The Spy's Kiss

by Nita Abrams

  At last there was a knock on the door. It was the younger Meyer. “I’ll take him back up,” he said. LeSueur had lost his crisp military bearing some time ago. His hair was tousled, and he had loosened his neckcloth. He merely nodded.

  Meyer glared at Julien all the way back up the four flights of stairs to his makeshift cell. “If you get out of this tangle alive,” he said as he unlocked the door, “I should kill you myself, for insulting my father.”

  “I don’t think I’m getting out of this.” Julien leaned against the door.

  “I don’t either.” Meyer pushed the door open, and Julien hauled himself upright again. “Although I don’t believe you took that letter.”

  “I didn’t. But your opinion seems to be a minority view.”

  “Where did you go between three and five the other night, though?”

  Julien just looked at him.

  “Ah, yes. You went for a walk.” The younger man wasn’t glaring any more. “I’ll have them bring you something to eat,” he said abruptly.

  “Could I have some water, as well? For shaving?”

  Meyer shook his head. “They won’t let you have a razor.” But an hour later, just as Julien was finishing his long-delayed breakfast, the two sentries reappeared, escorting a nervous middle-aged corporal with a basin and shaving gear. He only cut Julien once.

  Fed and reasonably clean, Julien sat down cross-legged on his pallet and considered his options. He could ask to have Serena summoned to testify on his behalf. He rejected that option instantly. He could write to Bassington and beg him to tell the full story of their interview. He rejected that option almost as quickly. The chances of such an appeal succeeding were slim, and he found himself reluctant to parade the Piers’s dirty laundry in front of strangers. He could ask his grandfather for help. That was out, as well. The phrase “I would rather die” suggested itself as apt. Finally, he could wait and hope for a miracle. He could wait, and hope for a miracle, and catch up on his sleep. He stretched out, covered his shoulders with the tiny blanket lying on the pallet, and closed his eyes.

  After two more unsuccessful attempts to see her uncle by fair means, Serena resorted to foul: she waylaid him in the front hall as he was returning from his club late that evening.

  “Not now, Serena,” he said curtly, handing his coat and hat to Rowley. He started to brush past her.

  “I am sorry, but I must insist. It is very important.”

  “If it is about Mr. Clermont, I have already told you, the subject is closed.”

  Rowley was hurriedly backing through the nearest door, out of the line of fire.

  She moved so that she was between her uncle and the staircase. His face grim, he lifted her off her feet, set her to one side, and started up the stairs. Shocked, she stood frozen for a moment. Then she called after him, not caring if the servants heard her or not, “Uncle, I have never known you to be unjust.”

  He didn’t turn around, but he stopped, one hand on the banister.

  “Please?” She could hear her voice tremble.

  Slowly he came back down and led her into an anteroom which opened off the hall. She thought he would be annoyed, but instead he looked sad. “Believe me, Serena, Mr. Clermont isn’t worth your concern. He is a very dangerous, unscrupulous young man. I do not wish to be unreasonable, however. I will hear you out, if you can be brief.”

  She took a deep breath. “I called on him yesterday morning.” She added hastily, seeing him start to get angry again, “I took a maid. And he would not allow me to stay. He told me I should not be there.”

  “Well, at least he has that much sense,” her uncle muttered.

  “I am perfectly well aware that I should not visit gentlemen at their lodgings,” she said, stung. “But you had forbidden him your house, and I needed to see him.”

  “And he had as little success evading you as I did just now,” he commented dryly. “Very well. Why did you feel this imperative need to speak with a man who had just insulted you grossly?”

  “That’s just it,” she said. “He didn’t insult me, not intentionally. He told me why he had requested an appointment with you.”

  Now he was angry. “A damned lie! I beg your pardon, Serena, but that he could bring himself to repeat that scandalous drivel in front of you is past bearing.”

  She put her hand on his arm, afraid he would try to leave again. “Uncle, wait. Wait, and let me finish. I told him you were not his father. He didn’t believe me at first. Consider the evidence from his point of view: his mother mentions the name Bassington. He discovers that he bears a strong resemblance to your son, and to certain family portraits. Your own banker tells him that your father ordered payments made to his mother.”

  “Lies. Coincidence,” he said impatiently. “Once he had met Simon he noticed a slight similarity, yes, and determined to take advantage of it, perhaps to extort money from me.”

  “A ‘slight similarity’?” She folded her arms. “Uncle George, haven’t you realized the truth yet? Who else, as a young man, sometimes claimed to be your father’s heir? Who was in France the year before Mr. Clermont was born?”

  “My cousin,” he said slowly. “My cousin Charles.”

  “And what did your cousin Charles look like when he was Mr. Clermont’s age? Didn’t he have very fair hair, and wide-set dark eyes?”

  He cleared his throat. “Difficult to compare the two men. We wore wigs in those days, you know.” But he was frowning. “It is possible,” he admitted after a minute. “I must admit, it is entirely possible. I had never thought of it.”

  “Go see Mr. Hewitt,” she urged. “That is all I ask. If Mr. Clermont proves to be Charles’s son, then he is a Piers. And in that case he had some justification for what he did.”

  He was shaking his head. “No, best to leave it, my dear. I am sorry, but even if your surmise is correct, the family would no more wish to claim him than they did his father. He seems to have inherited more than his coloring from my cousin.”

  She felt the blood leave her face. “What do you mean?”

  He touched her shoulder awkwardly. “Forget him, Serena.”

  25

  Julien tried to keep track of time, but it was difficult. Sometimes when they came to get him and take him down to the basement it was light outside, sometimes it wasn’t. Sometimes he was able to sleep as long as he liked; at other times they were shaking him awake from a groggy trance. His treatment on the way to and from the basement grew rougher and rougher, but the questioning itself was always coldly, meticulously precise and courteous. “May we ask who is employing you, Mr. Clermont?” “Could you tell us the whereabouts of the letter, Mr. Clermont?” “Could you describe your activities during the two hours before dawn on Sunday, Mr. Clermont?” Usually it was LeSueur asking the questions; occasionally it was another, older officer he did not know.

  On what he thought was his third morning in the Tower, one of the sentries deliberately pushed him down half a flight of stairs. He landed at the bottom, slightly stunned, and looked up to see the sentry staring down at him with no expression on his face whatsoever. He was wise enough not to say anything about it to LeSueur, nor did he react in any way when the same sentry came to collect him at the end of the session. But when he had regained the relative safety of his cell he sat down at the empty desk and thought hard.

  He had always prided himself on his independence from his mother’s family. They had treated her brutally; they had made her son feel guilty for his own existence; they had admitted him to their ranks only as an insulting last resort, when the guillotine was claiming other, more legitimate aristocrats. He had resolved long ago to take from the Condés only the minimum he felt was owed to him.

  Being pushed down the stairs by a pockmarked enlisted man who stank of onions made it suddenly clear that he had unconsciously accepted much, much more from his grandfather than he had ever realized. He had accepted a set of beliefs about who he was and how he would be treated. For example, he had simply
assumed that there would be no serious consequences of this arrest until they had decided he was guilty. No beatings, no rotten food, no freezing rooms without bedding or blankets. In fact, now that he was being honest with himself, he was not certain whether he had fully believed there would be serious consequences if he were judged guilty. Would they, in truth, execute Julien de Bourbon-Condé, the grandson of the most respected and influential member of the French royal family? When he had nobly resolved to lie about his visit to Serena, had he actually thought the choice was between his death and her dishonor?

  Too late to change his story now, though. After three days of stubborn denials, no one would believe him if he recanted. An innocent man with a reasonable explanation would have produced it in the first five minutes. Since there was nothing to be done at this point, he tried to persuade himself to forget about it. He washed his face, which was throbbing slightly on one side, and sat back down with his only reading material—a copy of the Observer from several months ago. The servant had sold it to him this morning for the outrageous sum of twelve shillings. It proved difficult, however, to find a story which didn’t mention anything unsettling—letters, for example. Or France. Or fathers.

  He was still feeling shaken, physically and mentally, when the same sentry opened the door an hour later. “You have a visitor,” the man said sullenly. He stepped aside, and Bassington came into the room.

  What was he supposed to say to a first cousin once removed whom he had accused of debauching his mother? Julien settled for getting up out of the chair and nodding stiffly.

  The earl took off his hat and set it on the desk. “Might I have a few minutes alone with him?” he asked the sentry. The man muttered something under his breath, but he withdrew and closed the door behind him.

  “You are bruised,” said Bassington abruptly, moving closer. “Have you been mistreated?”

  Julien put his hand up to his cheek and touched the tender spot in front of his right ear. “I fell.”

  There was a long silence. The earl wandered around the room, examining dark squares on the wall where maps or pictures had been hanging. He sat down at last in the chair behind the desk and looked at Julien.

  “I was perhaps too hasty in dismissing the evidence you presented to me the other night,” he said slowly. “My niece tells me that she spoke with you on Sunday about this matter. At her urging, I have been to see Hewitt, and it seems almost certain that she is right. You are the son of my cousin Charles.”

  So it was true. An aching sense of loss filled him. He didn’t want some dissolute black sheep for a father. He wanted George Piers—irascible, stubborn, snuff-addicted, honorable, intelligent George Piers.

  “Charles was a great trial to my father,” the earl said, after another pause. “I am afraid I was not very sympathetic to my father’s complaints; I always had a secret fondness for my cousin. In those days he seemed quite dashing and glamorous to me. As a result my father stopped confiding in me. Will you believe me when I tell you that I had no idea there was a child in France?”

  Apparently Julien was expected to respond to this. He cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said, “I believe you.”

  “Now that I know you are a kinsman, I feel some responsibility towards you. I thought it my duty to come and inquire after you here. Although I fear I cannot help you much in your present circumstances.”

  Maybe he didn’t want Bassington for a father after all. The last thing he needed was another disapproving relative passing judgment on his mistakes. “Thank you, sir,” he said stiffly.

  There was another silence, then the earl asked cautiously. “Did you steal that letter?”

  “No.” It was his turn to say: “Do you believe me?”

  “I don’t know. Nor, to be honest, would it make much difference if I did. It’s in White’s hands now.” The earl tapped his fingers nervously on the desk. “Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked abruptly. “Clothing, books, that sort of thing?”

  “If you could get word to my servant—tell him—well, not the truth. Tell him I have gone out of town unexpectedly. He will be very anxious.”

  Bassington looked uncomfortable. “He has already called at my house; I’m afraid he was sent away. I will have Rowley locate him and pass on your message.”

  “And perhaps you could convey my apologies again to the countess? And Miss Allen?”

  The earl looked even more uncomfortable. “If there is a suitable opportunity, yes.”

  Julien wondered what a suitable opportunity would be. His funeral, probably.

  Bassington rose. “Anything else?” He walked over to the door and rapped on it sharply. Julien heard the key turning in the lock from the outside.

  “Wait—there is one more thing.” He thought the answer would be no, but it didn’t hurt to ask. “My father’s diaries. Is there any chance I would be permitted to have the volumes from the year he met my mother?”

  “The 1780’s, wasn’t it?”

  “1784.”

  Bassington thought for a minute. “I don’t see why not. He didn’t settle in Russia until 1805. I will ask Barrett.”

  “Thank you,” said Julien. “Thank you very much. I have quite a bit of leisure time for reading at the moment.”

  “Are you certain you want them?” Bassington asked in an unexpectedly gentle tone. “I haven’t looked at them myself, you know. I had heard so many ugly stories about Charles already, and now that he is dead it seemed almost cruel to go in search of more. You are welcome to borrow anything in my library, if you want something to read.”

  “I need to know,” he said. He raised his eyes to meet the earl’s. “When I thought it was you, I wanted to learn everything about you. I read your speeches in the newspaper; I dug out old volumes of the Royal Society Bulletin to look at your essays; I walked by your house in London. And eventually, as you saw, that wasn’t enough. I can’t take revenge on a dead man. The idea of avenging my mother was wrong in any case; I admit that. But I still want to understand who he was.”

  “Well, don’t judge him too harshly,” said Bassington. “He will likely paint himself as black as pitch in the diaries; he always relished the thought of being a devil. But no one is ever all bad. I choose not to read the diaries, and to remember instead that Charles was willing to risk his life on behalf of his adopted country. In fact, he died protecting the author of that missing letter. Which means that I, at least, hope you are telling the truth when you say you did not steal it.”

  Sir Charles Barrett looked at the hat resting on the stand in the front hall. “We have a visitor?” he asked his butler. “At this hour?”

  “It’s Major Drayton, sir. Apparently he came in last night from Portsmouth and took the liberty of stopping by this morning to see her ladyship.”

  “Drayton,” said Barrett thoughtfully. “I see. Where are they, Staples?”

  “The library, sir.” At a nod from Barrett he stepped over and held open the door.

  Sara Barrett looked up as her husband came into the room. “Charles, look who is here!” she said, beaming. “Richard!”

  The dark-haired young officer next to her rose.

  “So I heard.” Barrett crossed the room and shook hands with his brother-in-law. “Good to see you back in England. Is there any news yet?”

  The younger man grimaced. “Not yet. The doctor tells me it will be another few weeks. I don’t know how Rachel can stand it.”

  Barrett laughed. “Patience, my boy. Be glad you will have some time with your wife before the new arrival claims all her attention. In fact, you should count yourself lucky to be given leave at all.”

  “Oh, nothing much was happening in Gibraltar. The action has all moved up north. My colonel said he could spare me.” Drayton sat back down. “How are things here? I thought I might call down at the Tower, see how White and the others are doing.”

  Barrett eyed him speculatively. “Curious you should say that.”

  His wife glared at him. “Charles
, he’s on leave. His wife is about to be confined, for heaven’s sake. I don’t know what sort of crisis you’re involved in at the moment, but I’m not blind. There is something going on. And I do not see why you should drag Richard into it.”

  “I’m not dragging him into anything, Sara. I would merely like to consult him.”

  She took the hint and rose. “If you dare to leave this house without coming to find me, I shall never speak to you again,” she told her brother. “As for you,” turning to her husband, “if White and his couriers send Richard off to France again I shall never speak to you, either.”

  “Well,” said Drayton, after the door had slammed behind her. “Sara seems a trifle . . . on edge.”

  Barrett sighed. “It’s been a difficult week. Sara and Lady Bassington were matchmaking, and the hero of their romance is now under arrest for stealing confidential diplomatic correspondence. From my safe.”

  Drayton whistled softly. “How very awkward.”

  “Indeed. It gets worse. The same man turns out to be a by-blow of Bassington’s cousin.”

  “Of Charles Piers? The scandal-monger?”

  “So you’ve heard of Piers?”

  “White mentioned him, yes. We purchased some information from him last year, I believe. That is an unfortunate connection.”

  “Very unfortunate. Bassington is the chief author of the initiative discussed in the aforementioned correspondence. And there’s more: the alleged thief is also the grandson of the Prince de Condé on his mother’s side. Formally recognized by the family, complete with the title of marquis.”