The Traitor (11 page)

The door was open, in any case. Let the footmen think what they would.

“You will let me lead you in an exploration of the letter
e
.” He gathered her closer and moved off with her, slowly but confidently. Three steps up, a little shift, and three steps back. Another shift, and the same pattern, again and again.

“You’re making a chain stitch with me.”

“You have maligned a perfectly agreeable letter, Miss Danforth. A simple loop exists not to confound you, but to pleasure your hand in its making.”

Or her entire body. He danced wonderfully, and to be held like this—Milly’s opinion of the letter
e
underwent a drastic revision.

“I think you have it, madam, but now we will venture on to the letter
l
.”

She liked the letter
l
even better, because it was six steps up, and six steps back, a more ambitious undertaking in the small parlor.

“There are two
l
’s in Millicent,” she said. And for no reason, no reason at all, this inspired her to lay her cheek against his chest. They
e
’d and
l
’d and
o
’d (as in Danforth) a while longer before St. Clair came to a gliding halt.

“Keep your eyes closed, my dear.”

Milly could feel the breath of his words against her forehead. He grasped her by the wrist and led her a few steps closer to the window—the cooling temperature told her that much.

“Sit, if you please.” He scooted her chair for her, and then a pen was placed in Milly’s hands, her fingers arranged around it. “Now our hands will dance a bit.”

His fingers closed over hers, and he waltzed the pen across a paper, one-two-three, one-two-three, first
e
’s, then
l
’s, then a few
o
’s. “Do you feel these letters, Miss Danforth? Could you play them like notes in the dark?”

Milly could tell he was standing bent over her, could sense the heat and size of him as he guided her hand across the page, but she shoved those distractions aside.

“I want to peek.”

“Not yet. You must solo first.” He took his hand away. “Dance me some pretty letters, Miss Danforth. One-two-three, one-two-three…”

He dropped into French dancing-master—“
un, deux, trois
”—to count off the waltz, and Milly struck off across the page.

“Stop.”

Before Milly could open her eyes, he’d whisked the paper away from her and held it up above her line of sight. “We have a few more dances ahead of us, Miss Danforth.”

She could tell nothing from his schoolteacher inflections, so she snatched the paper away from him and put it on the desk before her.

Only to see a perfect, curling chorus line of
e
’s,
o
’s, and
l
’s looping over the page.

“They’re beautiful.” She beamed up at her instructor, amazed, terrified, and thrilled at the results of his tutelage. “I made beautiful letters. We did. We danced the letters onto the page.”

“Well done, Milly Danforth. Perhaps I shall call you Milly Danceforth?”

What a lovely nickname. Milly stared at the page, comparing her previous efforts with the ones St. Clair had inspired. Her
g
,
r
,
i
,
m
,
a
, and
e
were recognizable, but not flowing, not elegant.

Those letters did not dance.

St. Clair picked up the paper again as if to admire it, then turned and sat on the corner of the desk, an informal pose, and not quite friendly.

“This is odd. These letters you chose to work on while we were talking earlier, they are a peculiar collection of consonants and vowels.”

The joy suffusing Milly evaporated in an instant. She could not rise, because St. Clair had effectively blocked her in. She took out another piece of paper and tried to recapture the feeling in her belly of the looping, pretty letters, but it was no use.

“It’s just a collection of letters.”

“The very collection of letters used to spell the word ‘marriage,’ my dear.” He leaned closer, and this time, his elegant scent was not so comforting. “I think you had better tell me who Vincent is, hmm?”

A skilled interrogator could use fear like a powerful lantern aimed in the direction of truth, a far more accurate source of illumination than physical pain itself. Pain was a crude and inexact tool, though some—Henri Anduvoir, for one—had been all too eager to use it.

And for what? To reveal that a man’s deepest truth was that he did not want to die? That he longed to see his mother? That he yearned to apologize to the vicar’s daughter with whom he’d taken liberties before buying his colors?

Sebastian regarded Milly Danforth as she pretended to draw her letters—because she did draw them, they were art to her, not sounds—and accepted the fact of his own fear.

He did not want her to be engaged to this Vincent fellow. He was
afraid
she was spoken for, afraid she’d given her heart to some buffoon unworthy of her—not that she ought to consider Sebastian worthy.

“Vincent is a friend of Alcorn’s and some distant relation of Frieda’s.”

“That is two strikes against him. Waltz those letters, Miss Danforth.”

Another source of illumination was silence, though Sebastian doubted it would be effective with Milly Danforth. She’d been schooled at the knees of old women, and what they knew about silence could ambush entire armies—witness, Aunt Freddy.

“One cannot waltz the letters with a large, scowling fellow looming over one,” Miss Danforth replied, considering her work. “One needs room to dance.”

Strong spirits could loosen a reluctant tongue, as could hunger or thirst. With Major Pierpont, fatigue, fear, and a few well-placed blows had been enough to render him a babbling imbecile in less than three days.

Sebastian leaned closer.

“The English alphabet includes twenty-three more letters, my dear, and they each come in upper- and lowercase. You’ve told me
what
Vincent is, but not
who
he is to you.”

She scooted out of her chair so quickly, the top of her head nearly whacked Sebastian’s chin.

“Vincent Aloysius Fontaine. He holds the living at St. Andrew the Apostle in West Hamley, Surrey.”

Any fellow who’d spent formative years in France would know Andrew the Apostle was the patron saint of unmarried girls and old maids.

“You’re making that up.” Lying, she was, while wandering off toward the tulips.

“He arrived to St. Andrews from a series of smaller congregations, and to hear him talk, Bishop of London will be the end point of his ecclesiastical itinerary.”

Sebastian’s nose twitched as Miss Danforth bent to sniff at a tulip. Tulips had virtually no scent, once picked, which further convinced him she was prevaricating. “He wanted to marry you, wanted to get his hands on your competence.”

In typical female fashion, she nudged a red tulip a bit this-a-way, lifted a yellow tulip from here and replaced it there, so the entire bouquet acquired a more symmetric appearance. She crossed her arms, when Sebastian knew she longed to put the flowers back the way they’d been.

“Vincent wanted to marry poor, slow, dim-witted, eager Milly.”

The humor in her voice cut at him. “You are not dim-witted, Miss Danforth.” She was clever in the extreme, but if he stated that obvious fact, she’d leave the room.

“I am dim-witted, at least when the test of my readiness for marriage consists of reading a passage of scripture verbatim. I faltered, and much worse than Vincent anticipated I would. I hadn’t realized it was a test, you see.”

Sebastian shifted from his perch on the corner of the escritoire, the better to keep the errant Miss Danforth under surveillance.

“So you were supposed to be sweet, slow, and hardworking, but not entirely unlettered.” And doubtless she was also to have been abundantly curved, adequately dowered, and the complete dupe of her cousins.

She came to light on the piano bench, opened the cover, and ran a finger silently over the keys.

“I did not want to be a burden to anybody, and marriage is how a lady generally resolves that dilemma. Vincent is comely, and…comely.”

Saint Calculating-and-Comely had no true religious vocation was what Milly implied. He did, however, have excellent taste in women and had probably been smart enough to assure Milly his vicarage would be overflowing with the sound of small feet on the stairs and childish laughter in the garden. Sebastian moved off, away from the piano bench toward the hearth.

“You were in love with this scion of piety?”

“I was infatuated. At the time, I thought my only alternative to living with my aunts would be to return to Alcorn’s household. Then too, Alcorn had been extolling my virtues to an older fellow, some gouty baronet without an heir to whom I was nearly engaged, and me all unaware.”

She pressed a lone chord—A minor, in the tenor register—and abruptly, Sebastian wanted to play her something cheerful.

“Move over.”

When he thought she’d scamper off, she shifted a few inches left. “Are you finished with your questioning, my lord?”

“I was born to question. My own grandmother assured me of this, as did my tutors. In the army, it was not an asset.” At first, it hadn’t been an asset. “The Fontaine buffoon, is he of a mind to pursue you?”

Sebastian launched into the slow movement from Beethoven’s Concerto in E-flat major, which, while not ebullient, had a sanguine beauty that had become dear to him.

“Alcorn certainly hopes so. That is a lovely piece.”

“I heard it while I was hiding in Vienna, then I found Kramer had published it here.”

Sebastian hadn’t meant to say that, but sitting next to Milly Danforth, a man became distracted by the warmth and fragrance of her, by her willingness to freely compliment him on what little he could give her, by her thigh casually pressed against his.

As Sebastian played on, one lyrical, sweet phrase after another, insight struck: one could also unearth truth with the tool Sebastian had forgotten, the tool he’d never quite managed, except in some peculiar manner with Mercia.

That tool would be trust. Trust could move mountains, topple edifices, and win wars.

“Milly Danforth, I want to keep you safe from this idiot who would use you in his race to acquire a miter and stole, and from your thickheaded cousin. You must tell me what I need to know so I might achieve my purpose.”

She was quiet for so long he thought she wouldn’t answer. He could feel her swaying slightly beside him, enraptured by the music.

“Why were you hiding in Vienna, my lord?”

The arrangement called for crossed hands, and this allowed Sebastian to lean into her, albeit fleetingly.

“Not truly hiding. Everybody knew where I was. I was dithering, putting off my return to England because I knew it would be complicated. France was not safe, and England had no appeal.”

“You love England.”

He stopped playing mid-phrase. “How can you say that?”

“I saw the way you looked at the countryside around Chelsea. I see how you work at your ledgers and reports. I hear the servants talking about what a decent master you are, despite your Frenchie ways. You are not a man embittered by your English fate.”

Sebastian decided what he’d take from that observation was not the truth of it—if any truth there was—but rather, satisfaction that she’d made a study of him.

“I love my aunt, which is probably a Frenchie thing to put into words. I came back when Michael established it was reasonably safe for me to do so.”

Sitting on that piano bench, however, was not safe. Not for Sebastian, and not for Miss Danforth. He played a four-octave arpeggio in the key of C major, and this too allowed him to lean into her.

“How did you meet Mr. Brod—Michael?”

And when had she become the interrogator?

“Michael deserted from the ranks of one of Wellington’s underlings. He showed up at the Château and demanded to be taken prisoner or given a post. I still am not sure if he’s more Irish or Scottish, but either would account for both his folly and his bravery.”

Miss Danforth watched his hands, and Sebastian liked even that attention from her.

“Isn’t a deserter worse than a traitor? You were at least consistent in your loyalties once you established them, and yet I don’t see anybody meeting Mr. Brodie over pistols at dawn.”

He faltered at the top of the arpeggio, completed it, and again stopped playing.

“You make an interesting point.” Why hadn’t Sebastian come across this question previously? Every other officer, save Mercia, had eventually found his way back to English forces, except Michael, who’d declared his loyalty to England defunct upon the death of a younger sister.

“Perhaps nobody troubles Michael because he is not of the same social station as the men who are so eager to disturb my mornings. One only calls out another of comparable rank, if the rules are strictly observed.” He shifted to C minor and wished pianos had longer keyboards. “Michael is protective of me. An Irishman is like a dog with a bone once he’s championed a cause. Nothing will sway him. The Scots are worse.”

Miss Danforth tucked her hands between her thighs, a particularly submissive and demure pose for all its impropriety. “I vote Scotsman. He wears the occasional bit of plaid. You seek to protect me, my lord, but I would protect you as well.”

She suspected Michael?

“I’d trust Brodie with my life.” Though Sebastian did not trust Michael with all of his truths.

“Will you finish the piece, my lord?”

Miss Danforth was wise. She sought to put an end to the discussion, and before she’d yielded up any more substantial confidences.

Before Sebastian had too.

He closed the lid over the keys and rose, because he could be wise too. He could protect Miss Danforth from her scheming relations, and he could take her caution regarding Michael to heart.

As he stood, Miss Danforth’s shoulders slumped, and not in relief. She was disappointed that he would not play for her, would not give her any more of Herr Beethoven’s musical consolation for a world run amok.

Sebastian lowered himself beside her, but this time he straddled the bench. Slowly, he settled his arms around her, and more slowly threaded his hand into the hair at her nape.

“You should flee, Milly Danforth, for I am about to kiss you.”
Again
, and make a proper job of it, because he surely would not repeat this folly a third time.

She rested her head on his shoulder. “You should stop lecturing me, St. Clair, for I won’t run off.”

Stubborn, fierce woman. He settled his mouth over hers, like coming home from war, like all the beauty in all the slow movements to all the tender concerti in the world. Miss Danforth sighed into his mouth and snuggled closer.

Sebastian’s last coherent thought was that he would die to protect this woman from her scheming relations, from any harm whatsoever, but he was helpless to protect her from himself.

***

A man who is born to ask questions is a man enthralled with life, just as Milly was enthralled with St. Clair’s kisses. She wanted to understand them, wanted to take them apart sensation by sensation until she comprehended the beauty and danger of them.

St. Clair knew exactly how snugly to hold her, so she felt cherished rather than confined.

He knew what a comfort his hand in her hair could be, what a novel and dear intimacy.

He knew—he was likely born knowing, to borrow his phrase—how to use his mouth, so his lips clung and melded with her own, so her entire body poured itself into kissing him back.

St. Clair’s kisses were fierce and tender, and they made Milly
feel
fierce and tender. She sank her fingers into his hair, brushed her thumb over his ear, and squirmed as close to him as their position on the piano bench would allow.

“Open,
chère
. Let me taste you.” He challenged rather than commanded, and followed up with a brush of his tongue—hot, wet, entreating—against her lips.

Open
her
mouth.
The meaning sank in as Milly ran her free hand over his chest, over the lace of his jabot, over the soft wool of his paisley waistcoat, over the silk of his shirt. He was a slow movement of a man, monumental, beautiful, all lyrical lines, rich textures, and—

She tasted him back, traced the contour of his elegant mouth with the tip of her tongue, and the soft, pleased sound he made—a chuckle, a groan, a sigh—reverberated through her.

“Again,
petite
tigresse
.”

He thought her a tigress. Pleasure blossomed beyond the physical, giving Milly leave to consume the man she’d plastered herself against. He tasted of bergamot, which blended wonderfully with the sandalwood and spice scent of him, with the lace and silk of his attire.

Milly got an arm around his waist and cupped his cheek against her palm while St. Clair returned her explorations.

“You taste of lavender. Of course, you taste of lavender.”

He lapsed into French, telling her he’d like to lay her down in lavender fields and make endless love to her. For eternal summer nights under a soft full moon he wanted to—

Milly’s French was not quite up to the literal translation, not when St. Clair’s hand had traced down from her throat to her décolletage. He ran a slow, knowing finger over the tops of her breasts, along her sternum, and back up to her collarbone. She arched into that touch, needing his French extravagances, needing that full moon and those endless summer nights with a mindless determination that some distant part of her reasoning mind regarded fearfully.

“St. Clair,
please
.”

“You beg. I would never have you beg, not ever.”

His tone, the seriousness of it, the Englishness of it, penetrated the haze of wonder and lust clouding Milly’s brain. She pulled back, her hand still on his morning-smooth cheek.

“For God’s sake, Sebastian, stop mauling Miss Danforth this instant!”

Lady St. Clair’s voice cracked like musket fire through the room, but Milly perceived the words only dimly. When St. Clair’s arms loosened, she wanted to haul them back around her. Her hand did not want to leave his cheek, to the point that she traced a finger over his lower lip as she parted from the feel of him.