Page 16 of The Traitor
“He is black.” Wonderfully, unrelievedly, marvelously black with piercing green eyes and plush, long fur. “He’s very friendly.”
That a cat was friendly was no particular recommendation. Milly should have said Peter caught a prodigious number of mice, except he’d never caught a mouse in his pampered life. As predators went, Peter was an utter failure.
The baron’s expression did not soften, and now—now when she could not reach a handkerchief because of the burden she held—Milly’s tears welled.
“I can find a home for him, if you insist, but the baroness assured me…” She couldnotfind a home for this cat. He was lazy and friendly, two mortal sins for an animal who ought to survive by hunting. He was convinced dogs were his intended companions, after old women, children, and Mr. Hamilton down at the Boar’s Tail.
Milly brushed her cheek over Peter’s head. “I thought that’s why we brought the wicker hamper.”
Her voice had wobbled. She buried her nose in Peter’s rumbling warmth and wondered if the baron were susceptible to begging, because Milly could not lose this cat. She would sell her trousseau, face her cousins, pawn the little bottle of scent, give up her last links with the aunts—
A hand landed on her shoulder. “The error was mine. Of course your friend cannot be left alone in his grief. I take it he is old?”
St. Clair’s voice was gruff, and yet his hand on Milly’s shoulder was gentle. She ran her nose over Peter’s neck. “Five.”
“In his prime, then. He will make a lovely addition to Aunt’s sitting room, and soon have all her confidences.”
The baron moved off, taking the warmth of his hand with him. Milly watched while he removed a peculiar assortment of items from the wicker hamper: A thick wool blanket, a bottle of wine or spirits. A wrapped loaf of bread, a small wheel of cheese, a jar of preserves, a quarter ham in cloth.
He piled these offerings on the seat, and Milly realized the morning had passed. “Were we to picnic, then?”
Dark brows rose over unreadable green eyes. For a moment, the most distinct sound was Peter’s purring.
“Would youliketo picnic, mademoiselle?”
***
Somebody sought in a methodical, determined manner to kill Sebastian, and yet, he had offered to picnic with a sad young lady on a gorgeous spring day. Because surviving the tender mercies of the French Army had absorbed his most callow years, he’d never made such an offer before.
Was one picnic in the English countryside too much to ask of an adulthood otherwise devoted to war and its aftermath?
“I would like a picnic,” Miss Danforth said. “Peter would like that as well.”
“Then the vote is unanimous. Have you a location in mind?”
Of course, she did. She had Sebastian turn the horses out in an overgrown paddock across the alley from the house. While the cat followed Miss Danforth around the yard, she picked a bouquet of daffodils and disappeared for a time up the lane. When she returned, she no longer carried the flowers.
Sebastian had spread their blanket in the spot she’d designated in the shade of the back gardens, a place not visible from the alley or the home of the one neighbor the property boasted.
“I would have gone with you, you know,” he informed his companion as she lowered herself to the blanket.
“With me?”
“You went to the churchyard, to pay your last respects. One wants to do this alone, and yet one should not have to.”
One, one, one. He was leaning toward his English side today, which was odd, because all of his funerals, including the many he’d presided over as any commanding officer might, had been in French.
Miss Danforth opened the hamper, which Sebastian had repacked as best he could.
“Aunt told me I was not to wallow in my grief. She was quite stern about that. I was to find a good position and make the most of it. We have no utensils.”
Sebastian withdrew his everyday knife from his left boot and presented the handle to her. Based on Miss Danforth’s expression, this was notcommeilfautat a picnic.
A cessation of hostilities left a soldier hopelessly behindhand, though it had been some time since Sebastian had felt so very out of step with his surroundings. “Shall we retrieve napkins, forks, and such from the house?”
She examined his knife, a serviceable, bone-handled blade whose twin reposed against the small of Sebastian’s back. He kept his smallest throwing dagger in his right boot, that being the handiest location for quick retrieval.
“I’d rather not go back into the house, thank you.” She took the knife from his palm without touching his bare skin. “A knife is all we really need.”
