Page 7 of The Traitor
“She offered me employment when I badly need it, my lord, and has done so on little evidence other than my characters. I am in her debt. To toss aside her faith in me would be ungrateful, also foolish.”
She marched across to the piano, closing the cover over the keys and relieving Sebastian of her lavender scent.
“One admires your pragmatism, Miss Danforth. Perhaps the flowers should be set in the window. They will appreciate the light, and passersby can appreciate your bouquet.”
She liked that idea, or she liked any excuse to keep moving away from him. The sorry choice of a former fiancé sank further in Sebastian’s estimation. Englishmen knew nothing of how to appreciate women. Not one thing. Most Frenchmen knew all too much about the same topic, though.
Miss Danforth nudged the flowers to the center of a windowsill behind the piano. “Will that do?”
“Lovely. And send a footman to clean this up. I cannot be responsible for further injury to my aunt’s newest companion.” Though he’d injure her without hesitation if his judgment of her proved overly optimistic. “I will take my leave of you, Miss Danforth.”
He bowed, she curtsied, and as he left the room, she was tidying up the mess they’d created, despite his orders to the contrary.
No matter. He’d ascertained what manner of addition his aunt had brought into their household. Miss Danforth was the kind of soldier whose loyalty was earned, and once given, was not rescinded except for excellent cause. Had she been an English officer, she would have given her life to keep her troops safe.
Sebastian decided that for now, Miss Danforth would do. His next task was to head to the conservatory to see what fool had put lavender clippings in the trash.
Two
Henri Anduvoir disliked English taverns, among many other aspects of “perfidious Albion.” He disliked the scent of raw fish, and England had so much coastline, the entire sorry country stank of fish, or manure, or some diabolical, dank, rotting combination of the two.
He disliked the growing bald patch at the top of his head, to the point that the last time a woman had remarked upon it, he’d slapped her into silence.
A small lapse of control, though the encounter had turned out pleasurably enough for them both.
He disliked the ubiquitous dish of the English common man, which paired an overcooked, dead fish of indistinguishable species and ample bones with an equally overcooked heap of dead potato. Not a sauce, not a spice to be found anywhere in the vicinity, unless excessive salt merited consideration.
Though decent ale was at least at hand to wash it down, which was fortunate, because no wine should be expected to bear such an insult.
When former Captain Lord Prentice Anderson came through the door, Henri had one more thing to dislike—the expression onmoncapitaine’s face.
Anderson had been pressed into service for two reasons. First, while held at the Château, he’d never laid eyes on Henri Anduvoir, and thus could make no inconvenient connections. Second, Anderson was not burdened with excesses of intellect, but could be counted on, like the loyal soldier he was, to follow orders.
Anderson had been cavalry, which meant he could also be counted on to move about and conduct himself with the subtlety of a horse. He stopped immediately inside the door, thereby announcing to all and sundry that a fellow had arrived who was not a regular patron. He glanced left; he glanced right. Nervously.
And then—may the merciful God have pity—Anderson put his hand up to his face and brushed his fingers over an overly groomed mustache, as if to say, “and don’t forget this aspect of the tall, blond, expensively dressed, gentleman stranger’s appearance, should any passing constable need a description.”
Amateurs were a trial beyond endurance. Henri took a hearty swallow of his ale—Englishmen did not sip ale—and, as intended, the movement drew Anderson’s attention.
The captain did not go to the bar—of course, he did not—but rather, clomped straight over to Henri’s table, hung his hat and cape on the nearest hook—lest his exquisitely tailored riding ensemble also go unremarked—and scraped back a chair.
“I do not have good news.”
Henri offered the man a blazing, toothy smile. “Perhaps your not-good news can wait until the tavern wench has come trotting by?”
Another twitch of the glorious manly mustache, also a nod.
“The ale is surprisingly good,” Henri said as he caught the serving maid’s eye, lifted his tankard an inch, and jerked his chin toward Anderson. She moved off toward the bar, and Henri realized he’d erred. An Englishman would have bellowed, but then an Englishman would have sounded like an Englishman.
Anderson’s jaw firmed. “English ale is the best in the world.”
So subtle, this glossy English gelding. “Biensûr, else I would not have come this distance to enjoy it.”
Anderson’s drink was put before him, and he spared the maid neither an appreciative look nor a thank you, lest he be mistaken for a relaxed swell—that was the English word—enjoying a casual tankard with an acquaintance.
“Pierpont missed. St. Clair deloped. Again.”
Bad news, indeed.
