The Traitor by Grace Burrowes

doomed undertaking.
    “He said he’d escort me to the Devonshire musicale, and His Grace tends to assemble a more forward-thinking lot. I’ll get a peek at the guest list and—”
    Milly knew it was futile, but she spoke up anyway on behalf of a man who protected frightened donkeys and flirted with grieving spinsters.
    “That is not what he said, ma’am. His lordship said he would ask Mr. Brodie to consult the schedule and see if his lordship was available to join in your frivolous pursuits—though he referred to Mr. Brodie as ‘the ever-competent Michael.’”
    Her ladyship glared down her nose at Milly, and the effect was surprisingly daunting given how delicate that nose was.
    “One wants support from one’s subordinates, Milly, not lecturing. St. Clair cannot fill his nursery without first taking some sweet young thing to wife. She need not have the skills to run his household—I have that much well in hand—but she must be biddable and fertile, in other words, the typical result of English aristocratic inbreeding. We shall make a list.”
    And abruptly the morning became perilous, for her ladyship wanted a list.
    A written list.
    Milly bent her head over her piecework, the better to suggest her hands were too well occupied to deal with pen, ink, and paper. “Perhaps the professor could serve as our amanuensis?”
    “Capital! Baum, attendez-nous .”
    He went on scribbling. “Always, my lady.”
    “Aggravating man. The fate of the house of St. Clair rests on this list, and you scoff.”
    “I scoff as well, and I bid the company good morning.”
    St. Clair himself stood in the doorway, attired in subtle elegance and the tolerance of a long-suffering bachelor nephew. “Rather than hunting a bride for me, Aunt, we must find a husband for you. You are becoming obstreperous.”
    The baron sauntered into the room, while the baroness came to her feet. “I had a husband, I’ll thank you to recall. A dear man whose memory leaves no room for successors, and if anybody is becoming obstreperous, it is you.”
    His lordship kissed his aunt’s cheek. “I know you mean well, and your devotion to my welfare is much appreciated, but there will be no lists, my dear.”
    Milly’s piecework lay forgotten in her lap, because there was more to this little exchange than either party was acknowledging.
    Lady St. Clair fluffed the folds of his lace cravat. “Sebastian, why must you be so stubborn? A French girl wouldn’t offend anybody, except possibly the French, and they do not signify.”
    “A French girl would be torn to pieces, Aunt, and well you know it.”
    Torn to pieces by whom?
    “She would not, not if you kept her at St. Clair for a few years first, and got some babies on her. Three or four babies don’t take that long, and there’s little enough effort for their papa involved in the business. You could fuss with your plants and canter about on that white beast of yours and nobody—”
    His lordship kissed his aunt’s other cheek and murmured something in her ear. It sounded French to Milly, and stern. Whatever it was, it sent her ladyship back to her chair by the fire.
    “Play for us, then,” she said, waving a hand toward the piano. “Something to soothe an old woman’s tattered nerves and broken heart.”
    St. Clair’s smile turned indulgent. “But of course. And something to cheer an underpaid companion at her needlework, and an overworked secretary at his letters.”
    He folded back the cover over the piano’s keys and took the bench, the picture of an elegant gentleman at a drawing-room entertainment. Milly expected him to offer various pieces for the baroness’s consideration, the better to placate the old dear with opportunities to carp, criticize, and refuse, but he placed his hands on the keyboard.
    And Milly held her breath.
    He began with a soft turning melody in a minor key, arpeggios rippling beneath. Milly clutched at the velvet in her hands, missed her aunt, and wanted to close her