by Nita Abrams
The earl’s expression told him he was getting nowhere.
Meyer tried another tack. “My lord, I am not asking you to risk the embarrassment of an open accusation. As I told you, I considered arresting the man but decided against it for the moment. There is a very simple solution to this dilemma. If you will return to London and place the correspondence in Sir Charles’s hands, the question of Mr. Clermont’s intentions will become moot.”
“You will, however, report what you have found to your colonel.”
“Of course.”
“And therefore, Mr. Clermont, without his knowledge and without any chance to defend himself, will be suspected of an infamous crime and, most likely, placed under surveillance.”
“That is true,” Meyer admitted, “but you and the countess will escape becoming embroiled in a sensational scandal.”
“You are suggesting that I sacrifice the reputation of a man who is potentially innocent of any wrongdoing to preserve my own comfort?”
Meyer held up the rope. “I find the potential for Mr. Clermont’s innocence very small at the moment. Surely you see how damning this is?”
“Very well,” said the earl, exasperated. “I will go up to London, although it is a wretched place to be at this time of year. I will take the confounded letters with me, carrying them on my person, and deliver them to Barrett. On one condition.”
“Which is?” Meyer asked, wary.
“We settle this business with Clermont right now. I’ll not have him hounded by you and your fellow couriers.” He stood up, muttering, “Bloody spies. See plots and thievery everywhere.” He did not bother to lower his voice much.
“I beg your pardon, my lord, but how do you propose to ‘settle this business,’ as you put it?”
“Ask the man to his face who he is, of course. And why he has rope in his saddlebags.” The earl stamped over to the double doors which gave onto the gallery and wrenched them open. “Pritchett!” he bellowed.
A startled footman scurried off in search of the butler.
“Where is Mr. Clermont?” Bassington demanded when Pritchett appeared a minute later.
“In the library, my lord. With Master Simon.”
“Tell him I would like a word with him.” Bassington paused and looked at Meyer. “No, wait. I’ll go up myself. Catch him off guard. You would prefer that, wouldn’t you, Mr. Meyer?” His tone was contemptuous.
“I think such an interview very ill-advised.”
“But you will nevertheless wish to hear what is said.” The earl did not wait for an answer, but jerked open the concealed door in the paneling and started up the tiny staircase.
Meyer, perforce, followed, bitterly regretting his decision to confide in the earl. It was tempting to storm back to London and ask White why someone as irritable and stiff-necked as Bassington should be playing such a prominent role in the delicate negotiations with Russia. Still, he himself was at fault. Had he not antagonized the earl at their first meeting Bassington might consider him an ally rather than an adversary. The purpose of this confrontation in the library was, he thought, as much to humiliate Nathan Meyer as it was to exonerate Julien Clermont.
The earl turned at the top of the narrow stairwell and gestured to his right. “There is a doorway about ten yards farther along which will let you into one of the side rooms,” he said in a near-whisper. “Go out—carefully—and you can enter the library as though coming from the upper hall. I’ll join you in a few minutes.”
Easing himself into the deserted anteroom, Meyer crossed silently to the far end, turned, and returned to the library doors on the near side using his shuffling old-man walk. They were closed, but not quite latched. He could hear the boy’s voice, excited, asking a question, and Clermont’s deeper voice answering. Then a young woman, sounding amused. Miss Allen was here as well, then; as he pushed the right-hand door open, he saw her dark head between the two fair ones. They were all bending over the lens grinder, which was partly disassembled.
The low murmur of voices stopped. Automatically he fell into the slight stoop he affected as Meyer the scholar, and blinked nearsightedly. But he was not, in fact, nearsighted, and as he saw the three faces turn towards him at the sound of his footsteps, he could read each expression clearly. The boy: a flash of defiance masked at once by an exaggerated look of innocent puzzlement. Clermont: polite interest. Meyer’s hopes for a revealing slip during the coming interview died. This was not a man whose face or gestures would betray him. As for Serena Allen, she gave him a burning glance so full of knowledge and purpose that he felt it almost as a physical blow. I know who you are, her look said. I know why you are here. And I will do everything I can to hinder you.
“Must you go?” Simon was asking.
“I’m afraid so.” Clermont unscrewed another clamp from the end of the machine and set it into a compartment in the big wooden case.
“What about my telescope?”
“Simon!” Serena said, laughing. “Have you no manners at all, you wretched boy?” She was buoyant with relief. Clermont was leaving, and the oppressive tangle of suspicion and tension and excitement which had enmeshed her for the past week would vanish with him.
“Your lens is finished; I’ll send you a case and refractor from London,” said Clermont absently.
She heard the noise at the door first; the other two were busy unfastening the next clamp. But as the door swung inward, they looked up as well.
It was her enemy. Meyer’s mild air and apologetic smile didn’t deceive her. She glared at him.
“Good morning, Miss Allen, my lord, Mr. Clermont,” he said, bowing awkwardly to each in turn. He took in the open case and the half-dismantled equipment. “You are packing the machine?” He sounded disappointed, and Serena wondered if that was part of the scholarly mask or if he had let his real feelings show—his frustration at seeing his prize getting away.
“Yes, he’s leaving,” said Simon, with an aggrieved air.
“Without finishing my telescope.”
Meyer expressed regrets for the loss of the company of a fellow scientist and pulled up a chair when his offer to help pack the lens grinder was accepted.
There was a knock at the door, and a footman came in. “His lordship is not in his study, sir,” he said to Clermont. “I am sure he will return shortly, however. Shall I wait for him there and see if he will be able to receive you?”
“I suppose so.” Clermont was struggling with a recalcitrant screw. “And the countess?”
“Her ladyship sends word that she will be downstairs in three-quarters of an hour.” The servant bowed and withdrew.
“She’ll try to persuade you to stay,” Simon predicted, “or invite you to come back after you’ve visited your grandfather. But you won’t come back, will you?”
“Perhaps I shall see you in London,” Clermont said, not looking up. He gestured for Meyer to hold the clamp in place so that he could get a better purchase on the bolt.
“Serena and I don’t go to London these days.”
Now he looked up. At her, then at Simon. “Why not?”
“I don’t care for the city,” she said quickly, before Simon could give a more complete (and more revealing) answer. “And Simon—” She paused, searching for a suitably ambiguous phrase. “Simon found that London did not agree with him.”
Clermont wasn’t fooled. “Got yourself into a mess of some sort?” he asked the boy.
“I broke into the vault underneath St. Paul’s with my friends Ned and Jamie,” Simon said, with some pride. “The verger screamed when he found us.”
“Dear me,” murmured Meyer, one eyebrow raised. He glanced at Serena and she knew what he was thinking: that boy should be at school. She was almost beginning to agree with him.
The footman reappeared, holding the door open for Bassington.
Clermont jumped up, perturbed. “Sir!” he exclaimed. “Your man must have misunderstood me; I proposed to come down and say my farewells when you had a moment to
spare. I never meant you to interrupt your work to come up here.”
The earl frowned. “You sent a servant to find me? You are leaving?”
“Yes, my regrets, but my grandfather sent down an urgent summons which reached me only this morning.”
“Ah, your grandfather,” said Bassington. “Indeed.” His tone was thoughtful.
Serena saw Clermont raise his head slightly, like an animal scenting danger.
The earl walked over to the table. He had to look up at the taller man. “I understand that you sometimes wear a signet ring,” he said. “Might I see it?”
His face suddenly expressionless, Clermont untied his neckcloth, reached under his shirt, and pulled out a chain. The heavy gold ring swung at the end and made a small thunk, audible in the now-silent room, as it dropped into the earl’s hand.
Bassington turned the ring over and examined the seal carefully. Serena caught a glimpse of three fleurs-de-lis encircling a diagonal bar. The raised elements were in yellow gold; the field of the signet was in white gold. The device meant nothing to her, but it clearly meant something to her uncle. He was frowning, tracing the design with his finger, nodding to himself.
Serena looked back and forth between the two men. Meyer was making no pretense of continuing work on the lens grinder; he, too, was staring at Clermont.
“You are a Condé, then,” Bassington announced, after a long silence.
“Of a sort.”
His shrug, at least, was French, thought Serena. The name Condé was vaguely familiar to her. Familiar and terrifying. Why did she know that name?
“I had assumed, between one thing and another, that the younger generation of the Condés was now extinct,” her uncle said in his usual blunt manner.
“Oh, there are still a few left. They only arrested the genuine ones,” Clermont said. His mouth had a bitter twist. “And most of my kinsmen had sense enough to leave France with their families before the slaughter began in earnest.”
The earl handed back the signet and stood silently for a moment. “You have not returned since you were sent away as a child?”
Clermont shook his head.
“Probably a wise decision,” said the earl, his face grim. “Considering what happened to your—second cousin? In spite of the precautions of your kinsmen.”
“First cousin,” was the response.
“Then your grandfather is Louis-Joseph de Bourbon-Condé? The prince?”
“Yes.” Clermont stood braced as if expecting an attack.
“That explains why I thought I recognized you,” her uncle muttered.
A prince. His grandfather was a prince. Now she knew why the name sounded familiar. The Condés were a branch of the French royal family. Their claim to the throne was thought by many to be stronger than that of the current king-in-waiting, Louis Bourbon. The man she had snubbed and lectured and accused of lying was a descendant of Louis XIV.
“Then of course you will honor his request and go to London at once.” The earl sighed. “I’m afraid the countess will be very disappointed. She had hoped you might make a longer stay.”
Clermont bowed and murmured that he planned to present himself to the countess shortly to apologize and thank her for her gracious hospitality.
Instead of the equally meaningless polite murmur she expected, her uncle beckoned to the footman by the door.
“I have an apology to make as well,” he said. He took something from the footman and dismissed him. It took Serena a moment to see what it was: a piece of rope. It took her another moment to understand its significance.
“I am sorry to say that an underling in my household has been guilty of an appalling breach of courtesy,” the earl said stiffly. “This person visited your chambers and searched your possessions. When he found this rope, recognizing it as possibly connected to that used on Clark’s Hill, he cut off a sample and brought it to me.” Horrified, Serena glanced instinctively at Meyer. The pseudoscholar looked appropriately bewildered as he glanced from one man to the other, but she was certain he had engineered this little drama. He, presumably, had searched Clermont’s rooms; her uncle would never have done so.
“Yes, my manservant has been visiting chandlers to see if he could find some clue as to who might have set the trap,” Clermont said. He did not look guilty or nervous. “I believe that particular sample comes from Maidenhead, but I can ask him, if you like. Does it match the rope tied to the trees, as my servant claims?”
“It seems so.”
“Would you like the rest of the coil, then? And the name of the supplier? I had thought Constable Googe was the correct person to receive the information, but I beg your pardon if I should have come to you instead.”
“No, no, my boy.” Her uncle was looking embarrassed. “It is I who must beg your pardon. To search through a guest’s saddlebags! Unthinkable! Needless to say the fellow will be leaving my household at once. Without a reference.” He clapped the younger man on the shoulder. “I should have remembered your promise to send your servant out to make inquiries.” He turned to go, then swung back. “By the by, I will be removing to London myself within a few days. If I can persuade my wife and my niece to accompany me, is there any chance we might see you in town?”
Clermont inclined his head. “I should be delighted.”
The earl’s conference with Meyer shortly afterwards was less friendly. Bassington was furious. “You made a fool of me,” he told Meyer, nearly spitting the words. “In front of my niece and my son, to boot! A guest in my home was embarrassed, was accused, by implication, of the lowest sort of trickery—and not just any guest! A descendant of the noblest house in France!”
“That interview, I will remind you, was your idea, my lord. I was content with your promise to take the documents up to Sir Charles in London. A promise I trust you still mean to honor.”
“Certainly. Although I presume you will not object if I receive the young man at my home in London, now that these absurd suspicions of yours have been put to rest.”
Meyer raised his eyebrows. “My suspicions are not put to rest. Not at all. Mr. Clermont’s composure and prompt answers prove nothing. Indeed, an innocent man would likely have been more outraged by the search of his baggage. But you are welcome to entertain him—if the documents are not in your house.”
“Bah!” The earl stomped over to his cabinet, pulled out an old tin snuffbox from behind a pile of books, and took two enormous pinches. The violent sneezes which followed did seem to calm him somewhat. “I suppose there is some sense in giving the letters to Barrett,” he said grudgingly. “After all, he has the notebooks. What’s more, with both of us in town there will be no need to send drafts back and forth.”
Meyer wisely said nothing.
“The weather is improving.” The earl glanced out the window at the leaden sky and corrected himself. “Or will be improving shortly. And if London is thin of company, that makes it all the more likely I can persuade my niece to accompany us. Unless, of course, you and Colonel White have some objection to Mr. Clermont’s apparent interest in my niece? Do you have proof that that, too, is a fraud?”
It was a rhetorical question, and Meyer did not bother to answer. His own observations, which were not always confined to political and military matters, suggested that Clermont was indeed intrigued by Miss Allen and she by him—however reluctant they were to acknowledge the attraction. But he did not think their romance was likely to have a happy ending.
14
“The man has not even been gone for two hours,” Serena said, scowling, “and my aunt is already trying to persuade me to go up to London with my uncle. I should have told her straight out that the prospect of seeing Mr. Clermont again makes an already undesirable location even less desirable. We are well rid of Mr. Clermont and Mr. Meyer both. I am looking forward to a nice, peaceful fortnight with no visitors and no constables and no missing government papers. If any butterfly-men come I shall tell Pritchett to send them away.”
She and Simon were in one of his favorite retreats, a small, windowless room accessible only from the servants’ corridors. The countess had given Simon permission to fix it up as a secret hideout on condition that he always leave the door to the corridor open when he was there. She had read somewhere that children with weak lungs could become ill from breathing stale air in enclosed spaces. Simon ignored this requirement; as he pointed out to Serena, what was the point of a secret hideout if one could not close the door? The room contained three items of furniture: a lamp stand, an old armchair—granted by custom to Simon—and an even older trunk sporting an impressive series of straps and padlocks to keep prying eyes away from Simon’s collection of interesting objects. Serena was sitting on the trunk. She had never, in any of her numerous visits to the hideout, seen the trunk opened.
Once she had asked what was in it.
“Things,” Simon had said darkly. “Things people don’t want me to have.”
She had taken the hint, and treated the chest from then on only as a bench.
They sat in silence for a while. Simon was halfheartedly fitting together the mortise and tenon of two panels from a dismantled wooden box. Serena’s eyes were closing; she felt very tired. When Simon spoke, she jumped.
“Serena, who are the Condés? Why is it dangerous for Mr. Clermont in France?”
“The Condés are a branch of the French Royal family,” she said. Her tongue formed the words, but she did not yet believe them herself.
“But why can’t he go back? Your count did. He was an officer under Napoleon, even though he was a nobleman. The French are not killing aristocrats now.”
Serena barely noticed this reference to a man she had forbidden Simon, on pain of a hideous and painful death, ever to mention again. “The Condés who survived the Terror remain in exile because Napoleon considers them a threat to his power—a greater threat perhaps even than the Bourbon king.” Fat Louis, as most Englishmen dubbed him, was not a very regal figure. Serena had seen him several times in the days when she still went to London. He resembled nothing so much as a giant frog, and the newspapers took great pleasure in printing unflattering cartoons of Louis in coronation robes held up by a simpering Lord Liverpool. Across the channel it was much the same: the Bourbons were heartily despised in France. The Condés, on the other hand, were much admired, and had a claim to the throne nearly as strong as that of Louis Bourbon.