Page 46 of The Traitor
Too early for a proper morning call, suggesting the fellow was family or wanted to be certain to catch the family at home. Not a tradesman, though—St. Clair was scrupulous about paying bills when due, and the trades would skulk around back rather than lose custom by presuming on the front door.
As on both previous occasions, Monsieur Well-Fed Englishman rapped on the front door, exchanged a few words with whoever answered, and then a few more words.
Henri left some coins on the table and took his time pulling on his gloves—the English were to be honestly commended for their workmanship when it came to gentlemen’s gloves—the better to watch the little drama taking place on St. Clair’s front steps.
The argument went on, for it was an argument. The Fat Fellow gesticulated with his walking stick as if it were a drover’s staff, and from within the house, the door was drawn closed.
Myenemy’s enemy is my friend.
This little aphorism was perhaps Roman in origin, so honestly did it summarize one reality of warfare. Henri tapped his hat onto his head squarely, in the English fashion, mentally imbued his walk with an English strut, and quit the Jugged Hare as if late for an appointment.
By maintaining the same attitude, Henri neatly intersected the chubby man’s path as that worthy came waddling down St. Clair’s steps, muttering under his breath about idiot women and ungrateful cousins.
Henri fell in step beside this beleaguered soul because clearly, like all of God’s creatures from time to time, this Englishman was in need of a sympathetic ear.
***
“My lady, you should know that your companion was closeted with his lordship for a good twenty minutes last night when the rest of the house was abed.”
Dear Michael was clearly not happy to be peaching on his employer, while the baroness was ecstatic with his report.
“Which of them do you expect me to scold, sir? They are both of age, and need I remind you, at least one of them has a duty to the title he has yet to fulfill.”
Sebastian’s bodyguard-stalking-about-as-a-valet picked up the cat stropping itself around his boots. “Shall we conclude they were discussing that duty late at night, behind the closed door of the library?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes.”
The cat squeezed its eyes shut and began to purr as Michael scratched its hairy head.
“Baroness, you seek to provide St. Clair companionship, secure the succession, and perhaps even see the young lady well married, but that is not what awaits them.”
Lady Freddy had managed the St. Clair holdings for more than ten years without benefit of a baron at her side, or many material resources, and she’d learned in those years whom she could trust and whom she had to watch.
Michael Brodie fell into both categories.
“What aren’t you telling me, young man? Sebastian and Milly will soon be head over ears for each other, and neither one is in a position to be picky. In my day, we were more practical about these things. I did not hold the barony together so Wales could fritter away our valuables on his infernal art collection.”
George would forgive her for that characterization—he’d always been a tolerant boy when sober, particularly where the ladies were concerned.
Michael wanted to pace. Lady Freddy could sense it in him, the way the switching of a cat’s tail presaged a great pounce.
“St. Clair’s enemies are not rational,” he said. “They do not tell themselves, ‘Oh, well, five challenges would be excessive and vindictive, and St. Clair has paid enough for the crime of loyalty to his mother’s people. Surely we should let him go in peace to raise up a passel of babies in the grand English tradition.’”
He shifted the cat to cradle it like an infant, and the shameless beast only purred more loudly.
“Michael, what do you know that you aren’t saying?”
“Nothing. I hear things, though, rumblings and rumors, and none of them suggest Sebastian’s troubles are over.”
Well, of course they weren’t. “Wellington stood up with me the other night.”
Michael left off scratching the cat’s chin. “His Grace is said to be an excellent dancer.”
In more ways than one, as Lady Freddy could attest. “He gave me a different version of the same warning you’re delivering.”
Michael paced to the window, which, being at the back of house, overlooked the mews. Soldiers never really lost the need for reconnaissance, good soldiers anyway.
“What did he say?”
