paced off a circle of sorts while Sebastian mentally reached for the detachment he’d worn like a shroud for five years. MacHugh did not want to kill him—though somebody did—and when this morning’s inconvenience was dealt with, Sebastian intended to find out who.
***
“If milady would slow down,” Milly’s groom panted, “it’s barely light.”
“This is as light as the day will likely get,” Milly said, tossing her ruined bonnet off into the bushes. “Why does this wood have to be so perishing large?”
She took stock of her surroundings, comparing it to the Duchess of Mercia’s description. The clearing could not be far, but had Her Grace said it lay to the left of the rise or to the right?
“I should at least have tried to write down the directions,” Milly muttered. Or asked Her Grace to write them down, to print them, even, because Milly’s humiliation at making such a request could not possibly compare with her fear for her husband’s life.
Or her despair at his betrayal.
A horse whinnied from among the trees to the left of the rise.
“This way,” Milly said, hurrying off. Her boots slipped and nearly went out from under her in the mud, while the groom, exercising a damnable quotient of prudence, trailed her at an increasing distance.
Thank goodness Fable was snow white, because without the beacon of his coat among the wet greenery, Milly might have missed the clearing. As it was, she half slipped, half clambered down a bank, stopping short at the sight before her.
Michael Brodie stood off to the side, looking positively martyred, and two other fellows in kilts bore similarly pained expressions. In the center of the clearing, Sebastian and another fellow were stripped to the waist and pounding away at each other.
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