by Nita Abrams
“The drawing room?” Serena looked at the maid in astonishment. The butterfly-men, as Simon called them, were usually received by Royce and taken to the library, which adjoined the cabinet-rooms. Occasionally the earl would stop in and greet an especially learned visitor. The countess, however, paid little attention to the scientists and certainly had never admitted one to her drawing room. Frowning, Serena considered what might have prompted her aunt to this unusual hospitality. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted two servants hurrying down the kitchen stairs. Something was odd. Breakfast was long over; luncheon two hours away. And now the maid was sidling away, avoiding her gaze.
“Lucy,” said Serena. There was an edge in her voice.
The maid stopped, looking wary.
“This gentleman isn’t by any chance a young gentleman, is he? An unmarried young gentleman?”
The maid hesitated. “I’m sure I couldn’t say, miss.”
Serena raised her eyebrows.
“Whether he might be married, that is,” the maid said hastily, conceding the question of age.
“Well-dressed?”
“Yes, miss.”
“I will wager,” said Serena between her teeth, “that he has no more interest in butterflies than you do.”
“Oh, no,” said the maid earnestly. “I think they are lovely—that is, Mrs. Fletcher permits me to help Hubert dust the trays every so often, only in the first two cabinets, of course, the ones all the visitors can look at. . . .” She turned pink and started again. “It’s a very polite young man, and he has a magnifying glass in a case, and a notebook, and a pincushion, and a little ivory rule, just like all the other gentlemen.” The tone of her voice made it clear that in all other ways he was most unlike the usual denizens of the library.
“If he were just like all the others, he would not be in the drawing room,” Serena pointed out. “And no one would have thought I needed to change my gown.” Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Am I presentable?” she asked abruptly, holding out her skirts and pivoting slightly.
“With all due respect, miss, no,” said Lucy, surveying the frayed cuffs of Serena’s wool gown and the still-visible patches of damp at the hips.
“Good,” said Serena with a cold smile. And she headed purposefully for the stair which led up to the drawing room.
The Countess of Bassington surveyed her preparations with satisfaction. Fresh flowers had been brought in from the greenhouse and set on the side table. The Sheraton chairs and the small table were now behind a screen. A chaise and wing chair huddled awkwardly in the corner by the pianoforte. There remained in the center of the room only three pieces of furniture: a low-backed armchair (her own headquarters for this first stage of the campaign); a walnut and ivory tea table, which would soon hold some light refreshments; and her latest acquisition, an elegant scroll-backed sofa covered in Chinese silk. How very fortunate that she had been walking by the library when Pritchett had brought the young man in. How fortunate, as well, that the visitor’s damp, untidy clothing had not misled her for an instant. Her trained eye had noted the ruby stickpin hanging slightly askew in his cravat, the fine cut of his jacket, and then, incredulously, the gold signet ring. The startled butler, who had expected to leave the visitor to await Royce’s convenience, found himself hurrying off with orders for two of the upstairs maids, a footman, the housekeeper, the earl’s valet, and even Bassington himself.
The aforesaid footman, still slightly out of breath from a rapid bout of furniture moving, now reappeared, holding the door for the earl.
“Go away,” said the countess to her husband. “You were not to come up until I sent for you.”
The earl took in the flowers, the little island of furniture, and the hovering servant. “May I be excused from whatever is afoot?” he asked. “I am rather occupied at the moment.”
“You most certainly may not be excused! I need you.”
“What is it today? Comforter of the bereaved Sir Reginald? Patron of Lady Orset’s hospital? Surely Serena could assist you? I thought you were not at home today; you told me at breakfast it was too wet for callers.”
She looked at his rumpled jacket and the telltale inkstains on his cuff. “You’ve been working.” It came out as an accusation.
“My love, it is sometimes necessary,” he said mildly. “There is a war on, you know.”
“I hoped Royce would be able to do more for you,” she muttered. “He certainly isn’t a very good tutor; I only kept him on because he seemed as though he could be useful as a secretary.” She had had other reasons for encouraging Jasper Royce to remain at Boulton Park, but she had kept them to herself.
“He is useful. But he is also, my dear, a bit of an ass—if you will excuse my blunt language. I daren’t trust him with this. And if Sir Reginald and Lady Orset and the Derrings and all our other neighbors will be offended to find me shut up in my study when they call, I shall have to go back to London.”
She doubted he would execute this threat; he did not like London at this time of year. But she knew that any sign of irritation in her husband required careful management. Normally she would have sent him back to his reports with her blessing. He was already turning to go, believing he had won the battle.
“George!” she said, pleading.
He looked exasperated.
“I know what you are thinking, but it is not Sir Reginald,” she added hastily. Their elderly neighbor, a wealthy and childless widower, required frequent consolation for the perfidy of his younger relations, who unfailingly proved to have no sense of duty or affection but merely to be waiting for his demise. His visits usually lasted far longer than the conventional morning call and involved detailed explanations of the latest changes in his will.
“That young man who wrote to inquire about the butterfly collection. Mr. Clermont. He has just arrived. And,” she said with unusual emphasis, “he is wearing a very remarkable signet ring.”
“What’s his ring to do with anything? Clara, I wish you would not talk in riddles. If you insist, of course I shall come up. Briefly.” He grimaced. “He did have a letter of introduction from young Derring; they were at school together. I suppose I should make an appearance.”
“He’s in one of the spare bedrooms at the moment; the storm caught him and I sent Tuckett up to help him with his wet things. He will be down at any moment.” She glanced at her husband’s stained cuff and debated asking him to change his shirt, then thought better of it and waved him away. “Off with you; I don’t want you here yet. But be sure to come up the minute I send for you.”
The earl was used to his wife’s stage-managed social events; he bowed ironically and moved to the door.
“Oh,” said the countess, as though remembering. “Bates says we had an intruder in the park. Mr. Clermont tried to pursue him and was shot at for his pains.”
“The devil you say!” Shocked, the earl swung around. “I beg your pardon, Clara. But why did Bates not tell me at once?”
No need to worry now that her husband would not come up when she sent for him in half an hour, she thought, very pleased with herself. He might not care, as she did, about presentable young men, but he would certainly want to hear about a stranger prowling through the park. Two days ago he had become so obsessed with the notion that robbers were in the neighborhood that he had even hired guards to patrol the gardens at night.
“You told Pritchett you were not to be disturbed,” she reminded him. She herself, of course, routinely ignored these orders.
Snorting in disgust, Bassington stalked through the door, which the impassive footman was still holding open.
“Good morning, Uncle.” At the sound of Serena’s voice in the hall the countess gave a silent sigh. There was a crisp bite to the consonants which was all too familiar. And indeed, here was her niece, striding into the room in a manner very reminiscent of the earl’s irritated departure a moment earlier. She was not precisely frowning, but her expression was wary and hostile, and, of course,
she had not changed her gown.
The countess surveyed Serena cautiously. Her hair was still in its braided coronet, and the smooth brown surface gave off little glints of red as the light struck it. Her dress was wrinkled, true, but the color—a deep green—was flattering. Serena’s gray eyes tended to take on the hues of her clothing, so that just now they held a faint hint of emerald at the edges. And her posture, which was sometimes lamentable, was always at its best when she was angry. All in all, the countess decided, it could have been worse, and she surprised her niece by greeting her with a warm smile.
“You sent for me, Aunt Clara?” the girl asked. Her voice was softer than it had been in the hall. She had expected a scolding for her appearance, the countess realized, and was flustered by the omission.
“Yes, dear. It seems we have a very distinguished visitor who would like to look at the butterflies, and after I receive him I would like you to take him up to the library yourself. I hope you do not mind.”
“Would—would you wish me to change? I was in the still-room,” she added, flushing slightly.
A peace offering, thought the countess. Ever since her sister’s only surviving child had come to live with them eight years earlier, she had taken innumerable vows to be more patient with the girl, to respect her preferences, and to refrain from giving her advice. She made another silent pledge now. “No, no,” she said airily. “I had thought of it, but perhaps it is just as well; I understand Mr. Clermont wishes to work with the late earl’s diaries, and some of the volumes are in a sad state.”
“You mean that they smear flecks of red leather on everything they touch,” said Serena with a trace of a smile. She started to say something else, but the door opened again.
The footman reappeared, flanked by Pritchett, who announced impressively, “Mr. Clermont, milady.” He stepped aside and made way for her guest, whose appearance, unlike that of her niece, was now quite acceptable. His neckcloth and jacket had been pressed, his boots had been cleaned, and his hair, which had been falling over his forehead earlier, was now neatly combed. For the first time she got a good look at his face, and especially his eyes. They were very dark, with dark lashes, in curious contrast to the fair hair, which was growing lighter as it dried.
“Ah, Mr. Clermont,” she said, holding out her hand. “I do hope Tuckett has made you more comfortable.” Her eye searched automatically for the fascinating ring. It was now gone. A thin indentation across the base of his finger reassured her that she had not been hallucinating. Why had he removed it?
“Less disreputable, at any rate,” he said smiling and bending over her hand with practiced grace. “I had not meant to put you to so much trouble, Lady Bassington. I should have postponed my call until the weather was less threatening.”
“Nonsense,” said the countess briskly. “At this time of year in Oxfordshire, you might spend weeks waiting for a fair morning.” She gestured Serena forward. “Mr. Clermont, allow me to present my niece, Miss Allen.”
Serena’s eyes widened slightly, but she nodded gravely as the visitor bowed. Clermont, the countess noted with satisfaction, did not seem at all surprised by the wording of her introduction. And, as she had suspected, he was distinctly taller than Serena, something few men could claim.
“A pleasure,” said Clermont formally. “I understand that you are the guardian of the Bassington cabinets, Miss Allen. I hope it will not be inconvenient for you to assist me for a few moments this morning. Once I have seen the labeling system I usually do quite well on my own, so you need not fear I shall plague you further.”
“And what is your particular interest in butterflies, Mr. Clermont?” Serena asked, in a tone of voice which the countess could not help but label “skeptical.”
“I am, in fact, more interested in moths. Particularly the new lunar moths described by Hübner.” He gave a slight shrug. “But those are primarily Asian, and your collection is more noted for its African and South American specimens, if I am not mistaken.”
Now what has he said to make her frown so? thought the countess in exasperation. There was a light knock at the door, and she turned in relief, expecting to see the maidservant bringing in the tea tray.
It was Pritchett, however. He was frowning as well. “Mr. Googe is with his lordship, my lady,” he announced lugubriously. “And he would like to speak to Mr. Clermont at his earliest convenience.”
“The constable is here?” Lady Bassington was aghast. “Whatever for? And what would he want with Mr. Clermont?” Then she recollected the intruder in the park. “Oh,” she said, turning to Clermont in relief. “It is only about the man who fired at you. It is very tiresome, but I suppose you will have to go and be interviewed.”
Serena found herself studying Clermont surreptitiously while the constable went through the laborious process of recording five pages of notes on the incident in the park. She had surprised herself by volunteering to escort him to her uncle, and surprised herself even more by remaining, seating herself inconspicuously at one side of the room in case Googe should notice her and decide that she had no business there. Which, in truth, she did not. But she was curious. Her aunt’s reception of the visitor suggested strongly that he was yet another suitor, attempting to court her under the guise of examining butterfly specimens. And if he was indeed intending to woo her among the trays in the cabinet-room, she wanted to know why.
Her circle of admirers, up until now, had not included handsome young men. It had consisted almost entirely of middle-aged widowers who were prepared to overlook her small dowry and her chequered past. Was Clermont under the hatches, as Simon would say? Would even her modest portion do? Was he a Cit who had decided to marry into the peerage? Or an ambitious young politician, hoping for her uncle’s patronage? True, he had responded promptly and knowledgeably to her question about his researches. That had surprised her but had not changed her initial impression that his interest in Boulton Park had nothing to do with butterflies.
His appearance, she had to admit, was unexceptionable. Quiet, expensive, well-cut jacket. Boots which must have cost even more than the jacket—and whose polish could never have been restored so quickly after his muddy ride unless they had been meticulously maintained by an experienced manservant. Fine, narrow hands. No inkstains on the fingers. She looked again at his face. Narrow, like his hands. Reserved. In the half-shadows of the study the high forehead and finely cut features took on an otherworldly purity, especially when a stray beam of light from the tiny window caught the gold highlights in his hair. She recalled his graceful bow over her aunt’s hand in the drawing room. No, this was no Cit.
She had stared too long. He raised his head suddenly as Googe’s rumbling voice paused—she realized that she had been unaware of who was speaking or what was being said for several minutes—and she was caught, pinned, frozen, by those unexpectedly dark eyes. Embarrassed, she glared, refusing to look away. He regarded her gravely for an instant, then turned back to the constable.
“If we might conclude our business, then, Mr. Clermont?” asked Googe, with an anxious eye on the increasingly impatient Bassington. “I’ll just be asking you to confirm the following items.” He cleared his throat importantly. “One young gentleman, by name Clermont, normally residing in London, presently lodging at Burford Arms, Josiah Budge, innkeeper. Riding on saddle horse hired from said inn was adjacent to forest gate of park land belonging to the earl of Bassington and observed burly man in frieze coat prying open said gate. Pursued individual, but lost sight of him in trees. Individual then fired at gentleman—what sort of gun did you say it was, sir?”
“Blunderbuss, I thought,” said Clermont.
Serena, who had heard the shot clearly through the open window of the still-room, frowned but said nothing.
“Blunderbuss, yes,” said Googe, looking back at his notes. “Gentleman cannot give more detailed description of intruder.” He stopped, looking pleased with himself, and waited for Clermont to nod assent. Then he said in his normal voi
ce, “I’ll be off then, my lord? I fancy I’ll pay a visit to Purvis and his son. They’ve been grumbling about your gamekeeper since last winter, claiming he took up traps from their side of the hedge. I reckon they mistook Mr. Clermont here for Jackson and decided to give him a scare.”
Bassington rose and acknowledged Googe’s bow as he left the room. But he did not immediately dismiss his guest. “So, you are a friend of young Derring?” he inquired casually.
“We were at school together, yes.”
“Do you mean to call on Mrs. Derring while you are here?” The earl’s gaze narrowed slightly; he was watching Clermont’s face.
“Not unless I stay longer than I have planned. I saw Philip in London, and he told me his mother was presently with his sister in Lincolnshire. I gather Maria is to be confined any day now.”
Bassington relaxed and nodded genially. “Just so; I had forgot.”
“It may be just as well,” said Clermont. “Were she and Mr. Derring in residence they would be pressing me to stay with them, and I would eventually have to yield and would find myself arriving at your library every day at half past two.”
Serena smiled to herself. The Derring household was notorious for keeping London hours even in the country. Mrs. Derring often stayed abed until noon, and breakfast was not even served until ten.
There was a tap on the door and Pritchett came in, with a martyred air. “Mr. Googe’s compliments, and could the gentleman assist him in identifying the place where the shot was fired, Bates being unable to recall precisely.”
Clermont gave an oddly rueful half smile but then rose obediently and followed the butler.
“Pritchett will bring you straight up to the library when you return,” Bassington called after him. “And Serena,” he said, turning to her as she rose, “you should go at once and get the keys to the cabinets. The poor young man! Soaked, fired upon, and now prosed at by the worthy Googe. He has been here for nearly an hour and has yet to see a single specimen.”