From
The Traitor
The bullet whistled past Sebastian’s ear, coming within an inch of solving all of his problems, and half an inch of making a significant mess instead.
“Die, goddamn you!” Lieutenant Lord Hector Pierpont fired his second shot, but rage apparently made the man careless. A venerable oak lost a few bare twigs to the field of honor.
“I shall die, bien sûr,” Sebastian said, a prayer as much as a promise. “But not today.”
He took aim on Pierpont’s lapel. An English officer to his very bones, Pierpont stood still, eyes closed, waiting for death to claim him. In the frosty air, his breath clouded before him in the same shallow pants that might have characterized postcoital exertion.
Such drama. Sebastian cocked his elbow and dealt another wound to the innocent oak branches. “And neither shall you die today. It was war, Pierpont. For the sake of your womenfolk, let it be over.”
Sebastian fired the second bullet overhead to punctuate that sentiment, also to ensure no loaded weapons remained within Pierpont’s ambit. When Pierpont opened his eyes, Sebastian gazed into loathing so intense as to confirm his lordship would rather be dead than suffer any more of Sebastian’s clemency.
Sebastian walked up to him and spoke quietly enough that the seconds could not hear.
“You gave away nothing. What little scraps you threw me had long since reached the ears of French intelligence. Go home, kiss your wife, and give her more babies, but leave me and mine in peace. Next time, I will not delope, mon ami.”
He slapped Pierpont lightly on the cheek, a small, friendly reminder of other blows, and walked away.
Michael Brodie snatched the pistol from Sebastian’s grasp, took Sebastian by the arm, and led him toward their horses. “You’ve had your fun, now come along like a good baron.”
“Insubordinate, you are. I thought the English were bad, but you Irish give the term realms of meaning Dr. Johnson never dreamed.”
“You are English, lest we forget the reason yon righteous arse wants to perforate your heart at thirty paces. Get on the horse, Baron, and I’m only half-Irish.”
“You fret, Michel, and one wants to strike you for it. The English are violent with their servants, non? Perhaps today I will be English after all.”
Michael climbed aboard his bay, and Sebastian swung up on Fable.
Burnished red eyebrows lowered into a scowl. “You would ride a white horse,” Michael groused. “Might as well paint a target on your back and send a boy ahead to warn all and sundry the Traitor Baron approaches.”
Sebastian nudged his horse forward.
“Fable was black as the infernal pit when he was born. I cannot help what my horse decides to do with his hair. That is between him and his God. Stop looking over your shoulder, Michel. Pierpont was an officer. He will not shoot me in the back, and he will not blame you for sparing all others the burden of seconding me.”
“How many duels does that make, your lordship? Four? Five? One of these honorable former officers will put paid to your existence, and where will Lady Freddy be, then?”
He took out a flask and imbibed a hefty swallow, suggesting his nerves were truly in bad repair.
“You should not worry. These men do not want to kill me any more than I wanted to kill them.”
***
In Millicent Danforth’s experience, the elderly came in two varieties: fearful and brave. Her grandmother had been fearful, asking for tisanes or tea, for cosseting and humoring. Like a small child, Grandmother had wanted distracting from the inevitability of her own demise.
By contrast, Lady Frederica, Baroness St. Clair, viewed her eventual death as a diversion. She would threaten the help with it, lament it gently with her friends, and use it as an excuse for blunt speech.
“You are to be a companion, not a nursemaid. You will not vex me with your presence when I attend my correspondence after breakfast. You will appear at my side when I take the landau out for a turn in the park. Shall you write this down?”
Milly returned her prospective employer’s beady-eyed glower calmly.
“I will not bother you after breakfast unless you ask it of me. I will join you when you take the air in the park. I believe I can recall that much, my lady. What will my other duties involve?”
“You will dine with me in the evening and endure the company of my rascal of a nephew if he deigns to join us. What, I ask you, is so enticing about a rare beefsteak and an undercooked potato with a side of gossip? I can provide that here, as well as a superior cellar, but no, the boy must away to his flower-lovers’ club. Though he’s well-mannered enough that he won’t terrorize you—or no more than I will. Are you sure you don’t need to write any of this down?”
Yes, Milly was quite sure. “I gather you are a list maker, my lady?”
Blue eyes lit up as her ladyship reached for the teapot.
“Yes! I am never so happy as when I’m organizing. I should have been a general, the late baron used to say. Do you enjoy the opera? One hopes you do, because nothing is more unendurable than the opera if one hasn’t a taste for it.”
Her ladyship chattered on about London openings she’d attended, the crowd in attendance, and the various solos, duets, and ensemble numbers. Her diatribe was like a conversational stiff wind, banging the windows open all at once, setting curtains flapping, papers flying, and lapdogs barking.
“You’re not drinking your tea, Miss Danforth.”
“I am attending your ladyship’s recitation of my duties.”
The baroness clinked her teacup down on its saucer. “You were estimating the value of this tea service. Jasperware is more practical, but it’s so heavy. I prefer the Sèvres, and Sebastian likes it too.”
“The service is pretty,” Milly observed. They were using the older style of Sèvres, more easily broken, but also impressively hued. “Meissen or Dresden aren’t as decorative, though they are sturdier.”
The baroness used silver tongs to put a flaky golden croissant on a plate. “So you are a lady fallen on hard times?”
She was a lady who’d blundered. Paid companions did not need to know that fifteen years ago, Sèvres was made without kaolin, fired at a lower temperature, and capable of taking a wider and more bold palette of hues as a result.
“My mother was a lady fallen on hard times. I am a poor relation who would make her own way rather than burden my cousins any further.”
“Kicked you out, did they?” Her ladyship’s tone suggested she did not approve of such cousins. “Or perhaps they realized that underneath all that red hair, you’re quite pretty. One hopes you aren’t delicate?”
“I enjoy excellent health, thank you, your ladyship.” Excellent physical health, anyway. “And I prefer to call my hair auburn.”
The baroness snorted at that gambit, then poured herself more tea.
“Eat up. When Sebastian gets back from his morning ride, he’ll go through that sideboard like a plague of locusts. If you prefer coffee, you’d best get your servings before he comes down in the morning. The man cannot abide tea in any form.”
“The plague of locusts has arrived.”
Milly’s head snapped around at the mocking baritone. She beheld…her opposite. Whereas she was female, short—petite, when the occasion was polite—red-haired, and brown-eyed, the plague before her was male, tall, green-eyed, and sable-haired. The divergence didn’t stop there.
This fellow displayed a casual elegance about his riding attire that suggested time on the Continent. His tailoring was exquisite, but his movement was also relaxed. The lace at his throat came within a whisker of being excessive, and the emerald winking from its snowy depths stayed barely on the acceptable side of ostentatious, for men seldom wore jewels during daylight hours, and certainly not for so mundane an undertaking as a hack in the park.
This biblical plague had…sartorial éclat.
Again, the opposite of Milly, who generally wore the plainest gowns she could get away
with, and had never set foot outside London and the Home Counties.
“Miss Millicent Danforth, may I make known to you my scamp of a nephew, Sebastian, Baron St. Clair. St. Clair, Miss Danforth—my new companion. You are not to terrorize her before she and I have negotiated terms.”
“Of course not. I terrorize your staff only after you’ve obligated them to a contract.”
Milly did not regard this as humorous. Her ladyship, however, graced her nephew with a smile.
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About the Author
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Grace Burrowes hit the bestseller lists with her debut, The Heir, followed by The Soldier, Lady Maggie’s Secret Scandal, and Lady Eve’s Indiscretion. All her Regency and Victorian romances have received extensive praise, including starred reviews from Publishers Weekly and Booklist. The Heir was a Publishers Weekly Best Book of 2010, Lady Sophie’s Christmas Wish won Best Historical Romance of the Year in 2011 from RT Reviewers’ Choice Awards. Lady Louisa’s Christmas Knight was a Library Journal Best Book of 2012, and The Bridegroom Wore Plaid, the first in her trilogy of Scotland-set Victorian romances, was a Publishers Weekly Best Book of 2012. Darius, the first in her groundbreaking Regency series The Lonely Lords, was named one of iBooks Store’s Best Romances of 2013, and Once Upon a Tartan won Best Scotland-Set Historical Romance for 2013 from RT Reviewers’ Choice Awards.
Grace is a practicing family law attorney and lives in rural Maryland. She loves to hear from her readers and can be reached through her website at graceburrowes.com.
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Contents
Author’s Note
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Acknowledgments
Excerpts from The Captive and The Traitor
From The Captive
From The Traitor
About the Author
Back Cover
The Laird Page 33
