Page 99 of The Traitor
She would deserve to know, because her loyalty was that reliable, and because Sebastian could not afford cowardice where she was concerned. He only hoped he had a chance to explain that to her.
“Michael’s on his tail,” Baumgartner said softly.
Out on the street, as Anduvoir strolled around the corner, a big, shambling character in a disreputable coat sauntered after him. The disreputable character paused to buy a nosegay from a flower girl, a useful ploy for reconnoitering the street and for giving a man something to hold before his face should the need arise. The fellow tipped a battered hat at the flower girl and disappeared from view.
***
“Where the hell is my wife?”
Sebastian’s tone assured Freddy he was no longer her indulgent, faintly amused nephew. He was a tormented man.
“I have no idea.” Freddy wrenched off her gloves. “She deposited me in the mews then had John Coachman drive her elsewhere. If I never meet with another solicitor again, it will be too soon.”
Rather than face more questions to which she hadn’t any answers, Freddy made a try for the stairs.
“You will join me in the music room,” Sebastian said, voice cracking like a whip. “And do not think for one instant that a megrim or any other petty drama will spare you my company. Anduvoir is in London.”
Freddy paused, hand on the newel post because she needed the support to remain upright. “Henri Anduvoir is in London?”
“Michael spotted him and went in discreet pursuit. The professor is taking a few pints at the tavern on the corner in hopes of learning more. You are coming with me.”
He spun on his heel with military precision, no proffer of a polite escort, no waiting for Freddy to gather her wits. More than she’d feared the English troops, more than she’d feared winter in the French Pyrenees, more than she’d feared Wellington himself, Freddy had feared Henri Anduvoir would be the death of her nephew.
So she swept into the library, head held high. “Do you know it’s Anduvoir? Frenchmen in London are common enough these days.”
Sebastian glowered at a painting of puppies playing tug-of-war with a hunting whip.
“Michael was certain, and if the impulse to cast up my accounts is any indication, I am certain as well.” He ran his finger across the bottom of the frame, as if checking for dust. “Somebody should notify the foreign office, or Wellington.”
Sebastian did not like to even say the duke’s name.
“You would notify His Grace?”
“Henri is a scourge whose menace transcends national boundaries, and thanks to me, he’s a wealthy scourge, much respected in a certain strata of French society. What transpired at the solicitors?”
“I hardly know.” Freddy took the seat at Sebastian’s desk, for several reasons. A wall at one’s back was generally a safe proposition, the desk commanded a good view of the entire room, and it afforded some protection against whoever might come charging in the door—or across the room.
“I have no patience, Baroness. None. My wife might well be running away from me, right into Anduvoir’s waiting arms. Do you know what he’d do to one of Milly’s strength of will? She has no allies, no safe harbor, no one whom she feels she—”
“Whom she feels she can trust,” Freddy finished for him. “And you know the exact contours of such misery.”
Knew them only too well. Freddy very much wanted to get drunk and give His Grace the Duke of Wellington the rousing set down he richly deserved.
“Where is my wife?”
“I expect John Coachman can tell us when he returns. Milly closeted herself with that dusty little fellow who worked for her aunts, while I kicked my heels in an anteroom and was roundly ignored by a bunch of children masquerading as law clerks.”
Sebastian focused on a point above Freddy’s left shoulder. “You did not read her any documents?”
“Not a one. She was with the solicitor for ages, and need I remind you she was exhausted before we departed for the City. I’m fairly certain she had documents in her reticule when we left.”
Sebastian was exhausted too. The grooves around his mouth, the shadows under his eyes, the tension in his posture were proof of his need for rest.
“You will make a series of social calls,” Sebastian said. “Start today, now, with MacHugh.” He listed several other names, each one a former prisoner of his who’d challenged him unsuccessfully.
“I am happy to ask these fellows for the details regarding who goaded them to their foolish bravery, but aren’t you concerned they’ll say you’re hiding behind my skirts?”
“I am hiding behind your skirts,” Sebastian snapped. “I’d bloody wear skirts down the middle of St. James’s Street if it would bring Milly home to me safely, but I can’t leave this house until she’s been located. If she comes home to find me gone—”
