Page 5 of The Traitor
“And what were your aunts’ names?”
“Millicent and Hyacinth Hathaway, my lord.”
“They dwelled here in London?” He kept to the small-talk tone that a wise prisoner knew signaled relentless patience rather than civility.
“Chelsea. The air is better.”
A single volunteered detail, which was a significant step. She was acknowledging that he was in pursuit of her truths. He abandoned the happy key of F major—Herr Beethoven called it the pastoral key—and switched to his personal favorite, A-flat minor. Because of the intermingling of black and white keys, this key required a deeper penetration of the hand into the keyboard, and more dexterity. He particularly preferred it after sunset.
“Why did you accept a position with my aunt, Miss Danforth? She is noted to be difficult under the best circumstances, even eccentric, according to the intolerant majority. Your days here will be trying, and your evenings no less so.”
Miss Danforth took a step away from her flowers. “The container is wrong.”
He brought the scale to a smooth conclusion, and though he knew it would not serve his investigation into her character, flicked a glance toward her bouquet. “I beg your pardon?”
“That…” She waved a small hand toward the vase, which was a cheerful, pastel urn sort of thing fromTante’s collection of Sèvres. The scene depicted was some gallant fellow bowing over a simpering damsel’s hand. Courtly grace surrounded by gold trim and fleurs-de-lis.
“It’s pretty enough.”
Sebastian was treated to the sort of look women bestowed on men too thick to see the obvious. This look was the same across every nationality he’d encountered, and every level of society, though it hadn’t been aimed at him by any save his aunt in years.
“What has pretty to do with anything?” Miss Danforth asked. “It’s a vase, of course it’s pretty. Also too tall, too busy, too elegant, too impressed with itself. If you would fetch me that jar?”
Some long-dormant gentlemanly habit had him rising—she was that good at balancing polite request with implied command—and crossing the room to reach above her head and fetch down a simple bisque container.
As if he were any footman, she did not move from his path, but busied herself with removing the flowers from the offending—and quite valuable—vase. When he presented her the jar, she smiled.
Tootall, too busy, too elegant, too impressed with itself.
Oh, she was quite good.
“My thanks, sir. This plain vessel will serve the flowers to much better advantage.” She hefted a substantial pitcher and filled the plain vessel with water.
His estimation of her rose yet more—and this was not a good thing—because of that smile. The smile was acoupdegrâce, full of benevolence, understanding, and evensympathyfor a titled lord who’d done a mere companion’s bidding without hesitation. His intent had been to dissect her like an orchid on the examining table.
Time to be about it. “You have not answered my question, Miss Danforth. Why choose a position with my aunt? The air in London is inferior, after all.”
Her shrug was as eloquent as any Gaul’s. “The wages are better in London, and your aunt is not confined to a sickroom. Her company will be lively, and her terms generous.”
That those termscouldbe generous was no small relief. “It wants organization—your bouquet.”
Why couldn’t she see this? He removed all the greenery and stems she’d tucked willy-nilly into the vase and started over. Greenery mostly, a few sprigs of lavender next.
“Itwantsto be pretty,” she countered. “It wants to have a pleasant scent.”
“Balance and proportion are pretty, grace and harmony of the colors are very pretty.”
He added roses next, here, here, and there. She was right about the scent, though—the lavender dominated, mixing with the scent of greenery. The roses were invisible to the nose.
He paused, the last rose in his hand. “You’re wearing lavender, Miss Danforth.”
“And you are making an English bouquet, all tidy and symmetric. I would expect…”
How lovely, to see her stumble over her words, to see her gaze shift to the single rose in his hand. “Youwould expect?”
“A more Continental approach, more free and loose, a bit off balance but more interesting for it.”
He could go on the offensive now, but he didn’t. “I am in an English household, and I am an English baron. I will have an English bouquet for my pleasure.”
