Page 107 of The Traitor
The butler, a stocky fellow who could easily have passed for a gunnery sergeant in livery, blinked.
“Go, man! Your master’s life may depend upon it.” Rather than linger in the foyer, Sebastian dashed past the goggling footmen and headed for the stairs. A commotion above stairs could get His Grace’s legendary nose out of the soup pot faster than any bowing and scraping servant’s summons.
“But,sir! You haven’t an invita—”
“Fetch me the duke!” Sebastian bellowed over his shoulder.
He did not know the layout of Apsley House, but the dining room was readily apparent from the noise and merriment issuing from it. Sebastian forced himself to slow to a walk, a dignified, unconcerned, baronial walk.
And he tried not to think of Milly, sending him on his way with a kiss “for luck.”
She had not forbidden him to attempt this, and he wasn’t sure he could have thwarted her wishes if she had.
Sebastian said a short prayer for his wife’s happiness and sauntered into the Duke of Wellington’s formal dining room.
“What the deuce!”
“Damn me, if it ain’t St. Clair.”
“You mean Girard.”
Conversation stopped as Sebastian paused near the door. “Good evening, gentlemen. Don’t let me interrupt you.”
The sound of a sword being drawn scraped through the ensuing silence, while Sebastian noted food had already been placed on the table, including several plates of sautéed mushrooms.
“St. Clair.” The Duke of Mercia gestured from his place near the head of the table. He looked elegant and relaxed even while he glared murder at Sebastian. “Best hare off, sir. Not your type of gathering.”
Mercia had rank, and so the rest of the mob might follow his lead. He also had the presence of mind to remain seated, rather than provoke a full-out charge on Sebastian.
“It’sexactlyhis type of gathering,” somebody said as another sword was drawn. “It’s a welcome St. Clair should have been given months ago in some dark alley full of garbage and offal just like him.”
Mercia’s gaze darted to the door, suggesting footmen might be creeping up from the corridor.
“Captain Anderson,” Sebastian called over the rising murmur of ill will. “Let’s talk about garbage and offal. You’ve recently been keeping company with my former superior officer. You might know him only as Henri, or perhaps as Henri Montresslor or Henri Archambault. To me and some of your fellows, he was Henri Anduvoir.”
Anderson turned so the sideboard was at his back. “I know of no Henri Anduvoir.” He tossed back a drink, while the room again fell silent.
“Short, balding, well fed. He plucked at your pride and told you a pack of believable lies without ever offering any proof of his rank or authority. Probably told you he represented the entire French nation, without any orders, letters, or corroboration—and I wouldn’t eat that mushroom, Dirks. Might give you a nasty, permanent bellyache.”
Dirks put the mushroom down and wiped his fingers.
“You’re the one who’s lying,” Anderson retorted.
Mercia set his drink aside and rose. “Anderson, perhaps you’d like to reconsider your words.”
“I’m under orders,” Anderson said, drawing himself up. “St. Clair is an embarrassment to two sovereign nations.”
The assemblage apparently agreed with this conclusion as more swords came into evidence. Mercia mouthed the word, “Go,” though Sebastian wasn’t about to turn his back on this mob.
“I’ve met this Anduvoir. Rather wish I hadn’t.” The speaker was a lean fellow of about six feet. He wore a captain’s uniform.
“Mr. Pixler.” Sebastian bowed, though the man was his social inferior. “Good evening.”
“You say Anduvoir is here in London?” Pixler asked.
“Then we’ll kill him too,” somebody volunteered.
“Not until you hear me out,” Sebastian retorted. “The lot of you are being manipulated by a Frenchman whose only loyalty is to his own schemes. Anderson goads you into challenging me, thinking he’s following some obscure orders, and you risk your lives to settle a score that His Grace put to rest decisively at Waterloo.”
