Page 80 of The Traitor
The flask came out again, and this time Michael drained it. “Does she know?”
The baron took a sip of his tea then peered at it as if somebody had forgotten to add sugar, say, somebody too busy staring at his new wife. “Have a scone, Michael. You and Milly both prefer them with raisins.”
“Fuck the scones. You haven’t told her. The woman has married a dead man, and you did not think to warn her.”
St. Clair apparently decided to play a round of Gracious English Lord, buttering a scone, putting it on a little blue, gold, and white Sèvres plate, and passing it across the table to Michael.
“Rather than make threats upon the chastity of the breakfast pastry—or on my life—why don’t you ask me what Freddy sent you here to find out? She dispatched you both, not because she’s having an at-home—the professor gathers all manner of news at Aunt Freddy’s at-homes—but because she wanted to ensure you could separate me from my wife for the duration of one conversation, at least.”
“Or perhaps, separate your wife from you.”
Conflicting loyalties were something St. Clair had appeared to handle easily, while Michael… He took a bite of a wonderful, flaky scone and tried not to choke on homesickness.
When he could speak again, Michael addressed the twelve raisins yet visible on and in his scone. “I may have seen Anduvoir.”
St. Clair poured a cup of tea, added cream and sugar, and passed it across. “One either sees a fellow or one doesn’t, my friend.”
Michael tore off another bite of scone and paused to count the raisins remaining. “Have you ever, in any language, referred to me as your friend before?” And why in bloody hell must he do so now?
“Marriage agrees with me.” Marriage also put a smile on St. Clair’s face, the like of which Michael had not seen previously. The smile was not ironic, mocking, bemused, resigned, or any of the other sophisticated expressions St. Clair put on and off like so many masks. This smile was…sweet.
“Marriage to that woman would agree with any man who possessed a modicum of sense,” Michael said. “Though if MacHugh doesn’t kill you, and Miss Dan—your wife—learns of the duel, she likely will.”
“Women do not understand gentlemanly honor.”
Yes, they did. They understood it for the asinine display it generally was. If Michael could apologize to his family for one thing, it would be for the gentlemanly honor that had kept him from home for nearly ten years.
“If I did see Anduvoir, he’s lost weight, shaved his beard, and tried to lighten what remains of his hair.”
“Easy enough to do, and he was rather better fed than the rest of us.” Which, given the state of things when Toulouse finally fell, was reason enough to hate the man.
“He’s grown bold, if it was he. Both he and the baroness’s cousin have taken to lurking at the Jugged Hare by the hour. The patrons have confirmed that Upton’s tab is being paid by a Frenchman.”
Across the gardens, the baroness had paused by a bed of lavender. She plucked a sprig and passed it to the professor, who tucked it into his lapel.
“Do you suppose, Michael, you might have passed news of this sighting to mebeforeI put Milly at risk by taking her to wife? Or do you forget what Anduvoir is capable of where anybody small or helpless is concerned?”
Michael had heard that same offhand, bored tone in the interrogation room after one of Anduvoir’s visits. St. Clair’s indifferent drawl hid an arctic fury.
“You’re protective of her? Married one day, and you’re protective of the lady already? I am encouraged, St. Clair. Perhaps under her good influences, you will one day soon become protective of yourself.”
Though years at the Château, fretting over the fate of the chickens and traitors in his care hadn’t done much to hone St. Clair’s instincts for self-preservation.
“And you are protective of me,” St. Clair said, “but you waited days at least, perhaps longer, to warn me of Anduvoir’s presence on my very doorstep. One wonders why.”
One would have an answer—St. Clair was a bloody genius at inspiring answers—and yet Michael hesitated.
“I wanted you to have one day with her, one day to sample what life could be if matters ever came right. Your wedding day at least should not have been darkened with Anduvoir’s shadow.” Baumgartner laughed at something the baroness said, the sound hearty and startling. “I’d forgotten Baum could laugh. The Germans usually have a wonderful laugh, and they aren’t afraid to direct it at themselves.”
“Like the Scots.” St. Clair set about buttering another scone, Michael having apparently demolished his first one. “You know, I have lost the habit of thinking in French. I still turn to it for profanity, particularly if a lady is present, but my imagination now speaks English.”
When Michael said nothing, St. Clair held out the buttered scone, this time not bothering with a plate.
“Michael, you are lying to me about your reasons for withholding this information regarding Anduvoir. You wanted me to have a proper wedding day, but your sentiment has put an innocent woman at risk, and for that, you of all men need a better reason than simple tenderheartedness.”
“No more for me,” Michael said. “Too many raisins. I very much wanted you to have a proper wedding day, or wedding night. I thoughtshewas owed that much, at least.” May God help the woman.
St. Clair took a bite of the scone. “We both enjoyed our wedding day, for which I do thank you. Should you be serving me your notice, Michael? Heading North to see all those sisters and clansmen and gillies who worried so for your continued good health? At the least, some summer leave is in order, don’t you think?”
