Page 110 of The Traitor
His Grace paused for a considering sip of claret. “The French asked for our aid, which took no small toll on their pride. Anduvoir was here to see you killed—you had put those sums into his hands to be delivered to his superiors—but Anduvoir also sought to plant evidence that you had stolen that money, too. I hope you consider matters between you and the Crown acceptably addressed after this day’s work, for the Crown considers itself in your debt.”
Sebastian managed to ask the only pertinent question. “You have Anduvoir in custody, then?”
“We do. Brodie reported the address by messenger earlier today and demanded my aid in seeing your aunt to safety. Seems a certain Frenchman tried to interfere with the King’s men when about the King’s business. Dreadfully stupid of him. Mortally stupid, I should think.”
“Don’t think it,” Milly snapped. “Make sure of it, if you please.”
“I rather agree with the lady,” Mercia drawled.
A chorus of “hear, hear” followed, though to Sebastian, the words and the goodwill they embodied rang hollow. The only solid thing in his awareness at that moment was the woman who still held on to him for dear life.
“St. Clair, will you and your lady stay to enjoy the meal with us?” Wellington asked.
His Grace was extending an olive branch, and though the officers might be willing to let the past remain in the past, Wellington’s overture presaged not merely tolerance, but acceptance.
Approval, even, from the most respected subject of the British Crown. Though this might for years have been the answer to prayers Sebastian dared not admit to even himself, now it mattered not in the least.
“I think not,” Milly said. “St. Clair, I am quite fatigued. If you would please take me home?”
Sebastian did not glance at Wellington or Mercia, or anybody else who might have ventured an opinion, for the lot of them could go to blazes.
“Of course, my dear. Events have been wearying in the extreme.”
She took his arm, but they did not escape without Mercia—the man certainly knew how to make his opinions known—instigating a round of applause, in which Wellington himself joined.
***
Milly forced herself to loosen her grip on Sebastian’s hand. “Tell me you are not about to run down this street, tearing your hair and screaming French obscenities.”
“I am not.”
He walked along beside her, while Milly stifled the impulses she’d just named. For a good two dozen yards, she managed to hold her silence.
“Sebastian, howareyou?”
He kissed her knuckles. “Quite well.”
Milly lasted a dozen yards this time. “Talk to me, Husband, or so help me, I will lose my reason.”
Right there in the street, with fashionable carriages rumbling past on the way to an evening’s entertainment, Sebastian stopped and wrapped her in his arms.
“I am walking out of the Château again, but this time, I am taking my heart, my soul, and my future with me. The prospect will take some getting used to.”
Milly caught a whiff of lavender from the small bouquet she’d affixed to his lapel not two hours earlier. “Will you take your baroness with you?”
His arms slipped away, and he resumed walking, not even taking her hand.
“What nonsense is this, Wife? We’re married. I was thinking of moving to Patagonia with you.”
Milly held her ground as he strolled off. “Sebastian, Ileftyou. I purchased my own establishment in Chelsea as insurance, in case our difficulties could not be resolved. I’m worse than Wellington, who was at least trying to win a war.”
His lordship came stomping back to her side.
“You did not leave me. You shut me out, in the same manner I had first demonstrated to you. We are done with such folly. Did you read my letter?”
She’d memorized his letter. “Yes. The letter was very prettily written.”
By the light of the streetlamp, Milly saw that her answer had baffled him.
