Page 100 of The Traitor
“You’re afraid she’ll pack her things and slip away permanently.”
Long ago, Freddy had been Sebastian’s confidante, the harmless older relation to whom a boy could confess his dreams and troubles. That boy was as dead as many of Wellington’s brave soldiers, and Freddy did not know whether to blame the duke or the French—or herself.
“I am afraid of that very possibility, Aunt: that Milly will leave me, and then she’ll try to make her way, without coin, without much ability to read, without a character, without friends…while my enemies, whom I taught a great deal about torture and interrogation, lie in wait for her. How does a woman keep herself safe when she can barely read street signs?”
“The solicitor treated her quite well, all bows and good manners. He did not treat her as if she were a penniless bother. Milly knows how to command respect.”
Though what a miserable measure of the situation, that Freddy was reduced to offering a solicitor’s manners as a comfort.
The door banged open, and Michael strode in, looking like some Midlands drover after the sheep had been delivered and before the drinking had concluded.
“It was Anduvoir. I followed him to his rooms in Bloomsbury, and he’s traveling under a fictitious last name. He’s gained weight and lost hair.”
Milly’s cat came strolling in behind Michael, who closed the door when the animal had made its stately progress into the room.
Sebastian swore creatively in French and English both.
“Milly hasn’t come back. Aunt, please send a footman to retrieve the professor. We must make plans, and you must make calls.”
She was being dispatched like a recruit taking messages to the officers’ mess, a punishment for having failed so badly on the outing to the solicitors. Freddy scooped up Milly’s cat, which had gained weight andnotlost hair since joining the household.
“I will be gone within the half hour, Sebastian, and I will find you some answers, you may depend upon it.” She owed him at least that—some answers, not all the answers.
Freddy deposited the cat in Sebastian’s arms, and couldn’t resist a single blow in her own defense.
“The way you feel now, sick with dread and worry, afraid anything you do to remedy the situation might make it worse? I felt that way for years, about you, and you came home in one piece. Remember that.”
For an instant he looked puzzled.
“The coach is back,” Michael said from his post at the window. “I don’t see the baroness getting out of it.”
Freddy left to execute her assignments. She’d had a chance to say her piece, which was as much as any condemned prisoner was allowed.
***
Sebastian watched his only relative leave, and cuddled Milly’s cat as if the damned beast could bring him some comfort.
“Does Aunt think I didn’t worry for her? Didn’t fret nightly the French would make off with her for some stupid lark? Didn’t treasure her every letter? For God’s sake, I love the woman—”
He sounded more French the more exhausted and indignant he became—the more desperate he felt.
Michael scratched the cat’s chin, and a predictable rumble began.
“Shall I tell Lady Freddy of your love when Anduvoir has sent you to your dubious reward?”
“Sod yourself.” The most English foul language Sebastian knew, words he could lay claim to honestly. “I told Milly I loved her, but I botched it.”
The pity in Michael’s gaze was hard to look upon, but even when Michael dropped his hand, the cat kept purring.
“How can a man botch telling the woman who loves him that he loves her too?”
“To Milly, I used the words as a weapon. I let the wrong instincts guide me.”
“Truth can be a powerful weapon.”
“A husband’s truth, possibly, not an inquisitor’s. An inquisitor deals in threats, manipulation, fear, and false hope.”
“You never dealt in false hope.”
