The Spy's Kiss

by Nita Abrams

  “Serena? Are you in here? Are you alone?” It was Simon’s voice.

  Sighing, she stepped over to the concealed door and pushed it open. “Must you always use the servants’ corridor? It is very disconcerting to hear voices coming from behind the wall.” And as he started to say something else, she stepped aside to let him see that Meyer was within earshot, adding pointedly, “I am still engaged with Mr. Meyer; we are just finishing our visit of the public rooms.”

  Meyer, startled, had turned around and was blinking in surprise at the sight of his host’s son emerging from the middle of a wall.

  Her cousin made an instant recovery. His blue eyes widened ingenuously. “That’s not a corridor; it’s my secret passage,” he said, in hurt tones. “I was showing it to Mr. Clermont.” Sure enough, a tall figure was ducking through the low narrow door in Simon’s wake. The dark eyes met hers, amused.

  Simon had marched up to Meyer. “Our house has dozens of secret passages,” he said in the confiding voice of a much younger child. “Would you like me to show you some of them?”

  It was a masterful strategy, Serena decided. Meyer would now dismiss any rumors he heard of hidden recesses and tunnels—and there were indeed dozens, although most could barely accommodate Simon. More importantly, he would dismiss Simon as an over-imaginative child.

  “There is a hidden treasure,” he was assuring Meyer. “I’m the only one who knows where it is.”

  “Simon, you know better than to plague your father’s guests.” Her voice carried a warning, whose real message was: don’t overplay your hand.

  Clermont had wandered over to one of the watercolors. “You didn’t bring me to this room,” he said accusingly. “These are by Harris, are they not?”

  She decided not to remind him that his own tour had been abbreviated because he was still convalescing. That might in turn remind the inquisitive Mr. Meyer of the suspicious accident on Clark’s Hill. “Yes. They are the originals of some of the plates in his book.”

  “To the Right Honourable the Earl of Bassington, This Plate is most humbly Dedicated,” Clermont read off. He sighed. “Beautiful work. Pleasing to the eye and remarkably accurate. Seems hardly fair that a single individual should have both talents.”

  Meyer had joined him. “Do you by chance have the honor of the artist’s acquaintance?” he asked, in reverent tones.

  Clermont coughed. “Is there a younger Mr. Harris? The author of The Aurelian died when I was a small boy, I believe.”

  First service returned by Mr. Clermont for fifteen, thought Serena.

  Meyer peered shortsightedly at the signature. “Ah, yes, my mistake,” he said. He fished for his spectacles and put them on. “Vanity.” He gave a self-deprecatory smile and shook his head. “I did not wish Miss Allen to think me an old man.”

  Miss Allen was in fact thinking that she did not like liars. That even the polite fictions necessary to maintain life in a well-bred household irked her (“Miss Allen is not at home,” when she was standing right behind the drawing-room door as Pritchett sent the caller away). And yet here she was in a small room with three people who were all lying through their teeth. She wondered what would happen if she were to step between Clermont and Meyer and shout “Stop playacting!” at the top of her lungs.

  Clermont counterattacked. “What I like best about Harris,” he said, “is the way he creates an elegant composition while still depicting males, females, and larvae of each species. As with the Painted Ladies in this example.”

  “Yes, and note the broken china cup on the ground,” Meyer riposted. “Delicately suggesting the traditional habitat of the Painted Lady, to whit, rubbish heaps.”

  Fifteen all.

  “And the thistle—is that not the preferred food of the Marmoress, here?” Clermont was overdoing it, she thought.

  “Is that so? The Marmoress? Ah, Melanargia galathea. I do not know all your English names for the insects. It is not as familiar to me as the Painted Lady.” Meyer gave his embarrassed smile again. “I am the veriest amateur,” he confessed. “I hope to profit from the coincidence of our visits, Mr. Clermont.”

  Game to Mr. Meyer, she decided gloomily.

  Simon must have decided the same, because he suddenly intervened. Tugging on Clermont’s sleeve, he said in an exaggerated, petulant whisper, “What of our shooting lesson? You promised! And I’ve brought you to ask Serena, just as you said I must.”

  Clermont looked at her, eyebrows raised.

  Anything to get both of them away from the nefarious Meyer. “Half an hour, no more,” she said grudgingly. The time limit was for Clermont’s sake, but Meyer would not know that. And she had to admit that Clermont seemed nearly well this morning. No trace of a limp, and he carried his injured wrist easily, the bindings scarcely visible under his cuff.

  “Is the viscount not somewhat young for firearms?” Meyer asked as Simon and Clermont disappeared.

  “He is eleven,” she informed him, adding, ambiguously, “He was very sickly as a child and as a consequence does not always behave like other boys his age.” If Meyer took that to mean that her cousin was a bit simple she would not go out of her way to enlighten him. After lunch she would take Simon aside and order him to avoid Meyer for the rest of his visit. As for Clermont, she would devise some scheme or other to keep him out of the library. Better still, out of the house altogether.

  The greenhouse was warm and had a wet, earthy smell, which reminded her of the first days of spring. Clermont was already walking down the center aisle, fingering the occasional plant and looking at the labels on the seedlings. Unobtrusively, Serena took a long-unused key out of her pocket—Mrs. Fletcher had located it, with some difficulty, tucked into the head gardener’s planting book—and locked the door behind her. For added security, she took off her pelisse and hung it across two trellis hooks by the door so that it obscured the view through that wall. The whole building was glass, of course, but along the sides exotic plants like bamboo and papyrus grew tall enough to provide some degree of privacy.

  Clermont’s voice came from right behind her, making her jump. “Is this a tryst, Miss Allen? Dare I flatter myself that you were not seeking your cousin in my room last night?”

  She whirled and saw him looking down at her with an ironic smile. “I wished to speak with you in private,” she said stiffly. How had he moved so quickly without making any noise?

  “Very well. May I suggest the bamboo grove, then, as an appropriately secluded spot?” He bowed and waved her on, following behind her down the narrow aisle. There was no place to sit, so she stood, hands clasped, and faced him. Framed in narrow-edged green leaves, he looked suddenly remote, unpredictable, even dangerous. It was hard to remember that he had been bedridden less than a week ago.

  A frond brushed his neck, and he held it up between thumb and finger, examining it with care.

  Her temper, already frayed, snapped. She ripped the leaf out of his hand and flung it away. “Do not tell me what type of bamboo plant that is,” she said fiercely. “Do not point out the rare orchids. Do not ask to see the Dionaea muscipula—yes, we have one; Simon feeds it flies. I am sure you have conned your lessons very well, but I am not interested. I did not bring you to the greenhouse to see how well you knew your tropical plants. I have something to say to you, and I did not want to risk any eavesdroppers or interruptions.”

  “I see.” He gave her that grave stare which had haunted her from the first time she had seen it in her uncle’s study. Not defensive, not anxious. Watchful. Patient.

  Her heart was beating in her throat. He was the trespasser; she belonged here. Why did he seem so calm, when she, who had done nothing wrong, could feel her hands trembling?

  “I am at your service, Miss Allen. What did you wish to tell me?”

  She took a deep breath. “I know you are a fraud.”

  He winced. “An ugly word.”

  “Let us phrase it more politely, then. Your interest in butterflies does not appear genuine to me
.”

  “You have said so before. But I do have some interest in butterflies,” he said cautiously.

  She shook her head. “No more than I do.”

  He was surprised, and momentarily distracted. “You don’t care for them?”

  “I think them repulsive,” she confessed. “At first they look beautiful, but when you examine them closely you realize they are simply worms with giant wings.” Then she forced herself back to the main point. “My feelings are not to the purpose. Once I saw you with something which did genuinely interest you—your lenses—it was painfully obvious that the butterflies were not your real object in coming to Boulton Park.” He started to object, but she held up her hand. “Wait. Here is what I wish to say: I don’t know why you are here, or why you decided to pass yourself off as an Aurelian. Until yesterday, your pretense seemed harmless enough. Perhaps my aunt had persuaded you to—to come and make my acquaintance; perhaps you wished to ingratiate yourself with my uncle. In either case, you made a poor choice of strategies: my uncle and I, although not related by blood, share a distaste for liars.”

  His jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

  She swallowed. “I find that circumstances have changed. You once offered to leave if I requested you to do so. I am asking you now to honor that pledge.”

  “You want me to leave?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was very low.

  There was an expression on his face she could not read. Disappointment? Relief?

  “Even if one of your surmises about my reason for coming to Boulton Park is correct?”

  “Especially if one of them is correct.” She could barely breathe.

  He stepped closer. “Half French, and a liar. Two counts against me.” The ironic smile was suddenly back. “What do you say? Shall we make it three?”

  “What do you mean?” Now her voice was so faint it was almost inaudible.

  He moved closer still, bent his head, and kissed her.

  It had been a long, long time since she had been kissed. She had forgotten what it felt like. The taste of another mouth, the firm press of a hand against her back, the delightful, alien touch of shaved skin against her face. For a moment, recollection blended with sensation, and a sweet surge of nostalgia rose in her. Then everything changed, and she crossed into foreign territory. He moved his hand up to her neck, turning her slightly, pressing her closer. His mouth grew fiercer. She found herself flattened against him, felt his heart thud above her breast. And if he had only one usable hand, he was certainly making the most of it. It traced imperative circles, caressing her hair, now her neck again, now moving down along her shoulder—

  She tore herself away. “No,” she managed to say. “No.”

  He wasn’t smiling now. He looked as though he had taken another blow on the head. “Miss Allen—”

  “No!” She almost shouted it.

  He didn’t move, didn’t attempt to stop her as she unlocked the door with shaking hands, not looking at him, swallowing something which felt suspiciously like a sob in her throat. She tore her pelisse off the hooks—literally tore it—and fled across the garden, ignoring the paths, headed straight for the sanctuary of the house.

  Clermont watched her running through the bare flower beds, the unfastened pelisse billowing behind her. She paused once at the terrace door, turned to look straight at him, and then vanished into the house.

  That was a mistake, Julien, he thought. A very, very serious mistake.

  13

  Gentlemen may wear one or two pieces of jewelry. Plain gold is preferable, but rubies and sapphires are permissible if care is taken to avoid large, ostentatious stones. Diamonds are effeminate, and emeralds vulgar.

  —Precepts of Mlle. de Condé

  “Mr. Meyer! Do come in.” Bassington set down his newspaper, which Meyer had already seen. It predicted, for the tenth day in a row, that Napoleon would accept terms of peace within twenty-four hours. The earl’s hearty greeting, however, was as false as the newspaper. The moment Pritchett had bowed himself out, Bassington stood up and set his hands aggressively on the desk, fists clenched. “Well?”

  “Mr. Clermont is a cool customer,” said Meyer. “There is no point in continuing this charade. I’ve no desire to discuss the habitats of tropical moths with a slight German accent for the next three days. Mr. Clermont has done his homework; I have done mine; we could circle each for days in a scientific stalemate. I have concluded that a change of tactics is in order.”

  “Indeed. And what would that be? Drag him off to the cellars and beat a confession out of him? Try to bribe his servant? Search his room?”

  Meyer grimaced. “No to the first option. I decided the second was too risky. And my man has just returned from pursuing the third.”

  Shocked, the earl sank back into his chair. “You searched the luggage of a guest in my house?”

  Without waiting for an invitation, Meyer sat down opposite Bassington. He had no intention of letting the earl get the upper hand in this conversation by keeping him standing. “Yes. Although that servant of Clermont’s is like a guard dog. You would think the man had the crown jewels in the bottom of his trunk. Rodrigo had to wait for two hours to have a clear shot at the room, and dared not remain there long. Still, he found some very interesting items.”

  “Oh?” The earl’s tone was scornful.

  “Take a look at this.” Meyer held out a lump of grayish wax.

  Bassington turned it over, frowning, and studied the design stamped into the wax. His eyebrows shot up. “Where did you get it?”

  “An impression from an engraved silver hairbrush, in his trunk. One of a matched pair. It seems Mr. Clermont is certainly French.”

  “It could have been purchased,” the earl objected, “from the legitimate owner. Many French noblemen found themselves in financial difficulties after fleeing the republic.”

  “Perhaps.” Meyer leaned forward. “But recall, my lord, that according to Mrs. Digby, Clermont wears a signet on a chain around his neck. Lady Bassington and the butler are the only ones who saw it on his hand—” He paused significantly.

  “—and my wife treats him like royalty,” Bassington finished. “Very well. I take your point.” He stared down at the crest incised into the wax. “This certainly explains her interest in the young man. I suppose I should have asked her straight out who he was, but she enjoys having secrets occasionally, and I have been preoccupied with other matters.”

  “Those other matters, my lord, are of far more significance than Mr. Clermont’s possible connections to an exiled royal house. The man is very likely a French spy.”

  “A spy? From that family? Don’t be absurd!”

  Meyer suppressed the urge to give Bassington a half dozen names of nobly born émigrés who had been caught working for Napoleon in London.

  “Did you find anything else? Something which might provide at least a shred of evidence for your suspicions? Papers? Letters? Political pamphlets?”

  Meyer shook his head. “Nothing my servant could find easily, at any rate. There were more than a dozen books in the room, though, and he could not examine all of them.”

  “What sort of books? Histories? Anything about Russia, or Austria?”

  Meyer coughed.

  “Let me guess. Proceedings of the Aurelian Society. From my library. As would be natural for a man here to study the collection.”

  “Precisely. Six calf-bound folios. Also, several volumes of your father’s journals. And various other scientific tomes.”

  “May I ask, then, Mr. Meyer, why you wish to continue this inquiry? You have apparently found nothing, except possibly a hint that Mr. Clermont is connected to the last house in France I would ever suspect of assisting Napoleon Bonaparte.”

  “There could be any number of explanations for his change of allegiance,” Meyer pointed out. “Money. A woman. A family quarrel—Barrett told me Derring had mentioned something of the sort, followed by three years of self-imposed exile in Canada. Or simpl
e pragmatism. He would not be the only French aristocrat to decide his best interests lay with the empire.”

  “He would be the only one to do so after Napoleon executed his kinsman simply for bearing the family name,” snapped Bassington. “And it is one thing for a nobleman of the ancien regime to accept a command in the imperial army; quite another to descend to rummaging through desks in a private home and stealing papers. To make such an accusation without firm proof is unthinkable.”

  Meyer sighed. “I do have firm proof—of fraud, at least, if not of anything more serious. I have not yet shown you the other item my servant discovered.”

  “What sort of fraud?”

  “Mr. Clermont has insinuated himself into your household by manufacturing the accident on Clark’s Hill,” said Meyer.

  “Nonsense! The man was nearly killed!”

  “A miscalculation, I believe. Nor were we meant to find the trap. He intended it to look like a simple riding accident.” Meyer took out of his satchel a length of rope. Clean, new rope. Its color was a warm gold, like beeswax, rather than the dusty brown of the samples taken by Googe, but there was no mistaking it. It was identical to the rope discovered on the trees. “From Mr. Clermont’s saddlebags.” Meyer’s tone was almost apologetic. He laid it on the desk. “Only my concern for her ladyship prevented me from arresting Mr. Clermont immediately.”

  The earl was frowning at the rope. “This does not necessarily mean anything,” he said.

  “It seems quite straightforward to me: he hears, somehow, of your involvement with the negotiations and conceives of a plan to exploit his friendship with Philip Derring and gain entry to your house as a gentleman naturalist. When that limited visit proves unsatisfactory for his purposes, he arranges an ‘accident’ on your land and is then given lodging and complete freedom to search the premises.”