Page 106 of The Traitor
“And such a murder,” the professor murmured. “The last thing the French would do is stir up a hornet’s nest this grand.”
“Which leaves us with why Anduvoir is getting up to such tricks, and how we can stop him and retrieve Freddy from his clutches.”
Milly felt Sebastian’s lips as he spoke against her temple, and yet, beside her, his body had undergone a change. He was not relaxed; he was not calm. He’d gone into a state of battle readiness beyond calm.
He rose and drew Milly to her feet, wrapping his arm around her. “There being nobody else well suited to the task, I shall present myself at Wellington’s little fete.”
“They’ll kill you,” Michael said. “If you burst in uninvited on the lot of them, their dress swords at hand, the liquor flowing freely, they’ll fall upon you like a pack of dogs, and Wellington himself may not be able to stop them.”
Sebastian’s chin rested on the top of Milly’s head, while she clung to him.
“I am exhausted, Michael,” he said. “Weary to death of defending myself against all comers for actions that were the best I could manage at the time. My whereabouts will be impossible to deny if I attend this party, and my presence at Wellington’s table the only defense I can make. Then, too, I might be able to save His Grace’s life.”
Michael and the professor argued with him and swore and argued some more, but Sebastian’s plan made a kind of dreadful sense.
When it had been decided that Michael, the professor, and Giles would retrieve Aunt Freddy as soon as darkness had fallen, Milly found herself alone with her husband—her doomed husband.
“You’ve been very quiet,” Sebastian said, leading her over to the desk. He sat back against it, positioning Milly so she stood between his legs. “Talk to me, Milly.”
“I want to go with you.”
He kissed her, and in that kiss—sweet, tender, full of regret—he informed her that her daft notion would never form part of his plans.
“The less you’re associated with me now, the better. My suggestion for when this is all over is for you to retire to St. Clair Manor and enjoy being the Baroness St. Clair. You will be wealthy, you know, and you have a life estate in the dower house, regardless of what the Crown does with the succession.”
“I want no wealth, Sebastian. I’ve some money of my own, as it turns out. I want to grow old with you, to name our babies, to—”
Another kiss. “Milly, I know. I wish…I did not want you to hate me. I did not want my troubles to become yours. I did not want to leave you alone.”
The regret in his voice was piercing and genuine. Milly wanted to shake him to silence lest he break her heart.
“I love you.” Milly did not regret the words, only the circumstances under which she’d said them. “I love you because you are not hiding this awful business from me. You are not shutting me out as if I hadn’t a brain in my head. I love you because you could be catching a packet for somewhere far away right now, throwing your clothes into a trunk, grabbing the jewels, and fleeing, but that would only mean this nasty Frenchman has won, after you’ve fought so hard and so well against that very outcome.”
He pulled back and studied her for a long moment, his expression curious, not one Milly had seen him wear previously. “You understand.”
“I hate that you’re put in this position, but yes, I understand. Have you your knives?”
“I will not leave this house without them.”
“I’ll help you change. You must be quite the baron when you show up at this party, Sebastian, quite the English baron.”
He held her for one more instant, a moment in which Milly fought back all the arguments she had for joining him on that packet, sending him to his club rather than on this doomed outing, or trying to lock him in their rooms until this madness had passed.
Except that way would lead to more madness, more duels, more nasty Frenchmen, more war waged against Sebastian’s honor and his right to a peaceful old age.
“Come,” Milly said, stepping back and taking him by the hand. “None of your expensive cologne tonight either. You will reek of bay rum and English respectability, and make these men listen to you.”
While she would have his bottle of scent to torment herself with through all the years of her widowhood if they killed him instead of listening to him.
***
“Sir, you haven’t an invitation.”
Wellington’s staff was formidable, but no match for Sebastian’s resolve. “I have misplaced it, along with my patience. Where is His Grace?”
Something about Sebastian’s tone must have convinced the butler that here, despite a lack of uniform, was an officer expecting to be obeyed. “His Grace is in the kitchen, seeing to the final prep—”
“Get to the kitchen and tell him to not sample a single dish, most especially the mushrooms, not even one.”
