Page 40 of The Traitor
If only it had felt like theft—on his part.
“Some would say I was overstepping, my lady. Trying to gain the notice of my betters.”
Alcorn would certainly say that. Milly dropped back onto the piano bench and considered Alcorn might have been—as he often was—somewhatright.
Lady St. Clair crossed the room to open the drapes farther, so a shaft of sunlight fell across the tulips, making the choice of a blue vase more tolerable.
“I vow you did not leap upon St. Clair and render him helpless with the powers of your charms, Milly dear. He was a soldier, for God’s sake, he knows how to fight back.”
Fight back against what? Or whom?
“We made progress with my letters.”
“I daresay you did.” Lady St. Clair snapped open another set of drapes, the light falling this time on the piano. “Well, no matter, but you must not allow any more such nonsense. Sebastian is not as sturdy as he believes himself to be. I can’t have you trifling with him.”
Trifling withhim? He thought himself either indestructible or expendable, and Milly was not sure which was worse. “Do you suppose he was trying to scare me into quitting my post?”
Lady St. Clair’s gaze fell on the tulips. “Those flowers go so well in here. And no, Sebastian was not trying to scare you into quitting your post. Were he intent on that end, you’d be writing out your notice this instant. Sebastian will, however, believe I’d think him capable of such machinations. Come along, my dear. You must assist me to choose my jewelry for the Hendershots’ musicale. Early evening wants tact, and tact has never been my strong suit.”
She swept from the room, while Milly shot a longing glance at the escritoire. Here’s,l’s, ando’s lay forgotten, no obliging shaft of sunshine to illuminate them where they looped and swooped across the page.
Thank God Milly had had the sense not to attempt anyv’s.
***
A duke generally ascended to his title knowing exactly how many princes, royal dukes, and other dukes stood between him and the British throne. In order of precedence, Christian, eighth Duke of Mercia, far outranked the first Duke of Wellington, and yet, when the summons came from Apsley House, Mercia did not tarry.
He kissed his duchess good-bye, kissed her good-bye some more (the roads being unpredictable between Surrey and London, and his duchess being the affectionate sort), and presented himself in Wellington’s soaring foyer well before supper.
“Married life agrees with you,” Wellington observed with the slightly puzzled, wistful air of a man whose own duchess was seldom on the premises.
“It emphatically does, Your Grace.”Thistime, for Christian was a widower whose fortunes had improved with his second foray up the church aisle. “My duchess sends her regards, and charges me to invite you to Severn whenever you’re inclined.”
“Pretty little thing, your duchess.”
Wellington was an observant man, and a favorite with the ladies. From Christian’s perspective, His Grace was making the transition from general officer, to politician, and even statesman with enviable ease.
“More to the point, sir, my duchess puts up with me. I’d like to return to her side before nightfall, if possible.”
His Grace led Christian up the ornate staircase to the floor above. “You young fellows, haring in all directions, galloping about under the full moon… How’s the hand?”
Wellington was also a man who took the welfare of his staff—his former staff—seriously, which was not always convenient.
“Well enough. I can write with it—I can write with either hand now, thanks to Girard—thanks toSt. Clair’s—guards and their penchant for violence.”
Wellington ushered him into a high-ceiling parlor that sported walls full of portraiture and other art. “It’s about St. Clair that I wanted to speak with you. Shall I ring for tea, or would you like something stronger?”
If they were to discuss St. Clair, then a tot of the damned poppy wouldn’t go amiss.
“Something stronger. The roads were dusty.” Not too dusty to dissuade a man from traveling home by moonlight when that man slept ever so much better beside his duchess.
Christian crossed to an open window, where the fragrance of stabled horses came wafting in from Tattersall’s not far upwind.
“To your health,” Wellington said, extending a small glass to him. “And to the Regent’s damned health.”
Christian took a sip of excellent Armagnac. “You’re spending time at Carlton House these days?”
“Not if I can help it, but I have ascended to the status of universal expert, you see. If there’s a bit of scandal brewing, then I must sit on the committee to investigate same. If a charitable commission is to be got up, then we must have old Wellington’s imprimatur on the thing. One doesn’t miss the battlefield, but one does sometimes appreciate what an honest, efficient place it was.”
