Page 108 of The Traitor
“Time somebody put you to rest,” Anderson sneered. The uniformed rabble around him seconded that sentiment, and Mercia’s gaze became resigned.
Sebastian was about to reach for his knife when the sound of a bottle breaking against the edge of the table galvanized the two dozen brave fellows around him.
“Not a fair fight, gentlemen,” Mercia observed, though the comment hardly helped matters.
“As if he was fair to us,” Anderson said, brandishing a sword that looked more functional than decorative. “For two weeks I suffered his attentions, and I’m lucky I can sleep at night.”
The quiet in the room shifted, and Sebastian sensed movement behind him.
“One hears you’ve been doing something other than sleeping at night, Anderson,” said the Duke of Wellington. “And that your lady wife is to be congratulated accordingly. Gentlemen, stand down.”
For perhaps the first time in a long and distinguished military career, the Duke of Wellington was not immediately obeyed. Nobody sheathed his sword; nobody stepped back.
“He’s left us with more nightmares than any man has a right to, Your Grace.” Pierpont offered that retort, and the men closest to Sebastian edged nearer.
Wellington did not look amused. “Are you countermanding a direct order, Captain?”
An ugly silence spread. These men were no longer under Wellington’s command, and yet, they were guests in his home and had served under him, some of them for most of their adult lives.
And still, not one soldier heeded the duke’s mandate.
Eighteen
A loud crash sounded toward the back of the room, where a second door led to adjoining parlors. All heads turned to see a porcelain vase in shards on the floor.
“If you won’t listen to His Grace’s common sense, you will listen to mine.”
“Her again. I thought ye said she wasna daft,” came from another corner.
Milly swept forward through the officers, her cloak a magnificent green velvet, her red hair an artful cascade, jewels flashing at her throat, ears, and wrists.
“Baroness.” Wellington himself bowed over her hand, and the mood in the room abruptly shifted from ugly to…awkward. A lady had invited herself to a summary execution, and that, in the opinion of every officer there,wouldnotdo.
Milly curtsied prettily but none too low to the duke, then turned to survey the room.
“When a child is caught being naughty, he invariably blames his governess or his mama or his puppy, but seldom his own poor judgment. You fellows similarly blame St. Clair for your capture, but I tire of pointing out that he captured none of you. He deprived none of you of your uniforms. He challenges none of you to thesestupidduels, and if this keeps up, I will inform your ladies of your foolishness.”
Swords lowered. The men in the room looked anywhere but at Sebastian’s wife.
“My dear baroness,” Wellington said. “If you’d permit an old soldier to have the floor?”
Milly nodded—regally—and Sebastian wanted badly to kiss his wife, also to pitch her out the nearest window if it would keep her safe.
Wellington sauntered forward, to the head of the table. “You fellows heard the baroness, and now you will do me the courtesy of listening to me as well.”
His Grace picked up a plate of sautéed mushrooms, apparently intent on snitching an appetizer.
“Don’t, Your Grace!” Sebastian fairly bellowed the words. Milly regarded him with consternation, suggesting even summary executions required a certain etiquette. “Don’t touch those mushrooms. Anduvoir fancies himself something of a gourmand, and he’s been known to use poison.”
Wellington regarded the morsel in his hand. “And you know this, how?”
“He tried to poison me shortly before Toulouse fell.”
“Oh, St. Clair.” Milly crossed the room to take his hand—his left hand, which would leave his right free to reach for his knife, should he need to defend her. “Your own commanding officer. Why would he do that?”
Wellington pitched the mushroom back onto the tray and wiped his fingers on a linen serviette. “I can shed light on that, if my officers will be so good as to sheathe their swords?”
Metal scraped; Mercia took his seat. Over by the sideboard, glassware tinkled, as if someone had resumed pouring drinks.
