Page 90 of The Traitor
***
The foot of the adult male was an interesting appendage and surprisingly susceptible to tickling, but Milly knew she was in a sad case indeed when she missed Sebastian’s feet in her lap. In less than a week, Milly and her husband had developed the habit of repairing to the library after dinner. Sebastian would read to her, his head or his feet in her lap.
When she’d had her fill of stroking his ears or examining his toes—his second toe was the longest of the batch on both feet—he’d pass Milly the book, and she’d take a turn at thrashing her way through some Wordsworth or Byron.
Sebastian was endlessly patient with her, always correcting and never scolding. He said she was improving, and Milly had to agree. Once, he’d asked her if she recognized the shape of the words without being able to recite the letters, and the question had proven insightful.
So now, when Sebastian had left for London and Milly had the evening to herself, she repaired to the library and prepared to trudge through a stack of correspondence.
“You are not Peter,” she informed the red-and-black cat curled in the opposite chair. “You aren’t even purring.”
The cat formed a perfect oval against the cushions, and the chair had been angled to catch the fire’s heat. Milly doubted the beast was even awake, while Peter—or Sebastian—would never have abandoned her for anything so prosaic as an evening’s nap.
“Sebastian is meeting with the solicitors tomorrow, and said he ought to be home by sundown. I should have gone with him.”
Except he’d decided to travel to Town on horseback to make better time and take advantage of the full moon, and Milly’s equestrian confidence wasn’t up to a moonlit ride the entire distance to London.
Or maybe her confidence as a baroness had failed her. Sebastian had taken her upstairs directly after dinner and made slow, silent love to her, then kissed her forehead and slipped into his riding attire while Milly had watched and tried not to feel abandoned.
“Trust is complicated,” she informed the cat. “And difficult. Reading is difficult too, though it was once impossible. Would you like to hear some of my correspondence?”
The very tip of the cat’s tail moved once.
“A hearty endorsement.” Milly picked up the first epistle, a single folded sheet that bore, of all things, Alcorn’s sprawling, untidy hand.
“Felicitations, no doubt, and a scold or two.” Milly pried off the seal, wondering why, if congratulations were to be extended, Frieda had not troubled herself to make the overture. Frieda had a daughter, after all, a cheerful girl who might someday have need of a titled aunt.
Milly fell silent as she read. When she finished the note, she went back over it again, word for word, to make sure she had the correct sense of Alcorn’s letter, and then—much to the cat’s apparent displeasure—she started bellowing at the top of her lungs.
***
“Bloody goddamned rain.” And bloody goddamned coffee, because the kitchen staff at the town house had prepared only coffee for Sebastian, their habits being driven by his own. A hot cup of tea would have been ever so much more soothing to his belly.
Michael drew his horse up. “You’ve dueled in the rain before.”
“With pistols,” Sebastian replied, bringing Fable to a halt. “How likely is sloppy footing to make a difference when a man knows his powder is dry, and all he must do is turn, aim, and fire into the boughs?”
“So change your choice of weapon.”
“We did not bring the pistols or swords. Bare knuckles it will be. If I survive this, remind me to order the kitchen to throw out every bean of coffee in the larder.”
Michael swung off his beast and ran up his stirrups. “You aren’t generally nervous before a dawn meeting.”
“I am not nervous, I am frustrated.” Sebastian climbed off his horse, which made him morefrustrated. Riding into London by the full moon, tossing and turning the night away, and rising before dawn to a damp and chilly morning did not agree with his joints—another legacy of his years at the Château.
“What has you frustrated?”
“This business with MacHugh. It won’t solve anything. A half-dozen others, at least, can come after me should MacHugh fail to kill me.”
Michael paused in the act of loosening his gelding’s girth. “I thought MacHugh didn’t want to kill you.”
“He doesn’t. Not really. If he kills me, I won’t have to suffer the results of all the damage he plans to inflict on me. Make sure the rules stipulate no blows below the waist.”
“With an attitude like that, I hope your affairs are in order.”
They fell silent as MacHugh and his seconds rode into the clearing, the same place, ironically, where the Duke of Mercia had chosen to spare Sebastian’s life.
“I will greet my counterparts.” Michael tied his horse’s reins to a convenient sapling, and would have crossed the clearing to confer with the kilted associates flanking MacHugh, but Sebastian stopped him with a hand on his arm.
