Page 37 of The Traitor
“Vincent wanted to marry poor, slow, dim-witted, eager Milly.”
The humor in her voice cut at him. “You are not dim-witted, Miss Danforth.” She was clever in the extreme, but if he stated that obvious fact, she’d leave the room.
“I am dim-witted, at least when the test of my readiness for marriage consists of reading a passage of scripture verbatim. I faltered, and much worse than Vincent anticipated I would. I hadn’t realized it was a test, you see.”
Sebastian shifted from his perch on the corner of the escritoire, the better to keep the errant Miss Danforth under surveillance.
“So you were supposed to be sweet, slow, and hardworking, but not entirely unlettered.” And doubtless she was also to have been abundantly curved, adequately dowered, and the complete dupe of her cousins.
She came to light on the piano bench, opened the cover, and ran a finger silently over the keys.
“I did not want to be a burden to anybody, and marriage is how a lady generally resolves that dilemma. Vincent is comely, and…comely.”
Saint Calculating-and-Comely had no true religious vocation was what Milly implied. He did, however, have excellent taste in women and had probably been smart enough to assure Milly his vicarage would be overflowing with the sound of small feet on the stairs and childish laughter in the garden. Sebastian moved off, away from the piano bench toward the hearth.
“You were in love with this scion of piety?”
“I was infatuated. At the time, I thought my only alternative to living with my aunts would be to return to Alcorn’s household. Then too, Alcorn had been extolling my virtues to an older fellow, some gouty baronet without an heir to whom I was nearly engaged, and me all unaware.”
She pressed a lone chord—A minor, in the tenor register—and abruptly, Sebastian wanted to play her something cheerful.
“Move over.”
When he thought she’d scamper off, she shifted a few inches left. “Are you finished with your questioning, my lord?”
“I was born to question. My own grandmother assured me of this, as did my tutors. In the army, it was not an asset.” At first, it hadn’t been an asset. “The Fontaine buffoon, is he of a mind to pursue you?”
Sebastian launched into the slow movement from Beethoven’s Concerto in E-flat major, which, while not ebullient, had a sanguine beauty that had become dear to him.
“Alcorn certainly hopes so. That is a lovely piece.”
“I heard it while I was hiding in Vienna, then I found Kramer had published it here.”
Sebastian hadn’t meant to say that, but sitting next to Milly Danforth, a man became distracted by the warmth and fragrance of her, by her willingness to freely compliment him on what little he could give her, by her thigh casually pressed against his.
As Sebastian played on, one lyrical, sweet phrase after another, insight struck: one could also unearth truth with the tool Sebastian had forgotten, the tool he’d never quite managed, except in some peculiar manner with Mercia.
That tool would be trust. Trust could move mountains, topple edifices, and win wars.
“Milly Danforth, I want to keep you safe from this idiot who would use you in his race to acquire a miter and stole, and from your thickheaded cousin. You must tell me what I need to know so I might achieve my purpose.”
She was quiet for so long he thought she wouldn’t answer. He could feel her swaying slightly beside him, enraptured by the music.
“Why were you hiding in Vienna, my lord?”
The arrangement called for crossed hands, and this allowed Sebastian to lean into her, albeit fleetingly.
“Not truly hiding. Everybody knew where I was. I was dithering, putting off my return to England because I knew it would be complicated. France was not safe, and England had no appeal.”
“You love England.”
He stopped playing mid-phrase. “How can you say that?”
“I saw the way you looked at the countryside around Chelsea. I see how you work at your ledgers and reports. I hear the servants talking about what a decent master you are, despite your Frenchie ways. You are not a man embittered by your English fate.”
Sebastian decided what he’d take from that observation was not the truth of it—if any truth there was—but rather, satisfaction that she’d made a study of him.
“I love my aunt, which is probably a Frenchie thing to put into words. I came back when Michael established it was reasonably safe for me to do so.”
