Page 29 of The Traitor
“What about the other one, MacHugh?”
Anderson dusted his hands. “He was sitting right there when I spoke to Dirks and didn’t say a word. Dirks isn’t the man’s name, you know.”
No, Henri had not known. This Dirks fellow had enjoyed the hospitality of the Château for a mere fortnight, and at a time when Henri’s attentions had been absorbed by happenings in Paris.
“Why is he called Dirks, then?”
“Because no matter how many knives you find on him, he always has one more in some location you’d never think to look. I expect he’s bloody competent with a sword too.”
“Which means if St. Clair chose pistols, Monsieur Dirks might not prevail. Why not challenge St. Clair yourself?”
Henri put the matter as a tactical question, when what he wanted to do was goad Anderson into the sort of idiocy upon which brave English officers prided themselves.
The frustrations of fieldwork on English soil were without limit.
“I won’t do it.” Anderson spoke not with bravado, but with the sort of quiet that suggested the bedrock of his Saxon stubbornness supported his words.
“And why will you not rid two sovereign nations of the traitorous embarrassment that is Sebastian St. Clair?”
Anderson brushed the crumb from his moustache and pulled on his gloves. “He had me soundly beaten, more than once. That is not reason enough to take a man’s life.”
“You were bound hand and foot. You could not fight back. Your wounds were not tended, and your womenfolk were left to think you dead.”
His lordship stood. “My wounds were tended more effectively than they would have been in any English field hospital. I know it was part of his strategy, to alternate care and abuse, but it was not part of his strategy to work out a ransom for me. He didn’t have to do that.”
This was…this was the confounded illogic of English honor, and yet Henri attempted to argue with it. He rose, lest Anderson try to stroll away from a discussion not yet concluded.
“St. Clair extracted from you every useful detail of intelligence he could, and then extracted coin from your family for the privilege of burying you on English soil, despite the fact that neither France nor England wanted any part of official prisoner exchanges. You were abused in more ways than you’ll admit.”
Though at the time, Henri had approved wholeheartedly of the ransom. Paris did not need to know everything that transpired hundreds of miles distant, after all, and theRépubliquehad seen some share of the coin. Occasionally.
“I am alive, sir,” Anderson said, tapping his hat more firmly on his head. “And while I will happily meet any man on the field of honor for just cause, my lady wife would rather I not keep fighting a war now concluded. If this makes me a traitor, then have an English officer of the Crown take me to task for it. I bid you good day, and my thanks for the gingerbread.”
He sauntered on, swinging his walking stick, the picture of English manhood in full bloom. Henri fell in step beside him, sparing a moment’s thought for the knife in his boot.
Buried betweenmoncapitaine’s shoulder blades, it would make a lovely addition to his so-fine and boring wardrobe.
“You’ll talk to this Dirks again?”
“I will talk to MacHugh, and then you can find another accomplice, monsieur. If England wants St. Clair dead that badly, then many should be willing to assist you.”
“Good day, then, and my compliments to your lady, and to your small daughters.”
Because he could not abide insubordination, Henri gave those last civilities just the slightest ironic emphasis. Let Anderson understand that his cooperation was not discretionary, but rather, as imperative as, andnearlyidentical with, his loyalty to the damned English Crown.
Six
“You will need your cloak and bonnet.”
Milly admired the perfect seam stretched across her embroidery hoop, though St. Clair’s tone suggested she was to pop to her feet, salute, and trot off for the front door at double time.
“Since when does one need outdoor apparel to learn to write one’s name, my lord?”
He remained standing over her—a male tactic she’d long since lost patience with—until Milly realized he was not trying to intimidate with his size and muscle, he was studying her sewing.
“Your stitchery is very pretty, Miss Danforth.”
Flattery was a male tactic with which she’d had little experience. “Thank you.”
