by Nita Abrams
“Well, why don’t you make him the secret husband of Metternich’s daughter, while you’re at it?” said Drayton sarcastically.
“Don’t laugh, Richard. I’m not making this up.”
“You’re telling me that a Condé, who is also related to Bassington, is stealing government documents?”
“We caught him breaking into my study at midnight,” Barrett said flatly.
“Oh.” The younger man brooded for a moment. “Well, what did you want to consult me about?” he asked.
“This thief. This young man, Julien Clermont. That’s what he calls himself; he doesn’t use the Condé name.”
“What about him?”
Barrett frowned. “We’ve reached something of an impasse. Clermont denies everything, we can’t find the letter, and now some people, including Bassington, are starting to say that perhaps Clermont did have a reason to break into my house—that he was after Piers’s diaries, which were also in my study.”
“Who would break into a man’s house at midnight to read his father’s diaries? Why didn’t he just ask you for the bloody things?”
“It’s complicated.” Barrett gave a précis of the events of the past month. When he had finished, his brother-in-law ran his fingers through his hair.
“Let me get this straight. The man sneaks into Bassington’s house, trifles with his niece, accuses Bassington of seducing his mother, and is caught red-handed in your study at midnight, but he may be innocent?”
“Correct. I think the chances are very slim, but if he is innocent, the real criminal is still at large. We need to know, and that is where you come in.”
Drayton looked at him, puzzled. Then he sucked in his breath. “Oh, no,” he said, shaking his head. “No. Wrong man. You want Nathanson. Or his father. Not me.”
“What we want,” said Barrett, “is a fresh face. Someone new in town, as it were.”
“Hell and damnation,” muttered Drayton.
“The cursing has to go,” Barrett reminded him.
Drayton’s answer was unprintable.
“Miss, please. Please don’t get me in trouble again,” begged Emily. “Let’s go home before anyone sees us.”
“You didn’t get in trouble,” Serena said. “I explained everything to my uncle, and he said no one could attach any blame to you.”
“Tell that to her ladyship,” muttered the beleaguered maid. “She threatened to turn me off without a reference.”
“Yes, but then she apologized.” Serena strode quickly along, and poor Emily trotted after her. “I am not going to call on any gentlemen this morning.”
The maid stopped dead. “We just did!”
“And he wasn’t home.” She grabbed the maid’s arm and started walking again. “We are not doing anything wrong. The White Horse is a perfectly respectable inn.”
“Miss Serena! You can’t go into a public inn looking for a young man!”
“I know that,” said Serena impatiently. “That’s why you are with me. Can’t you walk any faster?”
“The porter didn’t say he was staying at the inn,” Emily pointed out. “He merely said the trunks had been sent there. Your young man is likely long gone.”
“Then there is nothing to worry about, is there?”
They had arrived at the bottom of Fetter Lane, where large gates led into the yard of the inn. Even Serena was momentarily taken aback by the size of the place. She was used to genteel establishments along the Bath road, not four-story monstrosities which stretched along an entire block. The courtyard was full of coaches and horses and shouting ostlers and piles of corded trunks; the noise was overwhelming. But a liveried attendant greeted them civilly enough and conducted them along a covered walkway to the main entrance of the inn.
“Go up and ask,” hissed Serena, pointing to the clerk at the desk.
“Miss!”
“Just go! You will make me very conspicuous if you argue.” An older woman wearing an elaborately fringed pelisse had already turned and was surveying the two of them through a lorgnette.
Sullenly, Emily went up to the desk while Serena pretended to be absorbed in the decorations on a case clock against the near wall. Her hands were clenched so tightly around her reticule that they hurt.
“He’s not here,” said Emily’s voice behind her. “They have no forwarding address.”
Not here. As she expected. And what would she have done if there had been an address? Written to him? Followed him? She gave herself a shake.
Emily was tugging at her sleeve. “May we go now?”
“Why do you suppose anyone would put Egyptian beetles on a clock?” Serena said to no one in particular. She adjusted her bonnet and turned to follow the maid.
“Miss Allen! Miss Allen!” A slight, middle-aged man came hurrying across the room. “Miss Allen, if I might have a word with you?”
Emily was looking absolutely terrified; she clutched Serena and whimpered. “Someone’s seen us! Miss Serena, I’ll be sacked for sure!”
“Don’t be a goose,” Serena whispered. “It’s Mr. Clermont’s servant.” She couldn’t remember his name; her brain didn’t seem to be working.
“Begging your pardon, Miss Allen,” the man said, breathless. “If it isn’t too great an impertinence—”
Vernon. That was his name. He looked dreadful; pale and haggard. “Not at all, Mr. Vernon.” She wondered what she would say if he asked why she was here. He was a servant, she reminded herself. A valet. They were noted for their discretion, weren’t they? He wouldn’t ask. And surely he would know where Clermont had gone. She could send a message. A verbal message. That would not be as forward as writing.
“Miss Allen, I hope you will forgive me for asking, I don’t want to presume—that is, I would not under ordinary circumstances venture such a question—” He was hopelessly tangled. He stopped and started again. “Do you have any news of Mr. Clermont?”
Shocked, she stared at him. “You don’t know where he is?”
He shook his head. “I—I haven’t seen him since Sunday evening. We were to leave for Portsmouth early Monday. This morning I received word from him through your uncle; the message said he had been called away unexpectedly, but then why didn’t he at least take his cloak bag? And why were his trunks searched? And why didn’t he send me money? Miss Allen, he always makes sure I have money before he goes out of town. I’ve been going back and forth between here and Brook Street, not knowing what to do. I’ve even been to your uncle’s house, and to the Prince.”
Serena became aware that the lorgnette was trained on her again. She drew Vernon over towards the clock and lowered her voice. “All his bags are still here? All his clothing? Everything?”
“What’s left of it,” he said bitterly. “The dragoons ripped his jackets to pieces. I don’t know what they were looking for, but they didn’t find it, and the longer they went without results the more damage they did. They pulled his new trunk apart; they punched out the tops of his hats; they cut open the bindings on all his books. They searched me, if you can believe it. When he returns I shall advise him to file an action.”
How absurd, she thought. You couldn’t file an action against dragoons. Didn’t Vernon know that? Dragoons were sent on government business, to apprehend state prisoners—fugitives, or traitors, or spies.
That was when she remembered her uncle’s threat to have Clermont arrested.
She said something to Vernon; she had no idea what. Her face felt numb; looking over at Emily she saw that the maid was white as a sheet. Serena suspected that she herself probably looked worse. Without another word she turned and went out the door.
It had taken nearly half an hour to walk from Brook Street to Fetter Lane. She made it back to Manchester Square in less than twenty minutes. She had no idea if Emily had managed to follow her. The minute Rowley opened the door she ran past him and burst into her uncle’s study without knocking.
“Uncle, where is he?” she asked. “What’s happened to him? Wh
y were his bags searched?”
He was frozen, his pen halfway to the inkwell.
“Don’t lie to me,” she said, half sobbing. “Please don’t lie. Don’t tell me he’s been called away for a few days. I just spoke with his valet. He doesn’t believe it either. Did you have him arrested?”
The earl laid the pen very, very carefully down on the blotter. “How did you happen to see Mr. Clermont’s servant?”
She didn’t care if he knew, if her aunt knew. “I went to his house, and they directed me to the inn where his luggage had been sent. Mr. Vernon noticed me in the lobby and came over to greet me.”
“Serena,” he said, sighing.
“I know it’s unmaidenly and shameless and I’m a disgrace—” She was struggling against tears, and losing.
Visibly distressed, her uncle got up and led her to a chair. “Sit; sit down; you must compose yourself, my dear. I shall ring for Emily—”
She interrupted him. She was crying a little now. “She’s not back yet. She was with me, and I walked too quickly for her. You mustn’t let Aunt Clara dismiss her, Uncle. It’s not her fault.”
“Of course not,” he said, patting her hand as though she were a child.
“Don’t ring for anyone. I’ll be fine in a moment.” She took out her handkerchief and pressed it to her face. Then she took a few deep breaths. She lowered the handkerchief and looked up at her uncle.
“I am sorry,” he said. It was not so much an apology as an answer to her question. He wasn’t going to tell her anything.
Something had happened; she knew it. Sir Charles had been coming and going at odd hours; two officers had been closeted with her uncle yesterday; this morning he had disappeared for several hours without telling anyone, even Royce, where he was going. She had assumed this was all connected to the government work he and Barrett were doing. Now she wasn’t so sure. She nodded, dabbed at her face again, and stood up.
“Shall I walk you upstairs?” he asked, still hovering in concern.
“No. Thank you. I apologize for my outburst.”
He patted her hand again. “You were overwrought,” he said. “Understandable. It will pass. Do not dwell on these past weeks overmuch; you will meet other young men.” He escorted her out into the hall and looked anxiously after her as she started up the stair.
She kept going until she heard the bookroom door close behind him. Then she came back down, went through the dining room to the back staircase, and climbed up to the fourth floor. Simon was in the old nursery, studying. Two days ago Royce had told him he would be quite a bit behind other boys his age at Winchester, and he had been frantically conning Latin ever since.
When he heard her come in, he put his thumb in the volume of Livy he was reading and looked up.
“Simon,” she said, “I need you.”
26
When they brought him a priest, Julien knew he was in trouble. He didn’t think much of the young Spaniard. His English was good, but he was barely older than Julien, and he had a rather awkward manner that did not bode well for his ability to comfort his parishioners. Julien supposed it was not all that easy to find Catholic priests in London, though, and on the whole he was grateful.
“I am sorry to find you here, my son,” the priest said after the guard had left them alone.
“I’m not very happy about it myself,” said Julien. “Won’t you please take a seat, Father?” He pulled the chair away from the desk.
“How long has it been since you heard mass?” the priest asked as he sat down.
Julien thought for a moment. “Eight years?” he guessed. Then, hearing the indrawn breath, “I know; I’m sorry, Father.”
“And how long since you made confession?”
“The same.”
Frowning, the priest leaned forward. Julien thought he was in for a lecture, but instead the priest asked, “Is that a bruise on your face?”
Julien instinctively backed away from the lamp. “It’s nothing.”
“Barbarians,” the priest muttered in Spanish. He reached into the fold of his cassock and took out a small book. “I brought this for you.”
Julien wasn’t sure what to expect—perhaps a book of meditations. He found himself holding a seventeenth-century translation of Athanasius’ Life of St. Antony. He said, surprised, “But this must be very valuable! Are you certain you wish to leave it with me? A—a friend has already engaged to send me some books.”
“If you derive some comfort from it, that is all that matters.”
Julien wasn’t sure how comforting it would be to read about Satan tempting the saint with beautiful women. Perhaps he could alternate Athanasius and Charles Piers, if the diaries ever materialized.
“Oh, and this, as well.” The priest held out a rosary. The beads were amber and the pendants gold filigree. It was even more priceless than the book.
Suddenly suspicious, Julien demanded, “Did my grandfather send you? Does he know I am here?” That rosary looked just like the ones his aunt had given him for his birthday every year until he left France.
“No, no. One of the English officers here is acquainted with my employer, Don Isidro. Captain Nathanson. He sent for me. I was glad to come.”
Very relieved, Julien accepted the rosary without further protest. He had met several exiled Spanish aristocrats here in London, and they were prone to extravagant gestures of this sort.
The priest sat there, not saying anything. He wasn’t looking at Julien; he had taken out his breviary and was thumbing through it absently. The silence was surprisingly comfortable. After a few minutes, Julien sat down on his pallet. He debated for several more minutes. He thought about looking like a coward. He thought about his troubled relationship with the church. But he said at last, “Do you think I should make confession?”
The priest closed his breviary. “You mean, do I think you are in imminent danger?” he asked dryly. “We are all in peril of our immortal souls at every moment, my son. I will answer as I would to any other man: if it would ease your mind, I would be glad to hear it.”
It would ease his mind, Julien decided. He wasn’t sure whether he really believed this earnest young Spaniard could grant him absolution, but he longed to tell someone the whole sordid story—someone objective, someone who had heard many other stories from many other men. “It may take quite some time,” he warned.
“After eight years, I would be surprised if it did not. Just one moment.” The priest rose and went over to the door. There was a low-voiced conference with the sentry. “I have asked him to move away, out of earshot,” the priest explained as he sat back down.
“Thank you.” Awkwardly, Julien knelt. “In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti,” he began, “Ignosce mihi, pater, quia peccavi.”
It did take a long time. Julien told the whole story from the beginning: his mother’s disgrace, his hatred and love for his grandfather, his boyhood vow to punish his missing father, his descent into malice and fraud at Boulton Park, his near-seduction of Serena, his horror at discovering that his father was in fact a scoundrel, his arrogant refusal to defend himself after his arrest.
When he had finished, the priest said, looking thoughtful, “What, in your own mind, do you repent of the most?”
“Miss Allen,” said Julien slowly, surprising himself as he said it. “Not the carnal sin, but the pledge behind it, the pledge I made without words and which I cannot redeem.” He asked, trying not to sound anxious, “Can you grant me absolution, Father? For that, and for the rest?”
“You have not made a complete confession.”
“I confessed to every one of the seven deadly sins except sloth,” retorted Julien. “Do I need that one, too?”
“Every one except two,” the priest corrected. “Sloth and Despair. Of all the great sins, despair is the worst. It can conceal itself within any of the others. In your case, it masquerades as pride. You should have told your story, in confidence, to one of the officers the moment you were arrested. Bu
t now you are right, it is too late. We will have to pray that justice prevails in spite of your error.” He made the sign of the cross. “Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”
“Amen,” said Julien automatically. Then he frowned. “Don’t you want to give me a penance, Father?”
The priest looked around the cell. “I think you already have a penance. Peace be with you, my son.”
Serena had never been good at concealing her emotions, and those emotions were usually strong ones. Sometimes she thought the fates must have had a hearty laugh when her parents had chosen to christen her Serena. Dignified grief was not her forte; anguish and fury were. Nor were her joys revealed by the quiet, glowing radiance recommended in deportment books. Even if Jackson had never seen her coming out of the woods so many years ago with André, everyone in her uncle’s household would have suspected they were lovers. She had been so happy she had nearly danced instead of walking; she had jumped up whenever he came into the room; she had spent entire meals staring at him in a delighted trance. But she was older now, and wiser. She had learned that if she could not hide what she was feeling, she could at least hide herself. For the second time in three days she had shut herself in her room.
She had told her aunt she was feeling unwell, and in this case, unlike the infamous day of the Somerset House headache, it was the truth. She did feel ill. She was feverish, giddy, so agitated she could not sit still. Every knock at the door brought her up out of her chair, swallowing nervously. The first time it was her aunt. The second time it was Emily, with food she could not eat. The third time it was Mrs. Childe, who was persuaded to leave only after Serena climbed into bed and pulled the covers over her face.
The fourth time it was Simon.
She pulled him into the room and locked the door behind him. “Were you able to find out anything?” she asked. “Was he arrested? Who ordered his luggage searched? Where did your father go this morning?”