The Spy's Kiss

by Nita Abrams

  “No,” he lied. In fact, it was under the sofa in the old nursery, where Serena had thrown it at him a month ago. He had just seen it a few days earlier when he was searching for a gear which had rolled across the floor and had taken the opportunity to refresh his memory of Serena’s literary indiscretions before sliding it more securely out of sight. One never knew when one might need ammunition against Serena.

  “It’s beautiful out, but Aunt Clara will think it too cold for you,” she said regretfully. “Shall we go back down?”

  Simon frowned. “I’ll catch you up; I must find Bandit.” He looked around, annoyed. The falcon was long gone, the tiny birds had hopped or flown away, and the spaniel was probably lost again. He had a gift for falling into disused fire pits, or getting trapped under logs, or chasing cows who then turned around and terrified him so that he fled to the nearest hedge and cowered until Simon rescued him. A few shouts produced no response; grumbling, he shoved the glass in his pocket and started up towards the trees at the top of the hill, calling as he went. At the edge of the grove, he called once more, debating whether to continue on or trust the dog to find his way home. A faint sound reached him. He shouted more loudly, and this time he was sure that he heard Bandit’s whine in reply.

  The wind freshened, and he noted it with a grimace. If the wind started howling around the house, his mother would never let him hear the end of it; he had promised to turn back at the first sign of a change in the weather. As if the thought had been an evil omen, a gust roared across the top of the hill and nearly knocked him over. He realized suddenly that he had lost his hat back by the bird thicket. With an increasing sense of gloom he climbed on, through a stand of ash. The wind was louder, but he could hear Bandit clearly now, whining and yelping sporadically. Just where the path leveled out, there were two larger trees. Under the nearer tree was Bandit. And he was sitting on what appeared to be a dead body.

  “Good Lord, it’s a corpse!” said Simon, with a mixture of horror and enthusiasm. He peered more closely at the man’s body. “Wait, he’s only injured, I think. Move, Bandit, you’re smothering him.” The dog was sitting right on the poor fellow’s head. “Get off him, you blasted mongrel!” Simon commanded crossly, heaving the old spaniel aside. The injured man lay unmoving, eyes closed, but Simon could see the slight rise and fall of his chest, and the pulse at his temple. He’s lost his hat, just like me, thought Simon. There was blood and dirt on the man’s face, and his lips were beginning to turn blue with cold. That was why it took Simon a minute to recognize him.

  He scrambled up. His initial excitement was evaporating rapidly, replaced by panic. “Serena!” he screamed. He tore back down the path, yelling as loudly as he could. “Serena!” She was already a good distance away, but the wind must have carried his voice to her. She turned and looked back. He flailed his arms helplessly to show distress, then beckoned urgently and pointed back to the trees.

  She hesitated, and Simon knew what she was thinking. He had played far too many pranks recently. She knew about the pistol, for example, and had given him an unusually stern lecture about the difference between boyish fun and downright idiocy. But she turned and began trudging back up the hill.

  “It’s the butterfly-man!” he yelled. “He’s dead! Or not dead, but hurt, very badly.” He could see Serena’s eyes widen; she shouted something in reply, but he did not wait, suddenly afraid Clermont was expiring at that very moment. He ran back into the trees and pushed his way through the brush, not even bothering with the trail. Clermont was still there, and still breathing. Simon knelt down and tried to ascertain where he was hurt. Several places, it appeared. There was a shallow cut across his cheek, which was still bleeding a bit. It looked almost like the mark of a whip. Another graze on the side of his head. More blood on his neckcloth, mixed with leaves and dirt. And he was lying hunched over, as though protecting his left arm, which was cradled on his chest.

  Simon heard a scrambling sound, and Serena appeared, breathless. “There you are!” He had never been so glad to see her in his life. “He’s just over here, under the trees. He’s all over blood.” His voice trembled slightly. “Do you think he’s dying?”

  His cousin bent over the injured man, peered at his face and lifted his wrist. “No,” she said after a moment. “He’s just taken a bad knock on the head. He’ll come round soon, I should think. But we must get him inside quickly; his hands are like ice. Here, give me your coat.” She tucked it clumsily around Clermont’s shoulders. “Can you run down to the stables and get some men up here with a litter?”

  Immensely relieved to turn over responsibility to someone else, he pelted back over the top of the hill, then stopped.

  “Serena!” he called, turning back, “I see Bates on his way here already.”

  She emerged from the copse after a minute and looked down towards the valley. The head groom was riding up the path at a slow trot, leading another horse. “Aunt Clara must have decided it was too windy and sent after you,” she said. She sounded relieved as well. She waved vigorously until Bates spotted her and waved in return, then she hurried back into the trees, trailed by an anxious Simon.

  “Are you sure he isn’t dead?” Simon asked doubtfully as she knelt again by her patient. “That’s quite a bit of blood.”

  “Dr. Wall says head wounds always bleed a lot,” she replied absently. She took out her handkerchief and dabbed at the cut on Clermont’s cheek.

  Bates appeared at the top of the path and, taking the situation in at a glance, dismounted in one leap and tethered both horses to a small tree.

  “What’s this, then?” he asked, looking from the unconscious man to Simon and then to Serena.

  “I would say that Mr. Clermont finally lost a round against Tempest,” answered Serena, brushing off her skirt and standing up.

  Simon was staring over her head. He tugged at her sleeve, pointing. “It wasn’t Tempest,” he whispered. “Look.” A thin length of brown rope about ten inches long was dangling from a branch of the tree, almost invisible against the trunk. A matching fragment, considerably longer, hung from a smaller tree on the other side of the path. Bates swung into the saddle of the nearer horse, his face grim, and rode up to the second tree, retrieving the rope end and holding it straight out from the branch over the path.

  “Rider’s shoulder height,” he said succinctly. “Clear the horse’s head. Knock off the man on his back. An old horse-thieves’ trick. After we get this gentleman down the hill I’d best send for Googe again, Miss Allen.”

  “And Dr. Wall,” she said, looking down at Clermont. “At once.”

  “Well, he’s a bit battered, but I don’t think it’s anything serious. Crack in the wrist bone, or perhaps a severe sprain, a few cuts, and a nasty blow to the head. Should recover, with proper care. Unless, of course, he develops a fever.” Doctor Wall tugged at a frayed pocket and extracted his pipe, then, recollecting where he was, hastily replaced it. Serena saw the habitual gesture and hid a smile. She and the doctor were old friends. Lately, in fact, there had been an unspoken conspiracy between them to wean the countess from her fixation on Simon’s constitution. Dr. Wall had been recommending more and more exercise, and his tonics now tasted suspiciously like ginger water, with an occasional decoction of lovage—equally harmless—for variety. If they had been up in the old nursery, where they had spent many hours together when Simon really had been ill, several years ago, she would have let him light the pipe. But here in one of the guest rooms, it was impossible.

  The physician tapped his fingers on the bedpost. Clermont was asleep now, thanks to a stiff tot of laudanum, but his color was poor, and he tossed a bit even under the restraint of the drug. “Fits of shivering, abdomen cold to the touch,” Dr. Wall mused. “Consistent with chill, especially in this weather. Enlarged pupils, bruises on head and neck, confusion, dizziness—consistent with a blow to the head. A rather serious one, I am afraid. And his pulse, Miss Allen! His pulse!” He took up the unbandaged hand lying on the c
ounterpane and held it out to her, as though it had been detached from the sleeping body. “Feel that,” he commanded.

  Puzzled, Serena leaned over and laid two fingers gently on the inside of the wrist. At first she felt nothing unusual, but when she made as though to withdraw her hand, the doctor gestured at her to wait. After a few moments she realized that the beat, though reasonably strong, was very slow. She compared it to her own, and even allowing for her present state of agitation, the difference was marked. “Most interesting,” she said feebly. She had no idea what such a disorder of the vessels might mean. But she did have a vague impression that patients who were chilled, and those who had been given laudanum, had slower pulses. Was a slow pulse in itself dangerous?

  “Exactly,” said the doctor triumphantly, as though he had read her thoughts. “The cerebral bruising, the effect of the cold, and above all, the sedative—a mistake, a most lamentable mistake, but of course you were not present, my dear Miss Allen, you would never have allowed it!—so that now we are at some risk for congestion of the lungs.”

  “Mrs. Digby did not know,” Serena objected, forgetting about medical reasoning in her need to defend the old nurse who had dosed their visitor. “He was trying to get up, insisting he was perfectly fine. She thought it was for his own good.”

  “It would be for Simon’s good if the earl pensioned off Mrs. Digby,” grumbled the doctor. “Boy should be at school, not malingering at home with a nursemaid and a tutor. No wonder he looks peaked, hounded by a pack of old women every time he gets mud on his breeches or brings in a frog from the pond.” His attention went back to the young man. “He seems otherwise quite healthy,” he said, frowning down at his patient. Lifting a corner of the counterpane, he pulled aside Pritchett’s old flannel dressing gown (the only warm garment which came near to fitting their guest) and poked gently at the bruises on the torso, completely unconcerned with Serena’s potential embarrassment. Before she looked hastily away she saw a slender chain around his neck with a gold ring at the end of it. “You say someone rigged a trap at the top of Clark’s Hill?”

  “Yes, they strung a rope; it caught him on the neck, evidently. Bates has sent a message to my uncle and gone into the village for the constable. He thinks it is some poachers, trying to frighten old Mr. Jackson.”

  “Frighten! Kill, more likely. This gentleman would be dead now had Simon not found him.”

  “Well—” Serena floundered for a moment. “If it had been Jackson—he is rather short—I think it would only have knocked his hat off. But,” nodding down towards the bed, “he is quite tall—perhaps you did not notice—he was already in bed when you arrived.” To her chagrin, she could feel her face grow pink.

  “Taller than you, hey?” The doctor looked up at her with a smile. “Well, your uncle’s gamekeeper is certainly not a large man.” Jackson was, in fact, so short and round that he was nearly spherical. “Perhaps you are right, and they merely meant to give Jackson a scare. But I hope that they can convince a magistrate of their intentions. Because it looks to me like a case of attempted murder, and this young man appears to be of a station in life where such matters will not be brushed aside easily.”

  “You may be right about that,” she said slowly. “He is a friend of the Derrings who was here looking at the collection, and my aunt seems to know his family. She has gone into a frenzy making arrangements to nurse him; you would think he was a prince of the blood. When he told her he could easily be cared for at the Burford Arms she snapped that no one of his lineage would be tended by tavern wenches while she was mistress of Boulton Park.”

  “That is just as well,” said Dr. Wall dryly, picking up his bag and moving towards the door. “He should not be moved for at least three days and must not be allowed to walk more than a dozen yards at a time for several days after that.”

  “Oh.” Serena digested this for a minute. Her aunt had believed that they would only need to keep him here for a day or so. But Dr. Wall was not an over-cautious physician. If he prescribed rest, there must be a good reason. With a sigh she followed the doctor towards the anteroom. His hand was on his pocket flap again, and Serena knew he was itching to be out of the house. “I’ll ring for Pritchett and have him show you out. My aunt is conferring with Mrs. Fletcher and it is probably best if you do not take your leave of her. She will trust me to pass on your instructions.”

  “No need,” he said gruffly. “I can show myself out, been here often enough.” He was headed towards the foyer before she could even reach the bellpull but paused momentarily. “Ah, Miss Allen, one more thing.” He handed her a small paper twist. “If he develops a fever, give him some of this powder dissolved in hot water or tea and feel free to send for me again.” The pipe was out of his pocket already, and he tamped it absentmindedly on his boot, leaving a small pile of tarry ash just inside the anteroom doors.

  An elderly manservant on his way in paused and discreetly swept up the pile into his own handkerchief. He looked harassed.

  “Bates has returned from the village, Miss Allen. Constable was gone out to the weir, but they’ve sent a boy to notify him. And the boy stopped at the inn, as you requested, to see if they could send on the sick gentleman’s effects, and to summon his servant.”

  “Well?” she said impatiently.

  “Mr. Clermont’s man packed up his gear and left this morning; said his master was following him to town.”

  “Drat,” said Serena under her breath. She had hoped that most of the nursing could be done by Clermont’s own valet. According to Bates, the manservant had been regaling everyone at the inn with tales of his heroic devotion to his master in the wilds of Canada. Here, in her opinion, was an ideal opportunity for devotion. She had tended Simon after a blow to the head once, and it had involved quite a bit of holding basins while he retched. Now it would have to be Mrs. Digby and herself. She looked down at the pale, aristocratic face. His brows were drawn together slightly. Probably even in his drugged sleep he was dimly aware of what she was sure must be a ferocious headache.

  In the anteroom, Simon was waiting, nearly bouncing in his excitement. “May I see him?” her cousin said, trying to look around her as she emerged. “Will he recover?”

  “No, you may not, and yes, he will recover. If you do not plague him. I thought you were meant to be in bed yourself. You were soaked by the time we got back.”

  There was a timid knock at the outer door.

  “If that’s Nurse, I’m not here,” said Simon, retreating to a shadowed corner and preparing to slip behind a tall chair.

  The door inched open, and Mrs. Childe peered around it, then tiptoed into the room. “I came as soon as I heard the dreadful news,” she said in a whisper. “I will take the first turn to watch at his bedside. Poor dear Serena, you must be quite worn out with everything.” She patted Serena’s arm. “Go and rest; Mrs. Digby and I will be here.”

  Serena repressed the urge to ask the older woman where she had been on all the nights years ago, when Serena and the nurse and the countess between them could barely keep Simon quiet and dosed. She knew perfectly well that the widow had no skills in the sickroom. And while something about Clermont made Serena uneasy, it seemed excessively cruel to subject him to an incompetent harpy when he was injured and helpless. She glanced over at Simon in an instinctive appeal.

  “Oh, no,” he said, coming forward. “I believe it will be just you and Serena. Nurse has just been telling me that she cannot tend Mr. Clermont, because she has never been exposed to it. Nor can we have any of the servants in, because of the danger of infection. It is very fortunate that you and Serena are immune.”

  “Infection?” Mrs. Childe looked at the three of them in alarm. “Exposed to what, pray? I thought he had fallen from his horse? Has he some sort of disease?”

  “Oh, if you have already had it, you cannot catch it again,” Simon assured her. “But it is a common complication of head injuries, you know.”

  “It is?”

  “Yes, Nurse
said that the blotches are already appearing.” He turned to Serena. “He has blue marks on his chest, does he not?”

  As always when Simon embarked on one of his elaborate schemes, she was feeling a bit stunned. She managed to nod, though, and, remembering the bruises beneath the wide, smooth neck, reflected that her answer was not technically a lie.

  The other woman gave a faint shriek and backed away. “There seems to have been a misunderstanding,” she said, breathless. “I—I don’t believe I have been exposed. Perhaps I can be of assistance when he has recovered a bit.”

  “Say nothing to the servants,” Simon warned her as she sidled towards the door. “It would cause a dreadful panic.”

  “Of course not,” said Mrs. Childe as she backed out of the room and disappeared.

  Simon leaned against the door and grinned.

  “And what would you have done,” Serena demanded, “if she had asked you what the name of this illness was?”

  “Oh, I would have thought of something. ‘Occipital fever,’ perhaps, or ‘Cerebellan ague.’ Better yet, a Latin name. Pestis equicadensis. Pox Childeae.”

  “You are horrid,” she said. But she was laughing.

  “Are you sure I cannot just peek in? Just for a moment? You’re in my debt, you know, for saving you from Mrs. Childe.”

  She was in his debt. Sometimes she felt guilty about how much she enjoyed watching Simon make fools of adults she disliked. Putting her finger to her lips, she opened the inner door and beckoned. They stood for a moment, side by side in the doorway, looking at the unconscious man.

  “Isn’t it exciting?” Simon whispered to her. “Who do you suppose tried to kill him?”

  6

  George Oliver Clement Piers, fifth Earl of Bassington, believed in noblesse oblige. After a short but spectacular career as a rake in his twenties, he had come round to the idealistic notion that peers had a duty to serve their country, and for many years now he had been fulfilling not only his own obligations but also those of at least a dozen other men. A cautious and intelligent politician, he wielded considerable influence in Parliament, in spite of occasional displays of obstinacy more suitable to a Whig than a Tory. His appearance contributed to his reputation: he was squarely built, with a high forehead and a mantle of salt-and-pepper hair which flew about his head when he gestured during speeches in a most satisfyingly philosophical fashion. He was a member of several learned societies, as his father had been before him, and corresponded with scholars in five countries. All in all, he was someone whose judgment and discretion were highly regarded. The urgent summons from his wife had not shaken him; the news which greeted him, upon his arrival home, that a mantrap on his lands had nearly killed an innocent visitor, surprised and dismayed him, but did not fluster him.