Page 41 of The Traitor
No, one did not. In the strong afternoon sunlight, Wellington’s age was showing. He was a handsome man, his posture impeccable, and his nose, in particular, worthy of some of the nicknames given to him, but Wellington was also no longer young, and that…made Christian sip his drink.
“Excellent libation, Your Grace.”
“Thank Lady St. Clair, of all people. She knows my weaknesses, and indulges them from time to time. Our paths crossed in India when she was married to a younger son who never expected to inherit the title.”
Christian took a larger swallow and moved away from the window. “How does she deal with having St. Clair for a nephew?”
“Easily. He’s the last of his line, she loves him and will hear no wrong spoken of him. Nobody would dare cross her in this publicly.” Wellington’s tone suggestedhewasn’t about to take on the elderly baroness either. Not directly.
And Christian hadn’t recalled, hadn’t wanted to acknowledge that St. Clair’s title was teetering toward escheat.
Which St. Clair alone was in a position to rectify.
“I saw St. Clair in the park the other day. He was walking out with a woman.” For her sake, Christian hoped the lady was some unassuming Continental, or even an American, a woman whom Society’s scorn would leave largely untouched.
“She was not…her origins looked humble,” he went on. “Humble but decent.”
Also lamentably English, though Christian could not have said why he reached that conclusion.
“The ladies tend to be more practical than we gentlemen.” Wellington fell silent as a footman arrived bearing a cold collation. A second footman brought along a tea tray, though Christian would have preferred more of Lady St. Clair’s Armagnac.
“St. Clair’s situation is not resolving itself.” Wellington settled on a gilt love seat upholstered in rose velvet, a delicate piece for a man of his height and bearing.
“What has St. Clair to do with me? My dealings with the man are over, and I intend that they stay that way.” Christian resisted the urge to rub the fingers of his left hand, also the urge to make a fist with it.
“Several others have challenged him since you slapped a glove across his face. They’ve all missed, and then St. Clair has deloped. My officers are excellent marksmen, but St. Clair’s luck thus far exceeds their skill.”
Christian returned to the window rather than remain where his host could see his expression.
“St. Clair is a perverted excuse for a human being, one who could inflict suffering on his captives and watch that suffering without so much as flinching. His immediate superior at least took obvious pleasure in our humiliation, and under the circumstances, that humanity—evil though it was—was far preferable to St. Clair’s disinterest.”
St. Clairhadwatched that suffering, day after day, and then ensured the most competent doctors and best available rations were reserved for the prisoners he’d abused.
“This is, of course, loathsome behavior,” His Grace observed, arranging slices of cheese and ham on a plate. “Also the same treatment French officers captured out of uniform were shown by our own forces, minus the medical care and food.”
Christian heard the philosophical thread in the duke’s voice and recalled this was the same fellow who’d reportedly once been given a clear shot at Napoleon himself, and had declined to fire on the basis of battlefield protocol.Generalofficersdonotfireupononeanother.
“I should tell you I hate St. Clair,” Christian said, “and the truth would be that I do, but I also don’t know what to make of him. As you point out, his treatment of me was loathsome, though consistent with the situation.” Christian clenched and unclenched his left hand, grateful that he could. “St. Clair gave me my freedom when Toulouse fell, though he left it to his pet jailer to unlock my cell. I owe him my life, and that is…complicated.”
Owed him his life many times over, and owed him every single damned nightmare he’d had in recent years as well.
“Complicated, yes,” Wellington said between bites of cheese. “The French share your consternation. He’s an embarrassment, a traitor to both of his heritages, and an intelligence nightmare from which two countries would like to waken. Have some food, Mercia. One must keep up one’s strength.”
Onemustkeepupone’s strength.The same admonition St. Clair had used to coax Christian into eating, when Christian had once again decided to die rather than endure more of St. Clair’s abuse.
Christian took a chair at an angle to Wellington’s pretty love seat. “Just some cheese, please, and a slice of buttered bread.”
“You’ve become abstemious in your dotage, Mercia. I’m sure your duchess would want you to eat more than a schoolboy’s ration.”
His duchess. Even the thought of that dear lady soothed something that discussion of St. Clair had set amiss. “A spot of tea to wash it down, too, then.”
Wellington loaded up a plate with three kinds of cheese, a few slices of ham, and three slices of bread slathered with butter.
“We must do something about St. Clair. More duels are in the offing, and while his death under such circumstances wouldn’t be remarked, there’s the off chance he might injure an opponent, and then all hell will break loose.” His Grace paused with the teapot poised above a jasperware cup. “Cream and sugar?”
“Neither, thank you. You’re sure more duels are in the offing? There’s little honor in challenging a man who has deloped on three previous occasions.”
“Little honor perhaps,” the duke said, passing Christian the steaming cup of tea, “but significant satisfaction. Eat your food, Mercia, and pay attention. You are not yet acquainted with all of the salient aspects of St. Clair’s situation, and yet you of all people ought to be consulted before further action is taken.”
