Page 4 of The Traitor
“Very. And parsimonious in the extreme.”
“My condolences. Have another pastry.”
***
A properly commanded garrison relied on a variety of types of soldiers. In Sebastian’s experience, the ideal fortress housed mostly men of a common stripe, neither too good nor too evil, willing to take reasonable orders, and possessed of enough courage to endure the occasional battle.
They were the set pieces, announcing to all and sundry that a war was being prosecuted, and they deserved as decent conditions as their commander could arrange for them. The decent conditions minimized the chances of rebellion or petty sabotage, and maximized the possibility of loyalty and bravery.
Equally necessary to the proper functioning of any human dwelling place were the women. They were the more interesting of the foot soldiers, usually good for morale, diversion, clean laundry, cooking, and—in a manner that comforted in the midst of war—of maintaining the peace. To Sebastian’s way of thinking, they were also the intelligence officers most likely to pass along information that would allow him to sort out bad apples from good, and sheep from goats.
Though a few bad apples were utterly necessary. A few who enjoyed inflicting pain, a few who could be counted on to serve Mammon rather than France. The first group—the brutes—were useful for enforcing discipline andmoreuseful as an example when they themselves had become undisciplined, which they invariably did.
The second small group—the born traitors—were invaluable for their ability to disseminate false information to the enemy, to start rumors among the troops, or to undermine the stability of the local populace. When Sebastian had come across such a one, he’d cultivated that resource carefully.
And now it was time to determine what manner of soldier Miss Danforth would be.
He found her not in the library, which had been the preferred haunt ofTante’s previous companions, but in the music room, arranging roses.
“Good morning, my lord.”
Four words, but they told him much. Her greeting was accompanied with a slight smile, not quite perfunctory, not quite warm; her tone had been halfway between dismissive and respectful.
She was accustomed to dealing with her social superiors and to dealing with men.
“Good morning, Miss Danforth. May I join you for a moment?” Because a proper interrogation was conducted with proper respect for the person questioned.
She glanced at the open door so smoothly it did not interrupt her attention to the roses. “Of course.”
And then she did not chatter, which was interesting. He was permitted to join her only because the proprieties were in place, and that told him worlds. “Those roses are quite pretty, if one enjoys the color red.”
Not by a frown or a pause did she show a reaction. She tucked a sprig of lavender between green foliage and surveyed the effect.
“I’ve never understood the allure of the rose,” she said. “They are pretty, as flowers go, but most have little scent, they make a mess all too soon, they have thorns, and people are always reading arcane significance into them. May I have those shears?”
He passed her the shears and took a seat on the piano bench a few feet away. He did this because an English baron would not likely ask a companion for permission to sit, but also because something about her recitation, the frankness and intelligence of it, appealed.
“The lavender is an unusual touch.”
Miss Danforth wrinkled her nose. She had classic bone structure about the brows, cheeks, and chin, the sort of looks that suggested outcrosses in her lineage. Scandinavian, Celtic, or Teutonic, based on her hair. The nose itself hinted of ancient Rome, though her coloring was too fair for that.
“The lavender isn’t working,” she pronounced, scrutinizing her bouquet. “Somebody left it as waste in the conservatory, though, and that is an abomination I cannot abide.”
He opened the lid of the piano and considered. Something innocuous and sweet. Music by which to lay bare a soul—her soul, for he hadn’t one to his name. “You cannot abide waste?”
“Not the waste of such a useful plant. The very scent of it quiets the mind. Lavender can soothe a wound, liven up a bland pudding, brighten a garden.”
She had good taste in flowers. Many knaves and whores did, as did some traitors. “Do you mind if I play?”
“Of course not, my lord.”
A slight misstep on his part. If he didn’t ask permission to sit, he probably ought not to ask permission to use his own piano. He started off with a few scales, mostly to draw his not entirely quiet mind from the scent of lavender and the sight of graceful female hands toying with flowers and greenery.
“Might I inquire as to your last position, Miss Danforth?”
She clipped off a few inches of a thorny rose stem. “I was companion to a pair of my aunts, my lord.”
Again she did not chatter. She was a woman who understood the proper tempo of an interrogation. Sebastian started up the keyboard again, this time in parallel sixths in the key of F major, the scale made a bit tricky by the nonsymmetric placement of the B flat.
