Page 61 of The Traitor
He passed gas, the sound muted by his own sitting bulk, then sighed with contentment, while Henri allowed a pang of sympathy for the sparrow who’d left her cousin’s tender care.
“You might consider watching the baron’s aunt’s comings and goings,” Henri suggested, “get a sense of what the old woman does with herself. If she’s exposing your cousin to untoward influences, then the young lady might thank you for rescuing her.”
“Milly has manners. She’s good about the please-and-thank-you business. Not like Frieda.”
Poor Frieda, who’d whelped three little acorns for her mighty, flatulent oak.
“You must finish this bottle for me,” Henri said, rising as a sulfurous stench came wafting to his nose amid the inn’s perfume of fish, beer, onions, and humanity. “I’ll tell the proprietor that you are to be served at my expense, and I’m sure if you keep an eye on the aunt, you will soon find compelling reasons to retrieve your cousin. Frieda cannot begrudge you this endeavor, and Vincent will thank you for it as well.”
He shrugged into his coat, though the afternoon was warm. “I will look forward to hearing the details of your reconnaissance efforts when we meet next week.”
Upton blinked up at him. “Next week?”
“Same time, same day, at this very table. I’ll see the sights until then, and you can tell me what I’ve missed in this great city of yours. Acorn, it has been a pleasure.”
Henri bowed smartly, smiled like a whore spotting a half-drunken mark, and put his hat on his head.
“That’sAlcorn, not acorn.”
“I do apologize. English is a sophisticated language, and you must excuse my errors. Through conversation with tolerant gentlemen such as yourself, I hope to improve.”
Alcorn looked dazed by that spate of words. Henri left him with the dregs of the bottle, watching the barmaids, and looking like a fat, old hound so far gone with the rheumatism he would not venture far from the hearth even to piss.
Alcorn was a suffering animal in need of a charitable trip to the woods, though first, Henri would earn the tacit thanks of at least two governments, and dispose of the damned Traitor Baron.
Eleven
Sebastian’s bride was not radiant, she was worried.
“You’ll sign your name as legibly as any woman on her wedding day, Millicent. Stop fretting.” He’d meant this as a reassurance, but his comment apparently fell short of its mark.
Their nuptials would transpire in the morning, God willing, and then seven days of marital bliss would commence—for Milly at least.
She paused mid-stab at her embroidery. “I’m not concerned about writing my name.”
Sebastian’s instincts begged to differ. She wasn’t worried about the wedding night; yesterday’s frolic in the drying shed had reassured him of that.
“You’re anxious over something. I can see it here.” He scooted to the edge of his reading chair and drew a finger between her brows. “You must learn to share your burdens with me, baroness.”
She jerked the needle through the fabric. “I’m not your baroness yet.”
Something struck him about the way she hunched closer to her hoop, the way her cat, cuddled beside her on the sofa, did not purr.
“You are worried your odious cousin will attempt to interfere with the ceremony.”
She put the hoop down and scooped the feline onto her lap. Immediately, the beast began rumbling.
“Alcorn can be very determined. Frieda is the more devious of the two, though. She’s had to be.”
“Sympathy with the enemy is never convenient, Milly, and seldom well-advised, though often unavoidable. I’ve not put a notice in the newspapers, you know.”
Her hand paused mid-stroke over the cat’s fur. “You haven’t?”
“Most people don’t. I have enemies, and they are not above hurting me through you. The more time I have before word of our marriage is generally known, the less likelihood that threat will reach you.”
“But Lady Flynn and Lady—”
“Are keeping their powder dry in anticipation of the announcement. When one has played whist as long as Aunt has, one develops a store of ammunition for use in emergencies.”
