Page 21 of The Traitor
From English vengeance.
Michael rose and went to the decanters across the library. “Miss Danforth is an innocent. Innocents have a way of getting caught by stray bullets.” Michael had younger sisters, one of whom he’d never met, and all of whom had been born with red hair, much like Miss Danforth.
“We’re in London, Michael. English officers do not fire upon innocents in broad daylight, and I tell you, they don’t want to kill me. I’d be dead four times over if they did. If I’m killed, then some old English general will die in retaliation, and nobody wants to provoke such an embarrassing feud now that England and France are great good friends again.”
Though Michael had a damnably valid point, and they both knew it.
Sebastian tried to tattle on himself again. “I was referring to foolishness of a different order.”
Michael paused mid-sniff over a decanter. He preferred whiskey that didn’t reek of peat smoke, and Sebastian made it a point to keep some on hand.
“Your aunt has been tippling my favorite whiskey,” Michael said, bringing half a glass to the table. “That is foolishness. The woman is no bigger than a minute and ought not to be indulging so freely.”
Aunt could probably drink Michael under the table. “She has her reasons. Soon she’ll have another.”
“Because she’ll be measuring you for your shroud?” The question was cheerful, as only a peevish, tired Scot could be cheerful.
“Because she’ll be in want of a companion.”
The good cheer in Michael’s eyes died, though he took a respectful moment to sample his whiskey before asking the inevitable. “How did Miss Danforth find out about you so soon? You didn’t tell her yourself?”
“I told her I’d served in the French Army.”
“Many did. The parole towns are full of Frenchmen still. That alone wouldn’t drive Miss Danforth off. She needs the coin, her heart’s aching for the loss of her aunties, and she has no family worth the name.”
An accurate summation, one that inspired the guilt roiling in Sebastian’s gut to burn up from his belly toward his throat. “All true. Shall we finish this game?”
“You shall finish unburdening yourself first. I believe the words, ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned…’ might get you started. Particularly if you told the girl about the nature of your duties on behalf of theRépublique.”
“Papist.”
Michael winked and lifted his glass, though Sebastian knew the rosary worn under Michael’s shirt was in memory of his middle sister, and not an indication of popish sentiments.
“I did not tell Miss Danforth what went on at the Château. What I did was worse than that, though I’ve come to think I did the woman a kindness.”
Michael set his drink aside and shuffled the cards. The sound was familiar to any former soldier, and should have been a comfort. “I am not likely to be impressed with this great kindness of yours, am I? And she’s a lady, not a woman.”
“I kissed her, Michael.”
This admission did not result in a deluge of guilt and remorse, as Sebastian had been half hoping it would.
“She’s pretty, though she tries to hide it. Any sensible woman in service hides good looks,” Michael said, his tone sympathetic. “As long as we’re confessing our misdeeds, you need to know I searched her room.”
Old habits died hard, particularly when a fellow enjoyed indulging them—old bad habits.
“On whose authority would you violate a young lady’s privacy, Michael? I cannot recall giving any such order. Or do we make war on small, defenseless women now?”
When Michael should have bristled and returned fire regarding the weapons available to females of any nationality, he instead cut the deck then shuffled again.
If Sebastian’s enemies had finally succeeded in compromising Michael’s loyalty, then matters had come to a sad pass indeed, for Michael alone was privy to the battles Sebastian had fought, won, and lost in the bowels of the Château.
“If she’s a spy, she’s a damned good one,” Michael said when the cards were neatly organized. “Six dresses, all turned at least once, each one plainer than the one before it. One pair of boots, two pairs of house slippers, not a new heel on any of them. Underlinen so thin I could practically see through it.”
Michael’s recitation was disinterested, but Sebastian disliked the idea that Michael—thatanybody—had seen Miss Danforth’s underlinen. “What else?”
“Lavender sachets, a few letters from some soldier boy, a lock of blond hair, bits of household lace, and the most unbelievable quilt you’d ever want to see.”
What would Michael consider an unbelievable quilt? “Anything else?”
