The Spy's Kiss

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The Spy's Kiss Page 16

by Nita Abrams


  “Well, what would happen if he did go back?”

  “Most likely, Napoleon would shut him up in the dungeon at Vincennes and then shoot him.”

  “He would not,” Simon said scornfully. “This is 1814. No one can put people in dungeons and shoot them.”

  “Tell that to Mr. Clermont’s cousin.”

  There was another silence.

  “What happened to the cousin?” he asked after a minute, conceding defeat.

  “Napoleon kidnapped him from another country, smuggled him back into France, put him in the dungeon at Vincennes, and shot him in a ditch in the middle of the night.”

  “You’re making that up. I would have heard about it. My father would have had one of his shouting sessions where he stomps through the hall cursing Napoleon.”

  “You have heard about it, although it happened years ago. Mr. Clermont’s cousin was the Duke of Enghien.”

  Simon’s mouth opened, then closed. “The one with the dog? The one in the picture?”

  “The one with the dog, yes.”

  The duke had been shot when Simon was a toddler, but English boys still repeated, with ghoulish fascination, the story of the duke’s dog, who had howled at the site of his master’s death for a full day, exposing the murder to the world. And ladies of a certain age still sighed mournfully over portraits of the fair-haired victim. Even the most flattering renditions of Napoleon could not match the delicate features and gilt hair of the boy duke, so tragically cut off in the flower of youth. The picture Simon referred to had now disappeared—it had been cut out from The Ladies’ Mercury and pinned up in Mrs. Fletcher’s off ice—but it had shown the duke, his pale lips gasping out his last breath, slumped against a stone wall, with the dog gazing mournfully at his face.

  “Then Mr. Clermont cannot go back to France.”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Why?” she said, caught off guard.

  “I like him,” he said, shooting a quick glance at her to catch her reaction. “In fact, I think we should go to London. He could help me assemble my telescope.”

  “You’re forbidden to go to town,” she reminded him. “Your mother said her nerves could not endure another episode like St. Paul’s.”

  “I could make her change her mind,” he said.

  She raised her eyebrows. “Oh?”

  “All I need do,” he pointed out, with a malicious smile, “is tell her that if I am allowed to go, you will agree to come.”

  “And what makes you think I will agree?”

  “Because,” he said, with an angelic expression, “you don’t wish to deprive your beloved young cousin of a treat.”

  “Try again,” she advised.

  He abandoned the halo. “Because you want to go. Or at least you don’t want not to go.”

  “I do not. That is, I do. Oh, for heaven’s sake! Stop trying to confuse me. I do not wish to go to London. Is that clear?”

  He gave her a contemptuous look, pushed himself out of the chair, lit a candle at the lamp, and went to the door. “I am going to find my mother,” he announced. “Now is the time to stop me.” He stood, arms folded, for a long, insolent moment.

  She glowered at him, but didn’t move.

  “Put out the lamp when you leave,” he said. She heard him humming cheerfully as he darted off down the corridor.

  “Damn you, Simon,” she muttered.

  Whenever she felt in need of advice or support, Mrs. Digby sought out Mrs. Fletcher, her most faithful ally in the war against certain undesirable elements in the earl’s household. Thus Mrs. Digby found herself at eleven in the morning sitting in a stiff-backed walnut chair in the housekeeper’s office and sipping a glass of cordial, which Mrs. Fletcher had offered in spite of the early hour.

  “And so your Mr. Clermont is leaving us?” said the housekeeper, pouring herself a small glass of her own. “This is very sudden! You don’t suppose he and Miss Serena have quarreled, do you?” Mrs. Fletcher, like most of the female servants, had fastened on Clermont as an ideal husband for Serena. He was suitably tall, he had (as Lucy put it) “such an air about him,” and, most importantly, he seemed unintimidated by his potential bride’s sharp tongue.

  The nurse set her glass down. “No, indeed. Let me finish, do. He calls me to his room, as I was saying, and the luggage piled every which way, and his man running in and out, and he sits me down, very polite, and tells me how grateful he is for my care of him. And he presses something into my hand, as I’ve already mentioned, and a very tidy sum it was, I don’t mind telling you, not that I took it right away, for, as I told him, it was only my Christian duty, but he insisted and I’m sure I’m very much obliged to him, for it’s not every young gentleman would be so gracious to an old woman who had seen him make a cake of himself cursing and thrashing about in the middle of the night.”

  She ran out of breath, and the housekeeper prompted her: “What then?”

  “Then I thank him and start to get up, and he stops me, and what do you think he does?”

  “What?” said Mrs. Fletcher, on cue.

  “He asks me about Miss Serena! He did it well, began by talking about young Simon, but he didn’t fool me one bit, and sure enough a moment later he mentions her, as if by accident, talking about how fond she is of her cousin and next he wants to know does she ever go up to Town, and has she any young men come calling. Not in so many words, of course, but it was clear what he was after.”

  Mrs. Fletcher’s round eyes grew rounder. “And what did you tell him?”

  “Nothing I oughtn’t, never fear. No need to let every gentleman who visits hear about that rascally French count, if he was a count, or even an officer, as we’ve all wondered many times since. These days every Frenchman seems to be the viscount of this or marquis of that, and how is anyone here in England to know? Poor girl, she was so happy, and her bride-clothes all made up, and the banns about to be read, which was a thing I couldn’t quite approve of, since he was a Papist, but the vicar would do anything to oblige her ladyship. And then one day in walks Lucy to make up his fire in the morning and he was clean gone, just vanished, and a very fine gold clock and two candlesticks with him, as well you remember.”

  “I think his lordship should have given the alarm at once, sent word to the garrison that a French prisoner had escaped, but her ladyship was so overset he let it be. Mind you, that was before I found the candlesticks missing!” Mrs. Fletcher gave an instinctive glance at the locked cupboard full of plates on the far wall of her office.

  “Well, then, of course I didn’t say anything about it, merely mentioned in passing that Miss Serena had suffered an Undeserved Sorrow in her life. I didn’t wish him to think her unmarried by choice, after all! But what I did say was that there’s no call for her to spend her days playing nursemaid to her cousin and companion to her aunt. She ought to have a home of her own, that’s what I told him. What does the earl pay Jasper Royce for, if Miss Serena spends more time with Master Simon than his own tutor? A more useless young man I have never seen—losing his lordship’s important letters, letting Simon run wild one minute and lecturing him the next. I know her ladyship had hopes he and Miss Serena would make a match of it, but he seems a mighty poor prospect to me. As for Mrs. Childe, with her fancy gowns and her suite on the second floor, which is twice the size of Miss Serena’s rooms, where is she when her ladyship needs help with welcoming visitors, or looking over the linens, or writing invitations? She was a penniless widow when the earl took her in, but you wouldn’t think it to look at her, would you?”

  The two women were silent for a moment in the happy contemplation of their undying hatred for the aforesaid widow.

  “If you ask me, Bertha Childe likely had something to do with that Frenchie running off,” said Mrs. Fletcher darkly. “Thick as thieves, they were. And her twice his age or more. Disgraceful.” She turned her thoughts back to the subject at hand. “Inquiring after rival suitors, was he? So that’s t
he way the wind blows! A pity he’s been called away to town, then.”

  “You haven’t heard all of it, Eliza. Just as I get up to go at last—and I was there a good quarter hour, at least, and nearly all of it talking about Miss Serena—Master Simon comes bursting in saying, ‘I did it!’ Those were his very words. ‘I did it, sir! I’ve persuaded her to come!’ Now what do you think of that? No need to ask who ‘her’ is, is there? And then not five minutes later her ladyship calls me in and tells me we are all to go up to London at the end of the week! All of us. Including Miss Serena.”

  The housekeeper’s mouth thinned. In her mind the first person who ought to receive word of major upheavals in the earl’s household was herself. But she was able to satisfy her pride a moment later, when Pritchett knocked on the door and informed her that the countess would be down to consult her in a few minutes on a very important matter.

  “Thank you, Mr. Pritchett,” she said, with a gracious smile. “In case you have not yet heard the news, you should know that his lordship and the entire family will be removing to the house in London at the end of the week. I think we should keep this to ourselves for today—no use getting all the upstairs maids into a twitter—but if you could spare two footmen to go up to the box room tomorrow to begin bringing down the trunks, I should be very much obliged.”

  So, thought Julien as the chaise pulled out onto the London Road, Miss Allen had—as his aunt would say—“made herself a reputation.” Mrs. Digby, under the impression that she was being wonderfully circumspect, had proceeded to give hints a child of five could have untangled. Some French officer captured in Portugal had grown bored waiting at Boulton Park to be exchanged. He had amused himself by toying with a much younger Serena and had then broken both his parole and her heart by escaping. It had evidently been quite a scandal. He wondered cynically how much of that scandal had been fueled by Mrs. Digby’s notions of discretion and loyalty. In the course of asserting that Serena had nothing to apologize for, the nurse had revealed nearly the entire story of the aborted marriage; worse, to bolster her claim that it had been a perfectly respectable match, she had felt obliged to deny (and therefore relate, in detail) a very salacious story about a gamekeeper discovering the couple together in the woods at dawn. No wonder Serena Allen didn’t care for London anymore. Someone with her pride would be certain that every whisper, every averted glance, held condemnation. Or worse, ridicule. He knew, because he had lived his entire adult life with the same poisoned fog hanging over every social occasion.

  The nurse’s revelation wasn’t at all what he had expected to hear. In his years in exile, he had become more and more English in manner and speech while losses in the war against Napoleon had mounted higher and higher. The result was that he had become the unwilling auditor of innumerable curses, execrations, and maledictions directed at his countrymen. The remarks were made, of course, without any understanding that Julien himself was French. Often they were the by-products of desperate, raw grief, which was far more painful than the unintended insult. Oddly, soldiers were the least likely to indulge in this sort of venom, even those who had been badly injured. Women were the most likely. When Simon had announced that his cousin hated Frenchmen, Julien had therefore assumed that she had lost someone in the war, and in a way, of course, she had.

  His reflections were interrupted by Vernon. “Sir, is it permitted to ask whether your quest was successful?”

  “It is not,” said Julien, in a tone calculated to discourage further conversation. It had been successful, or at least partially so. Very painfully, working by inference, he had pieced together from the fourth earl’s diaries a rough picture of when his son had been out of the country. And of course, there was the reference to the money.

  “Have you spoken with his lordship?” Vernon persisted.

  Julien gave him a quelling stare.

  “That means ‘no,’ I take it.” The servant gave a little cough. “Sir, if I might venture—”

  “Venture, and you’re dismissed,” Julien snapped. Then he relented. Vernon had been suffering from a combination of anxiety and righteous disapproval ever since their arrival in Oxfordshire two weeks ago. He deserved to know that the end was in sight. “If it will ease your mind, I will tell you that I expect to settle this business within a week or two, once we are in London.”

  All he needed now was the name of the earl’s banker.

  15

  It was very late when the post chaise pulled up to Julien’s lodgings in Brook Street, and he was surprised to see a light burning in the front parlor. He had traveled so quickly that he had not bothered to send a message ahead warning his small London staff that he would be returning.

  Vernon had noticed the light as well, and frowned as he took the key from Julien and opened the door. The frown deepened when the very distinctive sound of clinking glass was heard from the illuminated room, whose double doors were only partially closed. The two men looked at each other, alarmed and puzzled. Then they heard a startled grunt and a set of quick footsteps. The doors flew open with a crash. A disheveled young man with several days’ growth of beard stood staring at the two travelers, a wine glass in one hand and a pistol in the other. Julien recognized it as one of his own. He recognized the young man, as well.

  “Derry!” he said, relieved. “What are you doing here? Were you told I was returning tonight?”

  “No, I was not.” Philip Derring’s normally pleasant face was scowling. “And I know you’ve only the three rooms, but you’ll have to put me up for the time being. I’m in hiding; that’s what I’m doing here—thanks to you. The Foreign Office sent the dragoons after me because of your little jaunt down to Boulton Park. I thought perhaps they had hunted me down when I heard the door open at this hour.”

  “The dragoons? After you? The devil you say!”

  “Not the devil. Worse. Sir Charles Barrett.”

  With an effort, Julien recalled the nondescript gentleman who had made one of the luncheon party his first day at Boulton Park. He could not imagine how Sir Charles, Philip, and dragoons could be connected, let alone his own part in it.

  “I’ll just take your things upstairs, sir,” said Vernon, after a glare in his direction from Derring.

  “Yes, and find me something to eat,” said Julien. “I’m ravenous. We came straight through from Henley with only one change of horses,” he explained to Derring as the valet disappeared.

  “How jolly for you,” was the bitter reply. “I haven’t dared show my face outside for nearly a week.”

  Julien stared at him. “Come back in and sit down,” he said, leading the way into the little parlor. Signs of a lengthy and reluctant occupation were everywhere. On the sideboard were empty bottles of claret and hock, the remains of several cold plates, and an open tin of wafers with a few broken pieces left in the bottom. Five days’ worth of newspapers were scattered across the floor. Next to the sofa, on a battered end table, a pair of dice sat atop a piece of foolscap with a long list of tally marks. “Right against left?” asked Julien, inspecting the tallies.

  Derring nodded glumly.

  “Who won?”

  “Left. I’ll be sure to throw with that hand if I ever dare venture out to my club again.”

  “It looks a bit . . . untidy in here. Did the servants take themselves off in my absence?”

  “They began pestering me to write you if I wished to stay longer,” Derring said. “Which seemed to me, under the circumstances, a remarkably foolish idea. So I told them if I saw either one of them in this room without a plate of food in their hands I would shoot them, and if they told anyone I was here, I would shoot them and their mothers.”

  “What circumstances?” said Julien. He sank into an upholstered armchair, promptly sprang up, extracted a small paring knife and an apple core from the back of the seat cushion, and tossed them onto a pile of newspapers. Then, cautiously, he sat down again. “I had forgotten what a slovenly fellow you are, Philip,” he said. “Bologna was a long t
ime ago. Now try to explain, in chronological order, what has happened. Slowly. It’s one in the morning, and I’ve been on the road since before noon.”

  Derring took a long swallow of the wine in his glass. “It started ten days ago. There I was, minding my own business, walking down Piccadilly, and Sir Charles Barrett hailed me—didn’t think the man even knew my name—and invited me in to White’s for a little chat.”

  Ten days ago. Julien counted back. That would have been the day after Sir Charles had stopped in at Boulton Park. “Go on.”

  “He was very straightforward: he wanted information about you. Who were you, what were you like, how long had I known you, were you in fact a naturalist or were you pursuing Serena. . . .”

  “And what did you tell him?” Julien asked sharply.

  Derring threw up his hands in exasperation. “Who knows? I don’t recall telling him anything out of the way. He seemed to be interested in your marriage prospects, so I told him you had no plans to marry, and why, but that is no great secret.”

  Vernon appeared at this point with a small tray of food, took in the state of the room in one horrified glance, and left again.

  “Did you mention my title? Name my grandfather?”

  “No! I swear, Julien, I never mentioned your family by name. I did suggest that they were highly placed, but that is all. And any fool could deduce as much from one look at you.”

  For a moment he had thought that perhaps Philip had been the one who had told the countess who he was. His friend had a guilty expression on his face, one Julien recognized from their school days. But no, it was his own cursed fault, for wearing the ring that morning. And in any case, his precautions had proved unnecessary. Bassington hadn’t reacted at all to the news that Julien was a Condé. Either he was a master dissembler (which, given Julien’s encounters with the earl, seemed unlikely) or his own long-standing theory was correct: Bassington had never even known the name of his victim.

 

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