The Traitor (2 page)

“Several times, my lady.”

“Excellent. Have another pastry.”

Milly munched away on a confection filled with chocolate crème—one could learn to appreciate such fare all too easily—while Lady St. Clair waxed enthusiastic about the affairs of Wellington—for who else could “old Arthur” be?—and his officers.

And still, something about the Baron St. Clair lodged in Milly’s awareness like a smudge on her spectacles. He was quite handsome—an embarrassment of handsomeness was his to command—but cold. His smile reached his eyes only when he beheld his elderly aunt.

Perhaps dueling had taxed his store of charm.

“…and the ladies
très jolie
, you know?” Lady St. Clair was saying. “Half the fellows in government claimed they needed to go to Paris to make peace, but the soiled doves of London went into a decline until the negotiations were complete. Making peace is lusty work, methinks.”

“I’m shocked yet again, my lady.” Though not by the baroness’s bawdy talk.

St. Clair—a baron and peer of the English realm—had spoken with a slight aristocratic
French
accent.

“Excellent. We shall get on famously, Miss Danforth, provided you aren’t one to quibble about terms.”

“I have not the luxury of quibbling, my lady.”

The baroness peered at her over a pretty teacup. “Truly odious cousins?”

“Very. And parsimonious in the extreme.”

“My condolences. Have another pastry.”

***

A properly commanded garrison relied on a variety of types of soldiers. In Sebastian’s experience, the ideal fortress housed mostly men of a common stripe, neither too good nor too evil, willing to take reasonable orders, and possessed of enough courage to endure the occasional battle.

They were the set pieces, announcing to all and sundry that a war was being prosecuted, and they deserved as decent conditions as their commander could arrange for them. The decent conditions minimized the chances of rebellion or petty sabotage, and maximized the possibility of loyalty and bravery.

Equally necessary to the proper functioning of any human dwelling place were the women. They were the more interesting of the foot soldiers, usually good for morale, diversion, clean laundry, cooking, and—in a manner that comforted in the midst of war—of maintaining the peace. To Sebastian’s way of thinking, they were also the intelligence officers most likely to pass along information that would allow him to sort out bad apples from good, and sheep from goats.

Though a few bad apples were utterly necessary. A few who enjoyed inflicting pain, a few who could be counted on to serve Mammon rather than France. The first group—the brutes—were useful for enforcing discipline and
more
useful as an example when they themselves had become undisciplined, which they invariably did.

The second small group—the born traitors—were invaluable for their ability to disseminate false information to the enemy, to start rumors among the troops, or to undermine the stability of the local populace. When Sebastian had come across such a one, he’d cultivated that resource carefully.

And now it was time to determine what manner of soldier Miss Danforth would be.

He found her not in the library, which had been the preferred haunt of
Tante
’s previous companions, but in the music room, arranging roses.

“Good morning, my lord.”

Four words, but they told him much. Her greeting was accompanied with a slight smile, not quite perfunctory, not quite warm; her tone had been halfway between dismissive and respectful.

She was accustomed to dealing with her social superiors and to dealing with men.

“Good morning, Miss Danforth. May I join you for a moment?” Because a proper interrogation was conducted with proper respect for the person questioned.

She glanced at the open door so smoothly it did not interrupt her attention to the roses. “Of course.”

And then she did not chatter, which was interesting. He was permitted to join her only because the proprieties were in place, and that told him worlds. “Those roses are quite pretty, if one enjoys the color red.”

Not by a frown or a pause did she show a reaction. She tucked a sprig of lavender between green foliage and surveyed the effect.

“I’ve never understood the allure of the rose,” she said. “They are pretty, as flowers go, but most have little scent, they make a mess all too soon, they have thorns, and people are always reading arcane significance into them. May I have those shears?”

He passed her the shears and took a seat on the piano bench a few feet away. He did this because an English baron would not likely ask a companion for permission to sit, but also because something about her recitation, the frankness and intelligence of it, appealed.

“The lavender is an unusual touch.”

Miss Danforth wrinkled her nose. She had classic bone structure about the brows, cheeks, and chin, the sort of looks that suggested outcrosses in her lineage. Scandinavian, Celtic, or Teutonic, based on her hair. The nose itself hinted of ancient Rome, though her coloring was too fair for that.

“The lavender isn’t working,” she pronounced, scrutinizing her bouquet. “Somebody left it as waste in the conservatory, though, and that is an abomination I cannot abide.”

He opened the lid of the piano and considered. Something innocuous and sweet. Music by which to lay bare a soul—her soul, for he hadn’t one to his name. “You cannot abide waste?”

“Not the waste of such a useful plant. The very scent of it quiets the mind. Lavender can soothe a wound, liven up a bland pudding, brighten a garden.”

She had good taste in flowers. Many knaves and whores did, as did some traitors. “Do you mind if I play?”

“Of course not, my lord.”

A slight misstep on his part. If he didn’t ask permission to sit, he probably ought not to ask permission to use his own piano. He started off with a few scales, mostly to draw his not entirely quiet mind from the scent of lavender and the sight of graceful female hands toying with flowers and greenery.

“Might I inquire as to your last position, Miss Danforth?”

She clipped off a few inches of a thorny rose stem. “I was companion to a pair of my aunts, my lord.”

Again she did not chatter. She was a woman who understood the proper tempo of an interrogation. Sebastian started up the keyboard again, this time in parallel sixths in the key of F major, the scale made a bit tricky by the nonsymmetric placement of the B flat.

“And what were your aunts’ names?”

“Millicent and Hyacinth Hathaway, my lord.”

“They dwelled here in London?” He kept to the small-talk tone that a wise prisoner knew signaled relentless patience rather than civility.

“Chelsea. The air is better.”

A single volunteered detail, which was a significant step. She was acknowledging that he was in pursuit of her truths. He abandoned the happy key of F major—Herr Beethoven called it the pastoral key—and switched to his personal favorite, A-flat minor. Because of the intermingling of black and white keys, this key required a deeper penetration of the hand into the keyboard, and more dexterity. He particularly preferred it after sunset.

“Why did you accept a position with my aunt, Miss Danforth? She is noted to be difficult under the best circumstances, even eccentric, according to the intolerant majority. Your days here will be trying, and your evenings no less so.”

Miss Danforth took a step away from her flowers. “The container is wrong.”

He brought the scale to a smooth conclusion, and though he knew it would not serve his investigation into her character, flicked a glance toward her bouquet. “I beg your pardon?”

“That…” She waved a small hand toward the vase, which was a cheerful, pastel urn sort of thing from
Tante
’s collection of Sèvres. The scene depicted was some gallant fellow bowing over a simpering damsel’s hand. Courtly grace surrounded by gold trim and fleurs-de-lis.

“It’s pretty enough.”

Sebastian was treated to the sort of look women bestowed on men too thick to see the obvious. This look was the same across every nationality he’d encountered, and every level of society, though it hadn’t been aimed at him by any save his aunt in years.

“What has pretty to do with anything?” Miss Danforth asked. “It’s a vase, of course it’s pretty. Also too tall, too busy, too elegant, too impressed with itself. If you would fetch me that jar?”

Some long-dormant gentlemanly habit had him rising—she was that good at balancing polite request with implied command—and crossing the room to reach above her head and fetch down a simple bisque container.

As if he were any footman, she did not move from his path, but busied herself with removing the flowers from the offending—and quite valuable—vase. When he presented her the jar, she smiled.

Too
tall, too busy, too elegant, too impressed with itself.

Oh, she was quite good.

“My thanks, sir. This plain vessel will serve the flowers to much better advantage.” She hefted a substantial pitcher and filled the plain vessel with water.

His estimation of her rose yet more—and this was not a good thing—because of that smile. The smile was a
coup
de
grâce
, full of benevolence, understanding, and even
sympathy
for a titled lord who’d done a mere companion’s bidding without hesitation. His intent had been to dissect her like an orchid on the examining table.

Time to be about it. “You have not answered my question, Miss Danforth. Why choose a position with my aunt? The air in London is inferior, after all.”

Her shrug was as eloquent as any Gaul’s. “The wages are better in London, and your aunt is not confined to a sickroom. Her company will be lively, and her terms generous.”

That those terms
could
be generous was no small relief. “It wants organization—your bouquet.”

Why couldn’t she see this? He removed all the greenery and stems she’d tucked willy-nilly into the vase and started over. Greenery mostly, a few sprigs of lavender next.

“It
wants
to be pretty,” she countered. “It wants to have a pleasant scent.”

“Balance and proportion are pretty, grace and harmony of the colors are very pretty.”

He added roses next, here, here, and there. She was right about the scent, though—the lavender dominated, mixing with the scent of greenery. The roses were invisible to the nose.

He paused, the last rose in his hand. “You’re wearing lavender, Miss Danforth.”

“And you are making an English bouquet, all tidy and symmetric. I would expect…”

How lovely, to see her stumble over her words, to see her gaze shift to the single rose in his hand. “
You
would expect?”

“A more Continental approach, more free and loose, a bit off balance but more interesting for it.”

He could go on the offensive now, but he didn’t. “I am in an English household, and I am an English baron. I will have an English bouquet for my pleasure.”

She took the rose from him and considered
his
bouquet. “Here, I think.”

He’d reserved the longest stem for last, and she’d used it as the centerpiece of the arrangement, English-fashion.

“Very nice, Miss Danforth. Now where will you put it?”

Her scent was very nice too, mostly sweet lavender, reminding him all too powerfully of summers in Provence. An English baron in his English household ought not to be homesick for old monasteries and French sunshine. He leaned in and sniffed the delicate purple flowers anyway, right there in front of her.

“Your aunt wanted an arrangement for your piano. She said you play a great deal, and she wanted them where you could see them. Does that suit?”

“No, it does not.” The last thing he wanted was a reminder of his past when he came to the piano for solitude and solace. “Water and musical instruments are not a prudent combination.”

“Then you decide, my lord.” She passed him the vase, roses, lavender, and all, and began tidying up the detritus of his design.

He set the bouquet aside and took a step closer, an impulse intended to intimidate a small, plain woman who did not understand with whom she tangled. He considered how best to acquaint her with her multiple errors in judgment.

“Blast!” She did not apologize for her oath, but brought the fourth finger of her left hand to her mouth.

“A thorn?”

She nodded and drew her damp finger from her mouth, frowning at it. “Roses are overrated, I tell you. No wonder we equate them with true love.”

Her comment, the scathing tone in which she’d delivered it, told him much. He wrapped his handkerchief around her finger, and thus had a means of ensuring she didn’t flounce off before he’d achieved his objective.

“The bleeding will stop momentarily, Miss Danforth.”

“I know that.”

Her composure was jeopardized by their proximity, which should have pleased Sebastian. The simplest form of intimidation was physical, though to use his sheer size and masculinity against her was unappealing.

Unsporting, to use the English term.

And yet, he did not step back or turn loose of her hand. “Who was he?”

She glowered at their joined hands, her loathing not quite hiding the hurt in her eyes.

“My cousin’s choice, one I’m far better off without.” Hurt was there in her words too.

“I will tell my aunt that should any gentlemen followers come calling on you, she is not to leave you alone with them, no matter what flattery or tricks they attempt, or how strongly she is tempted to matchmake, for matchmaking is one of her besetting sins.”

If Sebastian had been asked, he would have said the emotion in Miss Danforth’s brown eyes most closely resembled sorrow. “Thank you.”

The flattery and tricks that had gone before had been bad, then. Bad enough that she’d given up much in the way of a genteel lady’s comforts to find refuge in service. Englishmen were a disgraceful lot when their base urges beset them, which was to say, most of the time.

He unwrapped his handkerchief and inspected her hand. “You will live, I think. Keep the handkerchief. It is silk and has my initials on it. When your cousins come to call, you shall wave it around under their noses, and not too subtly, yes?”