by Nita Abrams
He didn’t move.
“I suppose you think I won’t shoot,” she said scathingly.
“No. I think if you are angry enough to shoot, I deserve it. I’ve wronged you more than anyone, and that I did so partly in ignorance only makes it worse.”
“You’ve wronged me more than anyone? Do you mean what happened tonight?”
He sighed. “I suppose it won’t do any good to apologize? To tell you that I was so engrossed in my own affairs that it never, never occurred to me what everyone would think—what you would think—of my request to see your uncle?”
“Just a moment. Let us have a complete confession, so long as I have the pistol. You cheated your way into my uncle’s house.”
“Yes.”
“You read through his private papers.”
“Yes.”
“You contrived the accident on Clark’s Hill.”
“Yes.”
“You imbecile,” she said in disgust. “You nearly killed yourself.” Then she returned to her list. “You cultivated Simon, and me, as an excuse to maintain contact with the household here in London.”
“Yes. No. Yes, at least at first.”
“Then why would you ask me to forgive you for one embarrassing misunderstanding when you have just confessed to four much more serious crimes?”
“Because those crimes, at least, had some justification, inadequate though it might be. The humiliation you suffered tonight was the result of my self-absorbed carelessness.”
Nettled, she said, “Humiliation? You are assuming I was going to say yes to this phantom proposal of marriage.” She still held the pistol pointed right at him.
He gave a wry smile. “No, I’m not that fanciful. When I left here earlier, full of remorse, I pictured you sitting in your chambre de fille, blushing and eager, waiting for the summons to appear in the drawing room. Dreaming of the moment when our eyes would meet, and you would drift across the room to my embrace. Then I decided it was far more likely that you had been stamping up and down, fuming about my audacity in seeking out your uncle without first consulting you.”
This was so nearly an exact description of her behavior that afternoon that she bit her lip.
“Even if you meant to refuse me, Serena, tonight’s debacle must have been a blow. Looking back, I cannot believe my folly. I called on you or Simon every day. I met you at concerts, at exhibitions. I danced with you. Philip warned me you would suffer when I disappeared, and I ignored him. I wanted to believe that my task here would not harm you. I deceived myself, and in so doing I wronged you, I wronged Simon—I compounded fraud upon fraud, mischief upon mischief. You have every right to pull that trigger.”
“If I were a man, I would pull it.” She waited for nearly a minute before lowering the gun. “I’m not a man,” she said.
“I know.” He took a long breath. “God, I certainly know that.”
Somehow it seemed wrong to be in the chair when he was on the floor. She slid down next to him, her nightgown spreading out like a soft white nest around her on the floor. The gun dropped into her lap. It didn’t make any noise, but it startled her. She had forgotten its existence. Her hand reached out, touched his hip, moved up to his chest, his shoulder, the side of his neck. Her fingers skated over the soft, bright hair. He had closed his eyes.
“Shooting me would be faster,” he said in a harsh whisper.
She kissed him, softly and quickly, and pulled his jacket off.
His hand groped, found the gun, set it carefully aside. He still hadn’t opened his eyes. He was moving his lips in some soundless incantation, pulling her closer and closer until she was pinned up against his chest and he was looming over her in the colorless band of light beneath the window.
Then he opened his eyes, and she knew there could never be any shield, any protection, any hope at all, once that dark gaze had found her out. It was his turn to run his hand slowly up her body, to lift her hair, turn it in the moonlight. It was his turn to kiss her—not softly, and not quickly. They sank to the floor tangled together, sliding down the wall beneath the window until she was lying nearly on top of him. He was pushing her nightgown up the backs of her legs, stroking her calves and thighs, layering kisses down her neck and tearing impatiently at her collar until the buttons came away in his hand and the kisses went lower still. They said nothing; in the silent house their breathing rasped loudly and the soft touch of lip on skin seemed to leave an echo behind. He was fierce and urgent beneath her; her own body was a stranger to her, wild and purposeful in a way that made a mockery of what she had felt with André.
If only, she would tell herself later. If only you had let well enough alone. But she didn’t. Her skin felt smothered in flannel; she wanted his hands on her breasts, on her back; she wanted to move without being caught in folds of cloth. She stood up suddenly, looked down at the beautiful, intent face of the man who was about to be her lover, and pulled her nightgown off over her head.
“Serena,” he whispered, “do you have any idea how exquisite you are?”
She sank back down beside him, her hair falling onto his chest. She reached for his neckcloth, tugged at it—and stopped.
He had seized her hand. “Serena,” he said, this time in a very different voice, “we cannot do this. I cannot do this. I will not ruin you.”
She laughed bitterly. “I’m already ruined. Or didn’t you know?”
He struggled up to a sitting position. His lips were a hard, straight line. “You are not ruined. That was a girl’s mistake. This is different. And even if you were far less innocent than you are, I would not wish for a son of mine the life I have led, as a fatherless boy. I won’t risk it, for you or myself or the child.”
So, he was a bastard. She should have guessed that. Otherwise he would have been a duke, like his uncle and cousin. He was a bastard, and he had planned to ask the ward of an earl to marry him. Or rather, he hadn’t planned to marry her. Which was more insulting? She wanted to be angry again, but instead she felt light-headed, frail, empty.
He tugged the nightgown out from under her leg and put it gently back on, pushing her arms through the sleeves as though she were a sick child.
She started to cry then, silently, huddled on her knees, her face in her hands.
“Serena,” he said a third time, sounding lost and helpless. He lifted her in his arms, carried her over to the bed, and held her while she wept, stroking her hair until the sobs died away and she lay, half-dozing, and then dozing, and then asleep, her head in the hollow of his shoulder and her hand lying lightly over his wrist in case he might try to slip away without saying good-bye.
He felt her stir against him as the sky was turning faintly gray around the edges.
“Are you awake?” he asked softly after a minute, pulling his arms away from her.
“Yes.” She shivered a little.
“I must go. The servants will be coming in soon to make up the fires.”
She sighed. “I suppose if they find you here my uncle will have you shot.” She sat up and looked at him, her face still soft with sleep, her hair tousled, and he gritted his teeth to keep himself from grabbing her and retracting his earlier decision. “Are you truly a spy? Trying to steal government secrets?”
“Dammit, no!”
“Then why did you trick your way into my uncle’s house?”
He was silent for a minute. “He didn’t tell you what I said?”
She shook her head. “He said you had made up some absurd story, but that it was clear what, in fact, you were after.”
“He’s my father.” He saw her stiffen. “He denies it, but I have proof. That’s why I came to Boulton Hall. To be certain. And then to make him writhe for what he did to my mother. The Condés locked her in a convent for the rest of her life as punishment for producing me, you know.”
She was struggling to take all this in. “What proof?” she said at last.
“My mother wrote me, when she was dying. She said her seducer was heir
to an English title called ‘Bassington’—this at a time when the fourth earl was still alive. I have bank drafts of payments sent to my mother’s convent, authorized by the fourth earl. I have a miniature done of me at the age of eight which is the spitting image of the portrait of your uncle as a boy at Boulton Park.” He made a sound of disgust and frustration. “Your uncle claims he was in the West Indies and couldn’t possibly have sired a child in France in 1784.”
She reached out and touched his arm. “But he was in the West Indies,” she said. “He was. I know it. Everyone knows it. Coughlin, one of our servants at Boulton Park, was indentured there. He was transported for stealing a fish. My uncle rescued him from the most dreadful master and brought him back to England. It will be thirty years next spring; Coughlin talks about it all the time.”
“I think my evidence is a bit more concrete than some old servant’s grateful recollections. But it makes no difference now.” He stood up, picked up his jacket, which was lying crumpled on the floor, and put it on. Then he looked down at the woman he could have married had he not been so focused on the man his mother should have married.
“I am sorry,” he said. “I am sorry for everything. I know that is rather inadequate, under the circumstances, but it is all I have to offer. You deserve happiness, Serena, and I have faith that you will find it.” He tucked her shawl around her so that it hid the tear in her nightgown. “Good-bye,” he said softly. “I shall think of you every time I see a butterfly. And I will not be picturing worms with wings, either.”
She smiled a little at that.
He went out through the dark house and the dark garden and the dark passageway by Barrett’s house, seeing that half smile and wondering bitterly if anyone else in the world would have been stupid enough to continue with a sour, spiteful plan for petty revenge when they had stumbled onto Serena Allen.
“Light, guvner?” called a sleepy link-boy in Harland Place.
It was nearly dawn, and his lodgings were not far away, but at the moment, any forlorn-looking child had his sympathy. He paid the boy double and followed the bobbing torch down Duke Street.
Half an hour later, on the verge of falling back to sleep, Serena was hazily considering for the tenth time the odd contradictions between her uncle’s story and Clermont’s. She had been puzzling over it since his departure, torn between his vehemence and his undoubted resemblance to Simon on the one hand and her belief that her uncle had been nowhere near France twenty-nine years ago on the other. Who was lying? Her uncle? Julien’s mother? Hewitt? Coughlin? A collage of bank drafts, letters, miniatures, portraits, and indentures drifted by beneath her closed eyes. She wondered sleepily what her uncle had looked like at Julien’s age. There were no portraits of him as a young man.
Portraits.
She opened her eyes.
Simon, at the age of eight. Simon with dark eyes and dark eyebrows at the age of eight. Julien’s hair. Simon’s hair.
She sat up, suddenly wide awake.
23
Vernon should have been gloating. Julien had expected little sidelong glances, perhaps even a few more quotations from the Bible. “Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.” That would be a good one. Or, “One thing I know, that whereas I was blind, now I see.” Instead his servant was dutifully packing, folding shirts and neckcloths and jackets as though each item was made of spun glass and demanded his entire concentration. That way, he didn’t have to look at his master and feel sorry for him.
Julien hadn’t slept at all. When he had arrived back in Brook Street it was nearly six, and all he wanted to do was run and hide. He had woken Vernon—a rare turnabout, that—and informed him, in the most neutral tone he could command, that they would be leaving as soon as possible. It must not have been a very neutral tone; Vernon had actually patted him briefly on the shoulder as he climbed stiffly out of bed. Julien had washed, though, and shaved, and put on clean clothing. At the inn tonight he would have a bath, he decided. A long bath. Maybe he would just sink under and never come up. Terminal baptism. It was one way to make a fresh start.
When the bell rang downstairs he assumed it was one of the porters, come to make arrangements to take the larger trunks away. Instead of the gruff accents of East London, however, he heard a very familiar voice. The owner of that voice was supposed to be in her bed in Manchester Square, where he had, with considerable nobility (in his opinion) left her, alone.
He tore down the stairs, furious at her for being so reckless. The wild notion that she had come to ask him to take her away with him suddenly took hold of him, and he wondered if he would be able to say no. The thought only redoubled his anger.
What the hell are you doing here? he started to say as he reached the entry hall. He stopped just in time. It was Serena, of course. In sharp contrast to one of his more recent and more memorable views of her she had virtually no skin or hair visible at all. A very proper bonnet covered all but a few curls; her pelisse was buttoned up to just below her chin; her slender fingers were encased in gloves. She wasn’t alone, however. Next to her was a maid. He emended the question slightly. “What are you doing here?” he said harshly.
The maid seemed to be asking the same question. She looked terrified. Vernon wasn’t happy, either.
“I came to return this.” Serena drew his pistol out of her reticule. A few tiny square flakes of paper came with it. She looked at the maid. “Emily, wait here for a moment. I need a word with Mr. Clermont in private.”
He took her into the parlor, leaving the doors conspicuously open.
“For God’s sake, Serena,” he hissed. “Do you want to be forced into a convent like my mother? Are you mad?”
“Emily won’t say anything. I told her my uncle would sack her if he found out I had been here, and he probably would.” Her tone was calm and utterly ruthless.
“What of the pistol? Did anyone see it in your room?” If someone knowledgeable—the earl, for example—had found the very distinctive weapon in his niece’s bedroom, he might have to elope with her after all.
She shook her head. “I found it shortly after you left. I told Emily Simon had stolen it from you and I had to get it back to you.”
“You could have sent it round with a footman.”
“No,” she said, still calm. “No, I couldn’t. Because I wasn’t willing to write down what I’m about to tell you. I thought you should hear it in person.”
“What is it?” He was impatient, nervous. She needed to leave. Her maid could be bribed. Someone might see her coming out of the house. He wasn’t expecting her to say anything very important. She had used the pistol as an excuse; she wanted to see him, perhaps; it was only natural. For his part, he had been sternly suppressing fantasies of climbing into her room every night for the rest of his life since leaving at dawn. But one last romantic farewell wasn’t worth the risk she was taking.
He was wrong, though. She did have something important to say. She led him into the farthest corner of the room, away from the maid and Vernon and the open door, and said, very quietly, “My uncle isn’t your father. He wasn’t lying to you.”
He gave her a cold, disbelieving stare.
“Wait; hear me out. You were right as well: you are a Piers. But not my uncle’s son. Your father is his cousin, Charles Piers. The boy in the portrait—with the fair hair and dark eyes—you thought it was my uncle, didn’t you?”
He had, of course.
“My uncle is the smaller one. His hair was brown when he was a child, and it stayed brown until it began to turn gray. You were looking for the older boy, and you saw two boys, one of whom was taller, the one with fair hair and dark eyes, and you assumed it was my uncle. But Charles was always taller, apparently, even though he was a bit younger. And Charles Piers was in France in 1784. He was forced to leave England as a young man and spent most of his life on the continent. When he died recently his diaries were sent to my uncle; supposedly they are very shocking. I was never allowed to see
them. He often told people he was the heir to the Bassington earldom. I think he even believed it sometimes; he was sure my uncle was going to die childless. The late earl was constantly paying his debts for him and bribing foreign officials to keep him from going to prison.”
It all made perfect sense. The payments to France that Bassington had never heard of were just another debt taken care of by the exasperated head of the Piers family.
“I’m sorry,” she added gently, “but from what I hear he was not a particularly pleasant person.”
“Like father, like son,” he muttered.
“I tried to see my uncle this morning, to explain that you had, in a sense, been right. You do have a claim on him. You were not inventing something out of whole cloth. But the minute I mentioned your name, he refused to hear me.” She looked down, biting her lip. “You must leave right away. He told me he means to have you arrested.”
He gestured at the piles of luggage in the hallway. “Behold, I hear and obey.”
She held out her hand. “Good-bye, then.”
“Good-bye.” He didn’t kiss it. He just held it.
Then she drew it away and a minute later he heard the gentle, implacable sound of the front door closing behind her.
“It’s gone.” Barrett shook his head in disbelief. “I take full responsibility, of course. It was entrusted to me.”
Bassington was thumbing through the papers in the dossier lying on Barrett’s desk, examining each one carefully.
“I already went though them,” said a third man. This was Nathan Meyer. “But I suppose it doesn’t hurt to have someone else make certain Barrett and I haven’t overlooked it somehow.”
“You’re certain it was in here?” Bassington asked, still turning sheets over.
“Certain.” Barrett ran his hands through his thinning hair. “I put every single letter, and all the drafts of the replies, into that packet and locked it in the safe. That was about midnight. Then I locked the door of the study and went up to bed. The door was still locked when I came down this morning, and there was no sign anything had been disturbed, until I opened the safe and found the letter missing from the top of the pile in the dossier.”