Page 8 of The Traitor
“Drink your ale,monami.” Because Pierponthadmissed and because Anderson’s usefulness was not yet at an end, Henri made his tone consoling. “One did not expect success on the first or second attempt. Our governments are prepared to be patient.”
Anderson eyed his drink, which sported a head of foam only gradually receding from the rim.
“Then you need to find somebody else to assist you. The word in the clubs is that St. Clair has deloped three times, and outright refused to fight when the Duke of Mercia challenged him. He tells them all to go home to their womenfolk, and that the war is over.”
A conscience was a great complication in a subordinate, but then, Anderson in no way saw himself as Henri’s subordinate.
“You found it difficult, to see a man fire into the air when his life had been threatened, even when threatened by one who had a right to take that life. This does you credit, Captain. Nobody disputes that St. Clair has courage.”
The baron had rather too much courage, in fact, which Henri might have regretted, had he been interested in retrieving his conscience from the dusty confessionals of his long-distant boyhood.
Anderson relaxed fractionally and reached for his ale, then set it down untasted.
“Itwasdifficult—bloody damned difficult, and St. Clair is right. The war is over, so you’d best find somebody other than me to aid you. I’ve agitated twice now for St. Clair’s victims to challenge him. If I second at another duel, my involvement will be too conspicuous.”
This flare of scruples was tedious, like a mistress who pretends she must be wooed and aroused as well as paid. Henri manufactured what he called his French Philosopher look. Soulful, understanding, wise, and sincere—it required tired brown eyes and a thin nose to be carried off properly. A graying beard would have been nice, but that had been sacrificed in the interests of anonymity.
“Your government selected you to work with me in this venture, Captain. My government chose me to see it through.” He considered a biblical allusion to removing this cup from his lips and rejected it—his objective was murder, not martyrdom. “We are patriots, we have that in common, and both England and France want to be rid of the embarrassment that isMonsieurleBaronSt. Clair.”
Anderson scrubbed a hand over his face, tweaked the mustache, and peered at his drink.
“One more. I’ll see if I can talk one more former prisoner into calling him out, and I’ll find others to serve as seconds, but then, that’s it. To hell with England and France. If God wants St. Clair to survive five challenges and four duels, then who am I to question the verdict of the Almighty?”
A comfort, to know that at least the hand of God provoked an Englishman to humility.
“Then we will choose our next champion carefully,” Henri said. “There are eight candidates that we know of. Eight more officers who suffered abominably at St. Clair’s hands, eight men who will never sleep as well, or feel safe even in their lovers’ arms. Who among them do you think has the best aim, the steadiest nerves, and the greatest chance of ridding the world of the blight of St. Clair’s existence?”
Anderson took a prissy sip of his ale, but hadn’t waited quite long enough, because his mustache now sported evidence of his libation. “Dirks or the other Scotsman, MacHugh.”
The Scots were bloodthirsty. Despite their propensity for drinking whiskey, this was something Henri admired about them. He attributed a pugnacious nature and tolerance for strong drink to having to share an island with the English.
He passed Anderson a plain linen handkerchief and tapped a finger above his own lips. As Anderson daintily blotted ale from his mustache, Henri sorted through options.
“Approach both Dirks and MacHugh and assess their receptivity. We can afford to be patient and careful, but not too patient.”
Henri tossed a few coins on the table, including a bit extra for the wench, and rose. He did not settle his greatcoat around his shoulders with a subtle flourish—that would be French of him—but rather, put his arms into the sleeves and left the coat hanging open, English fashion.
When he’d also tugged on his gloves, he clapped Anderson on the shoulder in a hearty parting gesture. Because remaining unnoticed in a foreign country started with walking in exact imitation of the locals, Henri strode out the door like he’d just spent time with a pretty, conscientious whore.
Which, in effect, he had.
***
“No matter how many times you glance at that door, I will catch you at it every time, andTantewill not join us.”
St. Clair’s voice was not exactly accusing. Milly regarded her breakfast companion over a plate of sinful lemon pastry and saw something in his eyes though. Humor?Achallenge?
She lifted the pot—more old-fashioned Sèvres. “Tea, my lord?”
“If you please.”
He had a way with silence, just as Aunt Mil had had. Milly poured but did not ask him how he preferred his tea. She set the pot down, went back to savoring her lemon tart, and didnotglance at the door.
The lemon pastry was lovely—flaky crust cooked to an even, golden brown, the sweet, rich filling still warm. The very scent of it proclaimed wealth and ease; the taste of it comforted in ways the jingling of coins never could.
“What will you do with your morning, Miss Danforth? It appears we’re in for that most rare of English treats, the sunny day—or a sunny morning, at least. One doesn’t want to tempt the gods of English weather.”
He picked up a slice of bacon and tore off a bite with his teeth, appearing both savage and elegant even in so mundane an activity.
