The Traitor Read Online Free PDF Page B

rainy day in the library. Nobody can be a paragon all the time.”
    And then he strode off, while Milly dipped her knife into the jam, and wished—and wished and wished and wished—she might someday have that afternoon with Mrs. Radcliffe.
    ***
    Though Sebastian wished it were not so, another infernal duel was brewing. He could feel it, could sense it in the way the members of his club barely met his eye when he nodded to them across the reading room.
    They would not speak to him if they could avoid it. That he even had membership was only because the Benevolent Society for the Furtherance of Agrarian Science had been too unsophisticated to realize that Sebastian St. Clair was the Traitor Baron himself. By the time they’d become aware of their blunder, Sebastian had made a contribution of unignorable proportions to their experimental farm out in Chelsea.
    He’d spent those precious funds because a man needed the company of his fellows, even if it was silent, nervous company lured close with coin, and tacit acceptance of the fact that he was merely tolerated in their midst.
    “Ah, there you are!” Tante came fluttering into his study without knocking, a gleam in her eyes Sebastian had learned to respect. “You look quite intellectual, St. Clair. Those spectacles are deceiving.”
    “The spectacles are necessary if I’m to make sense of your figures, madam.” Years of figures that she’d kept meticulously in the absence of husband, son, nephew, or grandson.
    She settled into a chair opposite his desk, a sparrow coming to light. “I wear them too, when I’m at my correspondence, but spectacles become no one. Will you accompany Miss Danforth and me to the Levien musicale?”
    No, he would not. “When is it?”
    “Next Tuesday. Tuesday evenings are when all the best events take place. I’m having some new gowns made up for Milly, and the woman adores music. There’s a pianist on offer, a single gentleman who’s the son of a duke. I think he might do for your cousin Fern, or perhaps Ivy, though not Iris. The girl can’t carry a tune, tipsy or sober.”
    God help the pianist. Tante would set loose an entire flower bed of eligible young ladies on him before his recital was complete.
    “I’m afraid I must attend a meeting at the club Tuesday evening. I’m trying to convince the members that peaches are worth investing in.”
    They were not, particularly. Peaches liked a sheltered location, a good lot of sunshine, and a mild but discernible winter—exactly what half the valleys in Provence offered, but not quite the English climate.
    “Peaches.” Aunt rose, a wealth of scorn in one word. “You would rather take up breeding peaches than pursue your own succession. The war is over, Sebastian. You’ve been pardoned for your errors, and life moves on. You were just a boy when the Corsican resumed his nonsense, and you can’t be held responsible for your family making an unfortunately timed visit to relatives in France.”
    How did one breed a peach? Sebastian set that conundrum aside and prepared to deal with being The Despair of the House of St. Clair, as his aunt would no doubt term it in the next five minutes. Tante did not lack for accuracy in her scolds.
    “I beg your pardon.”
    The paid companion stood at the door, which would normally have been a pleasant sight. She diverted Tante from pestering Sebastian for the most part, and she was a pretty little thing in a not-very-English way.
    “Miss Danforth, you must join us. Tante is preparing to deliver one of her more rousing sermons, and such eloquence deserves an audience.” Though Freddy would pull in her horns about the succession if a damsel were present—Sebastian hoped.
    The young lady remained in the doorway, her hand on the jamb as if for support—which put Sebastian’s instincts on alert. Her mouth, a full, often-smiling mouth, was grim at the corners, and her eyes…
    “Come, sit, Miss Danforth. You are upset.” Sebastian had no intention