Page 89 of The Traitor
The debts incurred by the Regent and some of his siblings would have occasioned a revolution in any other country—particularly when the common English man or woman typically faced jail for even minor debt.
Upton took another gulp of ale, belched, and then seized upon the heart of the matter.
“Milly is the Traitor Baroness now. That’s not good, not even for her.”
Such compassion for a woman who’d probably been little more than slave labor in Upton’s nursery. She would likely thank Henri for his efforts before matters were concluded.
“You must warn her, then.”
This time, Upton took the bait. “Warn her about what? She can’t help but know St. Clair’s past. Even if she can’t read the papers, she’ll hear the gossip in the man’s own house. The aunt’s received, and you can bet Milly’s heard plenty already, trailing that old woman about in Polite Society.”
Henri used the ring finger of his left hand to trace the lettering carved into the table. “Your dear cousin knows of his past, but you must warn her of his future.”
“I’m not a damned fortune-teller—” Upton’s gaze fell on the lettering. “What do you mean? And speak plainly, for I must return to Mrs. Upton’s side before supper.”
Another burp followed, this one musical. Flatulence was sure to ensue directly, so Henri spoke quite plainly.
“Even among my countrymen, it’s known that St. Clair has been challenged to several duels, and has come away unscathed each time. He faces another challenge, though, and the man he meets this time is noted for his ability to fight in close quarters. By this hour on Tuesday, your cousin could well be widowed.”
“The nobs and their damned duels…”
“Even a traitor baron makes provision for his baroness, should she be widowed.”
Henri spared a moment’s pity for this Millicent creature. Henri had not seen her at close range, but Upton described her as plain by English standards, none too bright, illiterate in a land that took to heart at least the reading of its Bible, and no longer young. She was ideally situated to overlook St. Clair’s numerous shortcomings, and provided she was fertile, St. Clair was probably happy to overlook hers as well.
“You’re saying Milly will come into some blunt, if St. Clair’s killed.”
Henri traced the letters again, the smooth feel of the ancient wood oddly comforting. “She well could, but nobody will warn her of her husband’s approaching folly. If the other fellow dies, St. Clair could face charges of murder, and his lady will want to distance herself from any further scandal, I’m sure.” More to the point, Mrs. Upton wouldn’t care for it.
“Tuesday, you say?”
“I have it on reliable authority. And your Milly has nobody else in the entire world who will explain to her the depth of her error regarding this marriage.”
Upton tilted sideways on his chair, and predictably, a low, rumbling noise escaped. His gaze, however, was fixed on the table, so Henri could watch as thoughts linked up in the murky recesses of Upton’s mind and became conclusions.
“I’ll drop her a note, and Milly will see who her friends are. Mrs. Upton never understood the girl, but Milly isn’t entirely stupid, not about common sense things.”
“Milly will appreciate your honesty, and if her baron is killed, she will know to whom she can turn in her grief.”
Henri did not expect St. Clair to be killed in a round of fisticuffs—far from it. St. Clair was big, fit, quick, and hard to kill, for Henri had tried on several occasions to accomplish just that goal. Before a court martial, at the hands of an impoverished whore, and by direct means.
St. Clair needed killing before certain decisions of Henri’s came to light. The sullen Scot might see it done, but Henri was not about to depend on such means, not when the field of honor had proven so hospitable to St. Clair in the past.
“Milly’s not here,” Upton said, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the St. Clair town house. “Off in Surrey with her baron, probably ordering maids and footmen about when she’s not flouncing around in the St. Clair jewels and dreaming of new gowns.”
“So send word to her in Surrey.”
For this was the vital contribution Upton could make to the game. He could summon the baroness from the family seat and bring her back within range of Henri’s grasp. The arrival of a lone Frenchman in the wilds of Surrey would be remarked by all and sundry, and doubtless come to St. Clair’s attention. If Henri was to acquire the baroness for his own purposes, she must be brought back to Town, and before Wellington’s next gathering of his officers.
Another occasion of flatulence ensued. “Suppose I could.”
“If she were my cousin, I would feel honor bound to put the truth at her misguided feet. You’d think St. Clair would have had enough of killing his countrymen when he served the Corsican.” A slight, necessary exaggeration of St. Clair’s record of service.
Upton grimaced, downed the rest of his ale, and rose. “I’ve never shirked m’ duty where Milly’s concerned. Wretched girl has been nothing but trouble.”
Henri rose as well, and clapped Upton on a beefy shoulder. “She is luckier than she will ever know, to have family as devoted as you.”
Because such affection was likely outside of Upton’s experience, Henri twinkled a smile at his friend for good measure. Upton looked momentarily confused, slapped his hat onto his head, and waddled out, muttering about “Tuesday next” and “disobliging women.”
