The Spy's Kiss

by Nita Abrams

  “You are an ungrateful, arrogant young man,” snapped the prince, “unworthy of the recognition we have given you.”

  Every meeting with his grandfather seemed to end with that phrase. Usually Julien apologized. The man was his grandfather, after all. Had raised him, however grudgingly; had endowed him with a title and lands. Had even wept once in his presence, a mark of trust which Julien considered the closest thing to a gesture of affection the fierce old man had ever made. It was the day that the news of the murder of the Duke of Enghien had reached England.

  He didn’t apologize today. He didn’t bow. On his way out the door, he removed his signet, set it down on the writing table, and walked away without looking back.

  It was returned to him by a liveried messenger within the hour. On the Alfred Club’s ivory-colored notepaper his grandfather had written:

  You cannot change who you are, just as I cannot change your mother’s lack of a marriage certificate. I am not ashamed of what I asked you to do. The fate of nations is more important than your pride, and, in the expectation that you will come to this understanding in time, I remain eager to receive any news you may have on the subject of our discussion.

  The Concerts of Ancient Music were governed by a very rigid protocol. The musicians, garbed in frock coats and wigs, were formally introduced. Only the most elevated works, sanctified by the passage of time, were presented. A director who had defied the rules twenty years ago by selecting a then-new work of Haydn had been fined an enormous sum. No conversation or applause was permitted until the end of each piece. Ushers had been known to ask patrons to leave if they spoke—even in whispers—during the performance.

  Julien had been grateful for that promise of enforced silence. It could have been the opera, he had told himself, where he would have been trapped for an entire evening in a box visible to hundreds of spectators while he conversed with Miss Allen in front of her aunt—or worse, in front of Mrs. Childe. Ten minutes in the concert rooms at Hanover Square had revealed his mistake. Conversation, in the campaign he was conducting, was a shield. It permitted deflections, sidesteps, counterattacks. It was amusing. It was distracting. And now, sitting next to Serena Allen, there were no distractions.

  He was achingly aware of her, of the tension in her shoulders and her fierce grip on the program in her lap. She was pretending to read it, and beneath her swept-up hair the back of her neck curved downwards, delicate and vulnerable. Even when he forced himself to look straight ahead he could see the pale, graceful arc out of the corner of his eye. Looking at his own program was no better; then he saw her gloved hand curling around the paper. He could not stop thinking about the last time he had sat next to her, on the bench in Somerset House, watching her shred another piece of paper into unimaginably tiny squares. The music was no help. There was a certain wistful quality to Corelli which echoed through his head like an accusation: coward, coward, you have delayed too long.

  He could excuse his own thoughtlessness, at least in part. It was understandable that someone who had grown up alone, with no family, no plans for marriage, would fail to see that most people were not like him. They were not alien, drifting hollows. They had parents, brothers, sisters, wives—people who were bound to them, who would bleed with them, hurt with them. Nor would the damage be confined to the earl’s family. Mrs. Digby, Bates, even the bumbling Royce were all entangled in his deception. It struck him suddenly that the only member of Bassington’s household who would not suffer was the enigmatic Mrs. Childe. Because she was like him: solitary and coldhearted. It was not a pleasant thought.

  Another few days, he thought. He only needed another few days. His appointment at the bank was on Friday. He would enlist Derry, drop some hints about what was coming, to soften the blow. Derry would never forgive him, of course. Neither would the boy. Or the countess, who was sitting across the aisle right now glancing over at her niece every two minutes or so. She caught his eye and smiled. He felt sick.

  It was a cold, wet night. In spite of the weather, the hall was very crowded, and he had no chance to speak with Derring during the interval. It was as much as he could do to bring back his share of the refreshments to the women without being trampled. He managed to sit next to Derring during the second half of the concert, but his two attempts to whisper brought frowns from both Serena and the usher. There was chaos afterwards, as well. All the coaches were crowding into the square, gentlemen were darting out into the rain to find vehicles for their party, and the entryway was mobbed with patrons collecting their coats and hats. It was not until he had handed the three women into the carriage that he was finally able to grab Derring and haul him under the shelter of a porte cochère on the other side of Prince’s Street.

  “Derry, listen,” he said. He had to nearly shout to be heard over the rain and the noise of the coaches. “I have a favor to ask of you.”

  “Name it, dear fellow.” Derring was in a very good mood, Julien saw. “Or better yet, come back to my rooms; have a glass or two of port, and then name it.”

  He shook his head. The fewer questions Derry could ask, the better. “I would be grateful if you could—” How was he going to put this? He paused, stymied, and started over. “Something has happened which may require me to leave the country very shortly.”

  His friend’s easy grin disappeared. “Your grandfather?”

  “In part.” That unsettling encounter at the Alfred this afternoon could prove useful, he realized. “I cannot say anything more at the moment. Here is my dilemma: Miss Allen and the countess have been very kind, and I am not sure how to tell them of my departure without seeming presumptuous.”

  Derring was quiet for a moment. A coach rattled by, splashing both of them with cold water. “So you want me to find out whether any expectations have been raised?”

  “Yes, that’s it exactly,” Julien said, relieved.

  “I know Serena quite well.” There was an edge in his voice. “Perhaps I should approach her, caution her that your very public, very determined pursuit of her will abruptly cease? That she will once again be humiliated, the center of a delicious scandal? Can I give her a date? The fifteenth?”

  “Oh, God.” Julien slumped against the stones of the archway. “Is it that bad? I didn’t suppose anyone would take our—our flirtation very seriously. She’s given me very little encouragement.”

  Derring glared at him. “You told me your courtship had been unsuccessful. You told me she detested you.”

  “I thought she did,” he said, almost plaintively. Had he really believed that? He remembered her mouth, warm and breathless, in the greenhouse. He remembered her eyes, glittering with unshed tears, lifting to his as they sat on the marble bench.

  “You idiot! You numskull! Are you blind? Do you think Serena Allen normally sits through an entire evening staring at her lap? I could feel her willing herself not to look at you from two seats away! I could feel you not looking at her from three seats away! Do you know how long it has been since she came to London? Since she appeared in public at concerts? Accepted invitations to dances, like the one Lady Barrett is hosting two days from now?”

  Mutely, Julien shook his head.

  “Five years. She has been hiding down at Boulton Park, scaring off every suitor her aunt manages to get down there on one pretext or another, for five years. Ever since that damned count abandoned her a month before their wedding. No one in that household has any doubts at all about why she suddenly decided to rejoin the world. There are probably wagers among the footmen about when the engagement will be announced. And now you want me to give her a gentle warning that you, too, are about to disappear?” He pointed a shaking finger at Julien’s chest. “Don’t you dare walk away and leave her unprotected. I don’t care what your grandfather told you. I don’t care if the royalists have promised you the bloody throne of France. I don’t care if White’s couriers are about to assassinate you. If you go without offering her a respectable excuse for rejecting your suit, I’ll kill you.”
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  “Well, that shouldn’t be too difficult,” Julien said, folding his arms. “I’ll just tell her I’m a bastard.”

  Derring frowned. “She doesn’t know?”

  “I don’t even think Bassington knows. I have hinted at it, but it isn’t the sort of thing one just announces. ‘Good morning, my lord, have I mentioned that my mother never married my father?’”

  “Well, you are not just any by-blow,” Derring said, looking uncomfortable. “Royalty has its privileges.”

  “Do you want me to provide Miss Allen with a pretext for sending me away or not?” he demanded.

  His friend didn’t answer for a moment. Then he said, slowly, “What do you want, Julien?”

  I want this to be over, he thought.

  In a cramped room at the back of his house on Harland Place, Sir Charles Barrett and a guest were standing by a window. It was a small, barred window, and even during the day it offered little in the way of light. Outside was a passageway only a few feet wide, which ran between the Barrett house and the house next door. Although the walkway provided a quick route from the square to the kitchens, the Barrett servants almost never used it, preferring to wend their way through the mews. For one thing, the passage was so narrow that even handcarts could not come through. For another, it was unlit, and secluded enough to frighten any prudent resident of London. The lower floors of both houses had no other windows or doors opening onto the passage.

  “Do you suppose there is something wrong?” said the guest, an officer with a large white mustache. “He is normally very punctual.”

  Barrett, listening intently, lifted a hand. Over the noise of the rain outside, both men heard quick footsteps and then a soft tap on the outer wall.

  “Ah,” said the officer, looking suddenly much more relaxed. “Excellent. I’m right here; I’ll get it.” He pressed down on one side of the paneling below the embrasure. With a loud click, the window and the entire section of wall it was set into swung open. A dark-coated figure hoisted himself through the opening and stood dripping for a moment in silence. Then he pulled his hat off, scattering water everywhere, and pulled the panel behind him back into place.

  “Good evening, Colonel,” said Nathan Meyer. He nodded towards Sir Charles. “Evening, Barrett.” His hair was no longer gray, and he no longer stooped. If Clermont had seen him now he would have had no trouble recognizing him as James Meyer’s father. “I’m afraid I’m soaked. Have you any notion of how much water collects in that passageway when it rains?”

  “Come into the study,” said his host. “There’s a fire in there, and I’ve left word that White and I are not to be disturbed.”

  “A fire sounds wonderful.” Meyer shrugged out of his coat and hung it up beside the window. Stains on the wood beneath the hook suggested that this was not the first time a wet coat had hung there.

  The three men passed through a doorway into a larger room lined with bookcases and cabinets. Piles of papers were on one table; a map was unrolled across another. The massive desk, at the far side of the room, was incongruously clean; it held only three neatly stacked books. They were bound in dark red leather and a small monogram was stamped on the spines.

  Sir Charles waved the two other men to a pair of armchairs by the fire and pulled a third chair over for himself. “I haven’t seen in you in some days, Meyer,” he said.

  “I’ve been keeping a low profile.” He stretched out his legs and let his damp boots rest at the edge of the hearth.

  “Avoiding the outraged Mr. Clermont?” Barrett’s tone was amused.

  “You and James may find the episode entertaining,” said Meyer. “I do not. The man is either very innocent or very dangerous. Have you heard what happened this afternoon?”

  White shook his head, as did Barrett.

  “His grandfather came to find him. At the Alfred.”

  “The prince?” Barrett looked startled. “Supposedly they haven’t spoken in years.”

  “They are speaking now,” Meyer said grimly. “Bassington, I know, refuses to believe that a Condé would spy for Napoleon. Has it occurred to you that the Condés might find our negotiations with the Tsar useful on their own account?”

  “The Condés are our allies,” said White uneasily. “After Napoleon surrenders, the prince is to escort the king into Paris at the head of an émigré regiment.”

  “The Austrians are our allies as well,” Barrett said. He was no longer smiling. “And for the last two months, through Bassington’s contacts in the Tsar’s entourage, we have been maneuvering to shut them out of the eventual peace treaty. England is committed to returning Louis Bourbon to his throne, flawed though he might be. What do you imagine Austria would do, should she learn of our secret communications with the Tsar? Might she not throw her weight behind a much more respected figure, one with the same royal blood in his veins—the Prince of Condé?” He turned to Meyer. “Is that what you are suggesting?”

  Meyer sighed. “I am not sure what I am suggesting. One moment, I am convinced Mr. Clermont is a quixotic fool, and the next moment I think he is a cold-blooded plotter. I tell myself a real spy would not storm over to Whitehall demanding to see me. Nor would he arrange to meet his grandfather in front of a dozen of the shrewdest men in London. And then I remember how he contrived a riding accident to gain access to Boulton Park. How he feigned interest in the butterfly collection. Continues to feign interest in Miss Allen.”

  Barrett stirred. “My wife,” he said, “believes the last item to be genuine. She and the countess have formed an alliance to promote the match. And I should warn you that in their own way they are as formidable as the Austrians.”

  “Does that explain the invitation I received this morning?” asked White.

  “Yes.” Barrett grimaced. “I, er, added you to the invitation list as a precaution. After I discovered that, without consulting me, my wife and Lady Bassington had decided to host a supper party with dancing. Here, in this house. And Mr. Clermont is to be the guest of honor. Needless to say, this room will be locked and I will post a servant in the hallway.” He rose. “Shall we compare notes, gentlemen?” He gestured towards the pile of leather-bound journals on the desk.

  “Nothing.” White produced two matching volumes and handed them across.

  “Nor in the ones I looked through,” said Meyer. “Just a moment, let me give them back before I forget.” He went into the other room, extracted three notebooks from his coat pocket, and set them on the desk.

  “Nothing in my three, either,” said Barrett. “Personally, I find it maddening. Here we are with the most vicious, most detailed account imaginable of every secret, illicit action at the Tsar’s court for the past ten years, and we still cannot identify Austria’s agent in St. Petersburg.” He collected all six volumes and set them on the table. “I’ll keep these here for the moment and take one more look before I give them back. If I do, in fact, give them back. So far Bassington has been reluctant to read them, and I cannot say I blame him. Who would want to face the evidence that a kinsman had made his living ferreting out the Russian aristocracy’s nastiest secrets and then demanding money to keep them quiet?”

  “Piers died well, at least,” White said after a moment.

  “Yes,” Barrett sighed, “he did. Unfortunately, his noble end is not recorded in these diaries. Instead, the last entry describes an evening with two respectable matrons—respectable if this diary is never published, at any rate. Bassington would have nightmares for a week if he saw it. Perhaps I should burn them.”

  18

  “I think it is monstrously unfair.” Simon scowled at the froth of gauze and satin draped over Serena’s bed. She had just had her last fitting, and the gown needed only a few tucks in the bodice before she wore it tonight. Even she had been impressed with her reflection in the mirror, although not as impressed as her aunt.

  “Simon,” she said wearily, “eleven-year-old boys are not invited to supper parties.”

  “But I’ll have my telescop
e! Mr. Clermont is bringing it by this afternoon. And the Barretts’ roof is flat.” He changed his tone to the “veiled threat” mode. “Do you want me to break my neck climbing out on our roof?” The Bassington town house, like the other two residences on the east side of Manchester Square, had a steep slate roof.

  Serena laughed. “Even you are not such a fool as to climb out on our roof at night in March, Simon! Besides, the moon will still be nearly full tonight, and the Barrett’s house will be lit outside to welcome the guests. You won’t be able to see much. Wait ten days or so. Ned and Jamie Barrett will be home for half-holidays then, and I’m sure will be only too happy to go up on their roof with you.”

  “Ten days!” She thought he would storm out of her room, as he often did, but after a tense pause he subsided into a chair and hunched over, looking at the floor. “Serena,” he said, his voice muffled in his shirt collar, “haven’t you ever looked forward to something, looked forward to it a great deal? And then you have it—it’s in your hand—but you can’t use it yet, can’t enjoy it? And everyone tells you to wait for the right time, but you worry that something might happen, it might break or get lost before you even try it.”

  It was one of the most reasonable arguments she had ever heard her cousin make. Disturbingly reasonable, and applicable to more situations than new telescopes. “I’ll go out with you this evening,” she said, touching him lightly on the shoulder. “Before the supper party. It will be dark by half past six, and we are not invited until nine. We can go over to the park for a bit.”

  “You won’t be able to go out,” said her cousin bitterly. “You’ll be primping.”

  “For two hours?”

  “I heard my mother. She’s engaged a hairdresser, and a seamstress, and all manner of other people to twitter over you.”

  Serena’s hand went instinctively to her chignon. “A hairdresser?”

  “Your hair,” he said with cruel precision, “is ‘too severe and spinsterish.’ At least according to Miss Robbins.”