Page 69 of The Traitor
His duchess would have been proud of his restraint. He did not disrespect good wine by downing it all at once, another feat of which his duchess would have approved.
After a beat of silence, a general chorus of, “The ladies! Hear, hear!” greeted Christian’s sentiments. He stood on the periphery of the group, sipping his drink while more toasts were raised.
The steward was a shrewd little fellow from Alsace, and had known better than to disturb the best vintages for this impromptu cricket party. The wine was good, though, and for the first time since Christian had dragged himself from the Château, the company of his former fellow officers was not entirely objectionable either.
He’d learned to accept any measure of progress, however small. Learned from his duchess.
“So, has MacHugh asked you to second him?” Anderson had sidled away from the group to join Christian lounging against a doorjamb.
The name MacHugh brought to mind a big, tough, hardheaded Scot, though hardheaded Scot was a redundant term in Christian’s experience.
“Has MacHugh insulted somebody’s daughter? I never took him for a fool.”
Unlike Anderson, whom nobody would mistake for clever.
“Not hardly,” Anderson said, tossing back a gulp of champagne. “He’s taken offense at Girard’s maunderings—though I suppose we’re to refer to him as St. Clair these days.”
Christian set his half-full glass aside as a sharp twinge afflicted his left wrist. “I beg your pardon?”
Anderson glanced about over the rim of his glass. “I had a hand in things, if you must know. That Henri fellow said I was the best suited to it.”
The champagne curdled abruptly in Christian’s gut, though half the French nation answered to the name Henri.
“Anderson, join me for a moment at the window.” He took his former subordinate none too gently by the arm and steered him away from the group. “Has MacHugh challenged St. Clair?”
His lordship straightened with the exaggerated dignity of those inebriated while the sun yet shone.
“He most certainly has. A few words over a tot or two of whiskey, and MacHugh was ready to permanently solve the problem of St. Clair for two grateful governments, not that I told him that. He’d likely make a hash of it just to be contrary if I had. Pierpont blundered badly, but he never was very accurate with a pistol.”
More glancing about followed these disclosures as a shout went up from the group across the room.
Christian didn’t particularly enjoy being a duke; it was simply his lot, like being blond, tall, or Church of England rather than a Dissenter. One didn’t quibble with it, but one did learn to exploit its benefits. He took Anderson’s empty glass from his lordship’s hand and let a silence spread beneath the raucous drollery of the other men.
And then, when Anderson realized awkwardness was upon them, Christian posed his question in the tones of a titled superior officer whose patience was ebbing. “What’s afoot, Captain?”
“Old Hookey hasn’t told you?”
“Wellington is off in Hampshire, dealing with household matters.”
The gears of Anderson’s mind ground forward slowly, but they moved in the direction Christian had known they would.
“St. Clair is an embarrassment,” Anderson said, enunciating carefully, as if he’d repeated this to himself many times. “An em-barr-ass-ment to two governments. Henri and I, we’re the fellows to set things to rights. Clever chap, Henri—subtle, for a Frog.”
“Describe Henri.”
Anderson gave a description that fit exactly the worst of the specters haunting Christian’s nightmares. He suspected the same specter haunted St. Clair’s as well.
“So you lied to MacHugh, goaded him into challenging St. Clair, and are trusting to the Scot to see to the killing of an English peer?”
“A traitor baron who won’t be missed. Prinny’s never shy about taking on an estate or two left begging for an heir, not that I’d want credit for my part. I told the Frenchie this was my last contribush—my last part in it. St. Clair hasn’t bothered anybody since Waterloo, after all.”
Since Toulouse had fallen, though “bothered” was a spectacular euphemism for what St. Clair had got up to in the years prior to the False Peace.
“You’re smart to keep this to yourself, Anderson. You can’t breathe a word to anybody. Not Pierpont, not your lady, nobody. When is the duel to take place?”
Across the room, a song started up, a dirty little tune about plowing the fields of France, probably no worse than the French infantry had sung about the fields of England, but it increased Christian’s need to quit the premises.
“I dunno when they fight, but it’s to be a bare-knuckle encounter, of all things. MacHugh will finish him, I’ve no doubt. I expect MacHugh is giving Girard—St. Clair—time to get the wifey in an interesting condition first.”
