Page 32 of The Traitor
“Do you think this recitation of beatings, beratings, and deprivations is easy for me to listen to?”
She’d seen the care St. Clair took with his aunt, seen the way he inconvenienced himself for an intransigent donkey. Milly had even tasted the man’s kiss, and yet, she had thought that very thing.
She had thought, and part of him had wanted her to think, that her suffering mattered to him not at all.
***
“You thought to show Miss Danforth how Polite Society torments its outcasts,” Michael said. He paused as if to admire the shine on the boot he was polishing. “She didn’t even notice when Lady Hutchings snubbed you.”
Michael was a caring soul, which would be his downfall one day, if it hadn’t been already. He assiduously polished a tall boot that was not exactly dirty, so the dear fellow would not have to look at Sebastian at the mention of Lady Hutchings.
“Why do you not leave those for the boot boy? I pay the lad good coin, and he does a decent job.”
Michael remained firmly planted on his humble bench in the saddle room. “When a fellow—a valet sort of fellow—has only one pair of good boots, he likes to care for them himself. Rather like when he has only one horse or one wife.”
Sebastian took down a bridle that hadn’t been tied up properly. “Have you a wife, Michael, secreted away somewhere? A fiancée perhaps?”
Michael set his boot downcarefully, suggesting he’d perhaps wanted to hurl it at his employer—which was interesting.
“You had a fiancée, my lord, and she gave you the cut direct this morning before Miss Danforth and half of Polite Society.”
“Not for the first time, and not quite. Dear Amelia will be trying to give me the cut direct when she’s doddering about on her canes and I’m in my Bath chair—assuming I live that long, which I shall not. A true cut requires that one pass the glance over the object to be cut, a distracted, unseeing glance—as if a faint stench has been detected—and then one turns the eye on the middle distance. Amelia has some way to go before she perfects it—there’s too much of the shop about her antecedents, I’m thinking.”
Michael stuffed his hand into his boot, dipped a rag in boot black, and started at the toe of his footwear.
“She’s damned pretty, your Amelia, but she would have been a chilly night’s work in bed. The point is, Miss Danforth didn’t notice. She didn’t notice when the Pierpont whelp turned off the path rather than cross his steps with yours. She didn’t notice when Lady Fleming and both of her escorts turned their backs on you.”
Sebastian looped reins through bridle parts in an intricate arrangement, one that would keep the leather supple, ensure no parts were left trailing, and look pretty hanging on a shiny brass hook—rather like tying a woman’s bonnet to show off her features to best advantage.
“Lady Fleming is some relation of Amelia’s. You will polish a hole in the toe of that boot,monami.” Sebastian moved on to the next bridle, which happened to belong to Fable.
Michael dipped his rag again and held the boot up over his arm, the better to spread polish over the calf, heel, and vamp.
“Miss Danforth passed your test with flying colors. Nobody would cut her when she’s out with Lady Freddy. You were examining her reaction to being out withyou, and she earned top marks.”
Fable, being a rambunctious fellow in his prime, generally sported about Town in a double bridle, one having both snaffle and curb bits. The bridle was heavy, handsome, and perfectly clean, but something was amiss with it.
“Miss Danforth flunked miserably, Michael. The outing was intended to show her why association with me is not a sound idea, to give her a distaste for my company, but she was too distracted by the brutalities in her past to notice. She accused the Duke of Mercia of wanting charm. Who maintains these bridles?”
“Your head lad would know, a Kerryman named Belton. Why?”
“Because somebody has filed the curb chain on Fable’s bridle to a dangerous sharpness. The first time I brought my horse to an abrupt stop, the underside of his chin would be cut, and I would likely be sent sailing halfway back to France.”
The boot Michael had held aloft slowly lowered. “You aren’t even angry.”
Had Mercia cut Milly Danforth, Sebastian would have been angry. For the first time in years, he would have been angry and had difficulty keeping that anger in check. Mercia would have been pleased to know this.
Sebastian detached the curb chain and dropped it into the pocket of his riding jacket.
“Nobody rides the horse but me, and this mischief is tiresomely predictable, though it underscores why Miss Danforth must keep her distance. Many a domestic takes her employer into dislike, and she ought to be able to manage it with a little encouragement.”
The boot was subjected to some vigorous buffing.
“You could simply tell the woman it isn’t safe to be seen with you. She’ll comprehend the whys easily enough. I’ve already hinted as much to her.”
Sebastian moved down the line of bridles, finding the next one had been hung up without the bit being cleaned off.
“You likely lectured her cross-eyed. Send Belton to me when we’re done here, please. It’s time to install more locks.” And put the fear of the brooding, violent, Frenchie Traitor Baron into his stable master, though Sebastian had long since found that charade tiresome.
