by Nita Abrams
“I’m not sure.”
“Not sure about what?”
“Any of it.” He added, looking worried, “The servants don’t seem to know anything. Rowley and the footmen don’t, at least. But I went over to the Barretts’ and chatted with the grooms. It seems Sir Charles has been over to the Tower quite a bit recently. He’s there now.”
“The Tower?” she said faintly.
“Yes, so then I went to talk to Hoop—”
The earl’s coachman was a dour, close-mouthed man. Serena didn’t expect Simon would have had much success there. “And he told you it was none of your affair where he had driven your father,” she guessed.
“Don’t interrupt,” he said crossly. “I wasn’t such a fool as to ask him point-blank. I complained a bit about how dull London was without Ned and Jamie and then I said could he take me along the next time my father went to the Tower, because I wanted to see the menagerie. And he gave me this nasty look”—Simon gave an exaggerated imitation of a suspicious glare—“and said I knew too much and I was a cockatrice in my mother’s bosom, or some such thing. And then he said it was no business of mine where he took my father. But he didn’t say it very loud. More like muttered it.”
“Let’s go,” said Serena, pulling her half-boots out of the wardrobe.
“Go? Where?”
“To the Tower.” She stuffed her feet quickly into the boots, grabbed her reticule and a shawl, and darted out the door, with Simon, protesting, right behind her.
“Serena, it’s nearly half-past five! They’ll never let us go out now.”
“I shan’t ask anyone.” She was hurrying down the back stair. Dietrich, emerging from the kitchen, looked at her in amazement as she brushed by.
“You should take a maid, or a footman,” Simon objected as she swept him out the servants’ entrance towards the mews. “Shouldn’t you? Mother was angry when you went to Somerset House without taking anyone.”
She stopped to consider this. “No,” she said, “I haven’t time. Emily would come if I told her to, but by then Aunt Clara or Uncle George might see us leaving.” At the gate behind the stables she stopped again. “Simon, you needn’t come,” she said, looking down at him. “I’m going to do something very, very unladylike and I don’t want you to be punished again for helping me.”
He considered this for a moment. “It’s less unladylike if I’m with you, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Yes, but only a little.”
“I’ll come.” He grinned suddenly. “Going to see a prisoner in the Tower is much more exciting than going to see decrepit old lions in the menagerie.”
They hurried out through the mews onto Duke Street. Serena had no idea how to find a hackney coach, but Simon did. “We have to go down to Oxford Street,” he said confidently. “Ned Barrett found us one there last time.”
“You mean when the three of you went to St. Paul’s?”
He nodded.
“I hope that isn’t a bad omen,” she muttered.
It certainly did not prove to be a good omen. Simon found them a driver easily enough, although the man gave Serena a round-eyed stare when she stepped out behind her cousin and climbed into the carriage. But when they reached the Tower it was a different story. The ornately clad warders at the gate did not even want to let them in. “Menagerie is closed, young sir,” said one of them to Simon. “Come back tomorrow.”
“We’re not here for the menagerie,” Serena said impatiently. “We’re here to inquire about a prisoner.”
The guard looked even more incredulous than the hackney driver. His companion said in gruff tones, “Begging your pardon, miss, but the prisoners are not on display to the public. You should take your pupil home; the streets here in the City are not safe after dark.”
“I am not a governess,” said Serena in cold, precise tones. “I am the ward of the Earl of Bassington, and this is my cousin, Viscount Ogbourne. I have reason to believe that my betrothed has been arrested on false charges and is being held here. I demand to see the Constable immediately.”
The two guards glanced at each other in consternation. They were rescued by the appearance of a sharp-faced young man in more normal military clothing. This proved to be an officer attached to the garrison, who after hearing Serena’s explanation and receiving it with equal amazement, escorted them into an unfurnished anteroom in an adjacent building. “Wait here,” he said brusquely.
He returned twenty minutes later. “Miss Allen, you must have been misinformed. No prisoner by that name is currently housed in the Tower.”
Serena had not been sure what answer she wanted to hear. In spite of all his lies and treachery, she did not want Julien Clermont locked up in the Tower as a spy. And yet it did not relieve her anxiety at all to hear that Simon’s investigations had led them down a false trail. “Are you certain?” she asked. “Perhaps he is using a different name. He is tall, with very fair hair and dark eyes. He would have been brought here late Sunday or early Monday.”
“I am afraid that is impossible, ma’am. The wardens told me no new prisoners have been brought here for over six months.” He added, as he saw her stricken expression, “You might try Newgate. Or the Fleet. It is very unlikely your Mr. Clermont would be in the Tower. It is not used for debtors or young bucks who brawl with the watch.”
“He is a spy,” Simon informed the officer helpfully.
“No, he isn’t!” snapped Serena, glaring at her cousin.
“Well, he is not here, at all events,” the young man said in what were meant to be soothing tones.
Serena clenched her fists and willed herself to respond politely. “Yes, I understand. Thank you for your assistance.”
The officer cleared his throat. “I, er, spoke with my commander as well. He sends his compliments, and requests that you permit me to escort you home.”
“We would be very grateful, of course,” said Serena stiffly. In fact all she wanted was to be alone and sort through what Simon had told her and what she had just learned now. She had a feeling that an important piece of the puzzle was missing, that if she didn’t find it in time something dreadful would happen.
Simon was looking around at the dark stone walls with great interest. He seemed far more cheerful now that he had heard Clermont was not imprisoned here. “Serena, will you bring me here again?” he asked, as they walked back towards the west gate. “I’d like to see the menagerie after all. And the mint. And the guns. And the scaffold.”
“The mint is not open to visitors,” the sharp-faced man said. “Nor are the armories. But you may see the Royal crown and scepter, if you like, in the Jewel Office.”
“Where do they execute people?” Simon said eagerly. “Do they still behead them?”
The officer laughed. “I am afraid we have descended to more mundane methods. Usually criminals are hung, up on Tower Hill. The last execution here in the Tower itself was over two hundred years ago.”
“Well?” Colonel White said impatiently. He was sitting in the anteroom of his office, one floor below Clermont’s cell. Next to him on one side sat Barrett; on the other side was Nathan Meyer, whose son was pacing back and forth across the narrow width of the chamber.
Drayton peeled off his cassock and dropped it onto the floor. “You didn’t tell me Clermont had attended some blasted seminary school for ten years!” he said angrily to Barrett. “My Spanish is good; my French is passable. And he speaks English like a native. But would you like to know what language he confessed in? Latin! Twenty minutes of Latin! I didn’t even know some of those words!” He threw himself into the one remaining chair and added in disgust, “I had to ask him to repeat a few key items. He now has a very poor opinion of the priests of the parish of San Ignacio.”
“We are not interested in the language of his confession,” White said coldly, “merely in its substance. Or is your Latin so rusty you could not understand him?”
“No, I followed it. After my initial shock. He’s innocent. James was right on both counts. Clerm
ont was after the diaries on Sunday night, and he was with the girl during those two hours on Saturday night. He’s protecting her. His grandfather seems to be a coldhearted tyrant, by the way. No wonder he wanted to find his father.”
“Congratulations,” Meyer said to his son. He didn’t sound very happy.
Drayton looked around the room. No one else appeared pleased by his news, either. “What’s wrong? I should think you would be relieved.”
“Well, for one thing,” said Barrett, “if he isn’t the thief, we need to know who is. And what that person will do with the letter. And whether he plans to come back for more evidence. I don’t fancy living with armed guards in my study for the duration of these negotiations. We’ve now spent four days following a false lead.” He sighed. “Thank you, though, Richard. It was very good of you to help us out.”
Drayton ran a hand over the newly shaven spot on the crown of his head. “You realize I won’t be able to go out in public for weeks?”
“It grows back in faster than you’d think,” said James. “In the meantime you can stay home with my sister and contemplate the approaching blessed event. Shall I walk you home? I believe my wife is at your house in any case.”
There was a thoughtful silence after the two younger men had left.
“Are you thinking what I am thinking?” Barrett asked White.
“That we will to have to shoot Clermont even though he is innocent? Yes.” He sighed. “I hate this sort of thing. When I took this post I thought I would be working under Wellington, not Castlereagh.”
Meyer muttered agreement under his breath. “They are on the same side,” Barrett reminded them.
“Yes, but Wellington has scruples,” White retorted.
“You are a colonel,” Barrett said. “Colonels are not entitled to scruples. Or at least, they are not entitled to act on them against explicit orders from the Foreign Office.” He turned to Meyer. “Can you make sure the appropriate individuals are present as witnesses?”
Meyer nodded glumly. “When shall we perpetrate this travesty?” he asked White.
“Tomorrow at sunset?” White was looking at Barrett. “No point in delaying. If the Prince somehow gets word of his grandson’s whereabouts, he will raise holy hell and we will no longer be able to deny we knew he was a Condé.”
“When we tell my son about this he will raise unholy hell,” said Meyer. “Perhaps we should do it at noon.”
“Noon it is.” Barrett rose. “Until tomorrow, gentlemen.”
27
A gentleman does not appear in public in his shirtsleeves. Indeed, such attire is inappropriate even for the lower classes when not actually engaged in manual labor.
—Precepts of Mlle. de Condé
Julien had spent the morning very pleasantly—at least in physical terms. The corporal had come and shaved him again and had brought him a clean neckcloth. His breakfast had arrived hot, for once, and there had been coffee instead of ale. The tedious and somewhat frightening interrogation sessions had magically ceased.
Unfortunately, now that he was rested, well-fed, and relatively clean, he had been free to contemplate his behavior over the past month. It was an ugly picture. His victims rose up before him in an accusing pageant: the countess, smiling proudly as she watched him dancing with Serena; the earl, horrified at his duplicity; Simon sitting up in bed, saying, “Is that why you gave me my telescope? So that you could come to our house?” And Serena, of course. Serena, looking up at him on the staircase behind the Barretts’ ballroom. Serena in her bedchamber, pointing the pistol at his head. Moving her hand awkwardly up his body. Huddled on the floor, crying silently.
That one had been too painful. He had taken refuge in the sufferings of St. Antony. It hadn’t worked for long. The saint’s victories over temptation and deception contrasted all too starkly with Julien’s own behavior. In fact, Julien thought, his actions bore a disturbing resemblance to those of the defeated Satan. Lies. Seduction. Vengeance. He was sitting at the desk with the last of the coffee, reflecting that his quest had been appropriately rewarded by the discovery that he was the son of Charles Piers, when the priest reappeared.
In his present mood, Julien was quite happy to see him. “Good morning, Father,” he said as he rose. “Thank you for the book; as you see, I have been studying it.”
“I am glad you like it.” The young priest did not look glad. He looked harried. “But we have more pressing affairs now.”
A logical and ominous explanation for the absence of LeSueur and his brutish intimidators suddenly presented itself. Justice had not prevailed. They had concluded that he was guilty; hence, no need for further questioning. “I see.”
“The colonel has asked me to prepare you. They will come for you at noon.”
Instinctively Julien looked around for a clock. There wasn’t one, of course, and he had left his watch behind when he went out on that fatal Sunday night for what he thought would be a quick visit to Barrett’s study.
“It is just after eleven,” said the priest, understanding what he wanted to know. “We have nearly an hour.”
Julien thought that on the whole it was better not to have too much time for further contemplation. He had spent the whole morning engaged in that activity, and he would have preferred being pushed down the stairs again. But he could not suppress a morbid curiosity about the details. “Will they hang me?” he asked.
“Certainly not!” The priest was shocked. “That would be far too unreliable. It will be a firing squad. Very dignified.”
There was a certain delicious irony here, Julien thought. The English had screamed the loudest and the longest when Napoleon had shot the Duke of Enghien. And now they were going to shoot Enghien’s cousin. Against the wall of a medieval dungeon, just like Vincennes. All he needed was a dog to howl over his body.
“Might I—do I have time to write a letter or two?” he asked.
“If they are brief. You must be ready, you know, when the soldiers come, and there is a great deal at stake.”
His immortal soul, of course. Julien wondered how many sins he could possibly have committed between yesterday afternoon and this morning while locked in a windowless cell, but he did not think his letters would take long. The sentry fetched pen and ink and paper, and Julien sat back down with the dregs of the coffee and composed four brief notes. The first was to his grandfather. He said merely that circumstances had arisen which made it unlikely they would meet again, and that he wished to convey his respect and admiration for the Prince. He could not bring himself to lie and thank the man for the grudging gift of his name. Instead he would have to hope that respect would be sufficient. He wrote a similar but warmer note to Derring, and asked him to help Vernon find a new position. The letter to Bassington took a bit longer. After some false starts, he produced the following:
My Lord:
When you receive this, the sentence will have been carried out—quite publicly, they tell me—and it will no longer be possible to conceal the fact of my arrest and trial. As a last favor I beg not only that I might express once again my regrets to you and your household, but also that I might be permitted to address your niece by means of the enclosed.
Your servant,
Julien de Clermont
When it came to writing Serena, however, he could not think of what to say. He sat staring at the blank piece of paper until the priest, with very unclerical impatience, coughed suggestively. At last he wrote only two lines, and signed it with his initials. Then, before he could change his mind or add any postscripts, he sealed it up, enclosed it in the letter to the earl, and looked at the priest.
“That’s the lot,” he said.
The priest muttered something about people’s odd notions of what was important and motioned him to his feet.
Julien stood. He was remembering the priest’s remarks about despair. “Would you advise me to protest? Request a delay?”
The other man shook his head. “Not a good idea. Trust me, the soone
r the better with this sort of thing. Your audience would be very unsympathetic, in any case.”
That was certainly true. Julien pictured himself explaining to Barrett or the earl that he could not possibly be the thief because he had been breaking into the earl’s house—again—and spending time with his niece. In her bedchamber. Watching her take off her nightgown. Bassington would shoot him right then and there.
“Very well,” he said. Dignity. He would have dignity. That was something. “I’m ready.”
“Good. Take off your jacket.”
Serena was still keeping to her room the following morning. To her surprise, there had been no scoldings as a result of her expedition with Simon. The countess seemed to feel that it was a miracle she had not gone into a decline and expired; eccentric behavior was to be expected after the shock of her suitor’s perfidy. Her uncle was preoccupied with whatever affair was taking him to the Tower—perhaps Clermont’s arrest, perhaps something else; he had not been seen at a meal in two days. Royce, too, was looking gaunt and anxious; he had been spending long hours copying drafts of the public portion of the earl’s reports and ferrying sealed packets back and forth between Whitehall, the Barretts’, and Manchester Square.
When there was a knock at her door, Serena assumed it was Simon. Now that Royce was so busy, her cousin had taken to bringing her his Latin when he could not work it out on his own. “Come in!” she called, hiding her book hastily under her skirt. Unable to resist the temptation to impress Simon, she had been reading an English translation of Livy.
It was Rowley, looking flustered. “There is a young man below with a message for you, Miss Serena,” he said. “I have shown him into the small drawing room.”
“A message?” Who would send her a message? Rowley clearly didn’t know; he was giving her puzzled little glances as he led the way downstairs. Could it be from Clermont? But no, her uncle had expressly instructed all the servants to return unopened any communications from their disgraced former guest. An emissary from Julien would never have been admitted to the house. As for Philip, he had left town; his sister had at last produced his first nephew and he had been summoned to Lincolnshire.