Page 20 of The Traitor
Abruptly, Milly felt the need to sit as well. Mr. Brodie was trying to warn her of something, something uncomfortable.
“I know about the duels, Mr. Brodie. Her ladyship knows of them too, somehow.”
He muttered something in…Gaelic? “Her ladyship probably knows what flavor of jam Wellington had on his toast this morning, but she cannot stop the fools who challenge a man, though all he wants is to tend his acres in peace.”
Was that all St. Clair wanted? Milly thought of him looming over the ragman, thought of his kiss, and hoped Mr. Brodie was wrong.
“What are you trying to tell me, Mr. Brodie?”
He rose and passed her the cat, but continued to stroke its cheek with two fingers. “I’m trying to tell you that it isn’t safe for anybody to be too close to St. Clair. He has enemies, and they would destroy anyone and anything near him to end his life or simply to torment him. For some, the war will never be over.”
“Are you threatening me?”
He dropped his hand. “No, lass. I’m warning you. You’ve noticed St. Clair doesn’t escort his auntie if he can help it, noticed he never takes a groom when he rides out. You will notice that his aunt doesn’t press him to socialize beyond the perfunctory meddling of an elderly relation.”
Peter leaped from Milly’s arms without warning, his powerful back legs imprinting an ache on her chest.
“That is no way to live. His lordship cannot help that he served for his adopted country. He’s not the only person for whom the Corsican’s bloodlust resulted in impossible choices.”
Mr. Brodie studied her for a moment. He was not only big, blond, green-eyed, and muscular, he was also handsome, particularly with that sad light in his eyes.
“Your principles do you credit, Miss. See that they don’t get you or the baron killed.”
He bowed and left her alone, with more to think about than ever. She closed the door behind him and poked up the fire, wanting instead to beat something or somebody with the poker.
“Is St. Clair to live the rest of his life like a leper?” she asked the room in general.
Peter sprang to the windowsill and commenced to bathe himself.
“Alcorn and Frieda have resented me my entire life simply for being born. Some people delight in carrying grudges, but I do not think my cousins would attempt to kill me.”
In pursuit of his ablutions, Peter adopted an indelicate pose most humans would find impossible, if not uncomfortable.
“They would encourage me to find a husband, though, and then sabotage my chances in that regard.” Humiliating her endlessly in the process.
Thoughts of marriage were enough to send Milly into her bedroom for her workbasket. She wanted to think not of marriage, but of the baron’s kiss, of the mischief in his eyes when he winked at her, of the novelty of feeling feminine, desirable, and cherished, if only for a moment, if only by a near stranger.
A handsome near stranger who knew how to scold and comfort both, in a single kiss, then how to tease so neither the scold nor the comfort ached much at all.
Milly drew her workbasket out from under the bed. Something made her pause as she straightened, a sensation like being watched. She turned slowly, trying to place the origin of that feeling. The room was small, furnished with comfortable, mismatched pieces that nonetheless felt cozy. But something…
Vetiver. The scent of it was concentrated here by the close air of a small upper room on a rainy afternoon.
Michael Brodie had already been in her bedroom, the same Michael Brodie who’d warned her the baron had unseen enemies.
***
“Michael, I have been foolish.” Sebastian had kept this announcement to himself for the entirety of three days, for the distance of several long walks in Hyde Park, for the duration of two morning hacks that had taken him, of all places, to the Agrarian Society’s experimental farm outside Chelsea.
Michael spread his cards on the table. “You have been nothing but foolish, lately. I’ve a double-double run, and I shall beat you handily if you don’t start minding the game.”
Michael was ferocious about his cribbage, and about as subtle as a cavalry charge when provoked on certain topics.
“You are working up to a speech, my friend.” Sebastian advanced his peg one point, because he’d pulled the jack of the same suit as the cut card. “Let me guess. I’m overdue for ‘Why survive five years in the Pyrenees with Henri breathing down our necks, the English pounding at the gates, and rations bordering on poison, only to be killed by an excess of English vengeance now?’”
Michael turned over his crib, another hand of four cards. “Not a point to be had. There being no hope for you whatsoever, I was thinking more along the lines of, ‘Are you trying to get your aunt’s companion killed too?’”
Sebastian gathered up the deck and let the cards riffle through his hands. “She was safe enough.”
