Page 15 of The Traitor
“Then I will leave you to make your farewells.” He hefted the trunk to his shoulder, happy to depart before grieving sentiments could overtake pragmatism. The trunk smelled slightly of cedar and camphor, and was surprisingly light, suggesting her trousseau did not include much silver.
“I’ll be along soon, my lord.”
He left her sitting on the bed, alone in a pretty house that by rights should have come to her. This thought bothered him, because he was glad her cousins had cheated her out of her inheritance, for it meant his aunt had a cheerful, practical companion who was easy to look upon and competent with the reins.
***
The baron had hefted the trunk holding her trousseau as if it had been no more weighty than a wicker basket full of clean sheets. In his absence, Milly sat on the bed where she’d slept most every night of her adult life until recently, and inventoried her emotions.
The very exercise the baron had no doubt given her solitude to undertake.
She was in the grip of a sense of loss, but the loss had started two years ago when Aunt Mil had begun to fade. The aunts had known they were leaving Milly, and had done what they could to safeguard her future.
The house was just a house, as Aunt Hy had said. When the baron had escorted Milly up from the kitchen, the house had felt small and empty.
In addition to the feeling of loss was a sense of satisfaction, because the aunts’ plan was successfully implemented. Milly was safely ensconced in the employ of a Mayfair baroness, one who understood about dreadful cousins.
And Milly was relieved too, because even if those dreadful cousins should surprise her on the premises, his lordship would deal with them, as Lady St. Clair had no doubt intended.
St. Clair would not come back inside to retrieve her, either. His ease with difficult emotions meant Milly would not have to rush her farewells.
Though neither would she prolong them, because the final emotion Milly could not ignore was loneliness. She had been happy with the aunts, and she had been lonely.
She was lonely still.
“You can come out now.”
Nothing, not even a rustle. Perhaps Peter was downstairs, hiding from Alcorn and Frieda, who’d probably inspected the house before Hyacinth had been measured for her shroud.
Peter did not lack for the self-preservation instinct. “Peter Francis Danforth!”
Still nothing. Milly turned her steps down the hallway, to Hyacinth’s sitting room, and there she found her quarry in his customary spot in the window, as if waiting for the next quilting party when all and sundry would make their obeisance to him before the workbaskets were opened.
“There you are.”
He glowered up at her in feline indignation, flicking his great black tail as if to ask, “Where on earth have you been?”
“I came as soon as I could, and while I appreciate that you’ve maintained the order of the household, it’s time to go now. Aunt Hy wanted you to come with me. It’s the only thing she asked of me.”
Milly spoke not for the cat’s benefit, but for her own. She picked him up, surprised as always at his sheer weight. A cat so fluffy ought not to weigh so much. Predictably, he began a rumbling purr.
“You are a fraud, Peter Francis. You glower at the world, switching your tail and promising doom to all who cross you, and then you start that purr…”
Aunt Hy had claimed the purr helped her rheumatism. She’d sat with the cat in her lap, stroking his soft, dark fur for hours while Aunt Mil had read and Milly had done piecework.
“The baroness will love you,” Milly said around the lump in her throat. “But you’re mine now. And I’m yours. You may love her ladyship, too, but you’ll always be mine.”
She tucked the cat against her and walked through the house, looking neither left nor right. She’d slipped a bottle of Aunt Hy’s perfume in her skirt pocket, but left everything else as she’d found it, knowing Alcorn and Frieda would note anything substantially out of place.
When she passed through the back door, she set Peter down for a moment while she worked the key. On impulse, she slipped the key in her pocket too, then picked up the cat.
The baron had secured her trunk to the back of the phaeton and was lounging by his vehicle, the picture of a handsome man enjoying a pretty day in the country. He pushed away from the phaeton at the sight of Milly.
“That is a cat.” His tone was a combination of consternation and banked hostility.
“This is Peter. Peter Francis Danforth. He was Aunt Hy’s dearest friend, and if I don’t collect him, my cousins will banish him to the stables or worse.”
“I drove the length of the city to retrieve a cat. A black cat.”
