Page 88 of The Traitor
“You see before you a doomed duke, then. Some matters do not admit of handling by post. What is that smell?”
As the dogs bounded closer, tongues lolling, plumed tails swaying in the breeze, Gilly caught the same sweet, noxious odor. “Whatever it is, it’s quite dead, and your dogs have thoroughly rolled in it, Your Grace.”
“Mydogs?”
“You brought them into our home.”
They argued agreeably all the way back to the stables, though when they went into the house, Gilly penned an acceptance of Wellington’s invitation—His Grace’s penmanship being deplorable—and Mercia signed it. He grumbled, he complained, and he generally tried his duchess’s patience first—and then rewarded her patience generously—but he did sign it.
Fifteen
“I do not understand this.” Henri affixed a perplexed look to his features and studied the scarred table, into one corner of which some philosopher of the grape had carved the words, “Fuk the Frogs.”
“She’s married him,” Upton reiterated. “Married a damned baron, and her the closest thing to a dimwit.”
Upton sounded more bewildered than affronted, as if barons were immune from mating with dimwits, when in Henri’s experience, intellectual abilities were the last thing a titled lord considered in a prospective spouse.
“I thought women required the permission of their next of kin before taking a spouse in this most civilized country. More ale?” The women of France, of course, no longer tolerated such interference, which was fortunate, given that few adult Frenchmen were extant to do the interfering.
“Please. Milly’s of age. She’s damned on the shelf, in fact, or she was, so she can marry where she pleases. Mrs. Upton is in quite a taking, quite a taking indeed.”
Hence Mr. Upton’s refuge in this cozy tavern.
Henri lifted a hand to signal the barmaid. “Your lady, she is not pleased to have a baroness in the family?” Because what was wanted here was not wallowing in self-pity, but action.
“Any other baroness would do famously,” Upton said, swiping his finger around the rim of his tankard then licking the wet digit. “Milly has gone and married the Traitor Baron, though, and that’s rather a different thing altogether.”
“Ah.”
Upton was marginally sober—the man could hold prodigious quantities of ale—and he was sly, but not particularly astute. The single syllable—a bit knowing, a bit commiserating—provoked him to turning an annoyed gaze on Henri.
“What? I’m not in the mood for any of your Frenchie subtleties, sir. Mrs. Upton in a taking is a formidable challenge to a man’s peace.”
“The ladies have no strategy.” Henri fell silent while the barmaid replenished Upton’s drink, but he waved her away rather than befoul his own palate with any more English ale.
“The ladies have a damned lot of strategy, most of it intended to keep a fellow from his marital bliss, if you know what I mean. My wife is the only lady to have three children and remain almost a virgin.”
Suggesting Mrs. Upton was a formidable woman even whennotin a taking. “You must show yourself the wiser person, and congratulate Millicent on her nuptials.”
Henri offered this suggestion with careful diffidence, because Upton was a pawn who could be led but not pushed.
“Congratulate her? You mean send around some fussy note? The damned girl can barely read.”
“She’s a baroness now. She’ll have a secretary or a companion, somebody who handles her correspondence.”
Henri was counting on it.
“Mrs. Upton ought to be the one to send such a letter, and she’ll swim the Channel in her stays before she offers Milly any congratulations. The girl’s portion was half the means…”
Upton took a judicious gulp of his ale, but he’d confirmed one of Henri’s favorite theories of human behavior: it all came down to money. Henri’s own motivations were rooted at least partly in pecuniary concerns, though France’s best interests would not be damaged when Henri’s goal had been achieved—not much.
“Do you know why the baron turned traitor?” Henri asked.
“Haven’t the foggiest.”
And Upton wasn’t inclined to wonder how Henri knew, which was a lovely oversight on Upton’s part.
“England abandoned him. I have puzzled on this, you see, because you English take the succession of your titles quite seriously. St. Clair is the last of his line, and if he’d been killed or convicted of high treason, then his estate would have reverted to the Crown. At one time, it was a wealthy barony, while the Crown is not so wealthy, hmm?”
