Page 31 of The Traitor
“What have you learned that you didn’t know when we left the house, my lord?”
Milly asked, becauseshehad learned things. When he’d taken his hat off and set it beside them on the bench, she’d learned that the sun could find red highlights in his dark hair. Because that same sun caught the fatigue etched around his mouth and eyes, she’d learned that he was tired, even this early in the morning. She’d learned that his scent was a pleasure that eclipsed the rare day of fresh air in London’s often odoriferous surrounds.
She’d learned that in the deceptive openness and pleasantry of a sunny morning, she would tell him things she hadn’t shared with anybody else—about birchings, about days of bread and water, about having her knuckles smacked until they were red, swollen, and bleeding.
About typical schoolgirl tribulations that had felt like the torments of the damned.
“What I know now, Miss Danforth, is that you are resourceful, determined, and clever, though one certainly had suspicions in this regard previously. Iknowyou will soon be writing your name.”
His utter assurance—his arrogance—on this point was lovely.
“I want the whole thing, you know, complete with Harriette.”
His forward progress never faltered. “I beg your pardon?”
“MillicentHarrietteDanforth. I want all three names, not some little squiggle in the middle that stands for Harriette.H’s aren’t that difficult. They look like divided doors when both halves are fastened, the kind you see in stables and dairies.”
“So they do. What other letters have you noticed lurking in odd locations?”
Milly prosed on as they passed blooming lilac bushes, though she did not tell him that when a lady stood with her arms at her sides in an evening gown, her décolletage resembled the letterM, particularly if she were well endowed. How a poor relation spent her evenings among the wallflowers was not his concern.
“Miss Danforth, you will not take offense when that blond gentleman offers the cut direct.”
The baron’s voice had changed, gone smoother and harder, more English and more commanding officer both. A tall, trim fellow came striding toward them. Every aspect of his attire, every aspect of his bearing shouted that he was Quality, and likely titled Quality at that.
She saw the moment when the man recognized St. Clair, saw not a hesitation in his stride, but a slight angling forward, as if a chilly wind had arrived of a sudden. His gaze flicked over St. Clair then landed on Milly, to whom he offered the slightest gesture in the direction of a finger to his hat brim.
“St. Clair.”
“Mercia.”
The encounter was over in an instant, and yet Milly suspected her escort was not merely surprised, he was astonished.
Milly used their linked arms to tow him onward. “Steady on, St. Clair. I expect he was but an earl or a viscount. They tend to frequent the park on pretty days, the same as the rest of us, and being a useless lot, they have all the time in the world to perfect their manners.”
“That, my dear, was no less personage than His Grace, Christian, Duke of Mercia, a man whom I hold in the highest esteem.”
“Not a bad-looking fellow,” Milly said, and then she chattered on because she had the sense St. Clair was so rattled, he needed her words to focus on. “One sees the occasional duke, and it’s often a disappointment. They go bald, get fat, have bad teeth and nervous laughs just like the butcher and the coachman. Duchesses are no better. They’re supposed to be nigh to royalty, but the association doesn’t seem to lend them any immunity from human foibles. One need only look to the Regent himself—I suppose I’m flirting with treason—but the man’s stays are said tocreak, and that can hardly—”
“Millicent, I’ve met dukes before.”
Millicent. His pronunciation of theisuffered a bit crossing the Channel, but she liked it—Meelicent. Doubtless, St. Clair had met that very duke before, and not under ideal circumstances.
“His Grace was in want of charm,” Milly said. “You and he have that in common.”
They walked for a few more paces. At some point, Mr. Brodie had rejoined their little foot patrol, while the baron remained thoughtful at Milly’s side.
His silence was convenient for Milly, because she had much to consider. The thoroughness of the baron’s questioning, the care with which he’d staged his interrogation, and the ease with which he’d adopted the role of interrogator suggested familiarity with that terrain—and Milly had been questioned before.
“Why can’t you learn, youstupidgirl?”
“Whenwill you apply yourself? Children half your age learn this easily!”
“Are youtryingto earn a beating?Anotherbeating?”
All in aid of imparting to Milly an ability to read her Bible. Such Christians, her cousins.
And yet, the question that lodged in her mind as she made her way home beside a silent St. Clair was different from the ones shouted at her in the schoolrooms of years past. What remained to plague her was St. Clair’s question.
