The Spy's Kiss

by Nita Abrams

  Amused, he said, “If you marry me, are you planning to reform?”

  “I am not marrying you.”

  “My question was phrased in the conditional mode,” he pointed out. “Intellectual curiosity.” His hand was covering hers, though, and it didn’t feel like intellectual curiosity when his fingers curved in a possessive circle over her knuckles.

  “Hypothetically speaking, then, if I were to marry you—or anyone else—I have no plans to reform.”

  “Good,” he said. “Hypothetically speaking, that is.”

  31

  This time he was going to get it right. He had his rooms at the Burford Arms again; after searching for Royce for twenty-four hours the soldiers had given up and gone back to London. He had Tempest—he had bought the mare outright from the amazed landlord of the Queen’s Rest. But he had not ridden her tonight; no, he had deferred to Vernon for once (and to his own sartorial splendor) and had hired the inn’s dilapidated coach. Overdressed in knee breeches and the ridiculous blue-and-silver waistcoat, he stood outside the earl’s study and tried to compose himself.

  The butler gave him an inquiring glance, and Julien nodded.

  “The Marquis de Clermont, my lord,” Pritchett announced as he opened the door.

  The earl, Julien was relieved to see, looked just as nervous as he was. “Ah—do come in, Marquis,” Bassington said. He rubbed his nose absently and gestured towards a chair. Julien suspected he had been fortifying himself from one of his illicit snuffboxes.

  “You’ve come about my niece,” said the earl.

  Julien sat down. “Yes, sir.”

  Bassington shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “She hasn’t much of a dowry, you know.”

  “I am aware of that. I would be prepared to make a very generous settlement on Miss Allen. I indicated as much in the note I sent you this afternoon.”

  “Have you spoken with her? Told her of your intentions?”

  He sighed. “Once. Briefly. She refused me.”

  Restless, the earl tapped his fingers against the desk. “Why have you come to me, then? I have little say in the matter. She is fully of age. It is true that her dowry cannot be released without my consent, but if you are as wealthy as your letter suggests, that would make no difference to you.”

  Why had he come to Bassington? “I wanted to do the thing properly,” he said slowly. “There is too much between us that cannot be forgotten or overlooked. I felt I should at least make certain you were willing to have me in the family, after everything that has happened.”

  “It seems to me you are part of my family whether I am willing or not,” said the earl.

  “No.” Julien leaned forward. “There is a difference between the dry facts of kinship—who is descended from whom—and inclusion in the life of a family. My own childhood taught me that. I can disappear. I have done it before. I have estates in France which may well be restored to me soon. I own land in Canada—good timber land, miles of it. On foot, it takes days to cross from one side to the other. I have a house in Montreal and a farm southeast of the city. I need not trouble you or the countess further.”

  “And Serena?”

  “As you say, it is her decision. I will ask her again to marry me, but if you have reservations about my suit, I will do so in writing rather than in person. I will not force you to endorse my offer by escorting me into her presence.”

  Outside the window an owl hooted softly. The earl sat, frowning, turning a letter opener over and over in his hand. At last he said, “I am not sure what I can say, what is right, what is fair to you and to me and to my niece. I distrusted you from the start, without knowing why. And liked you, in spite of my suspicions. I must have recognized, dimly, your resemblance to Charles. Can I judge you, judge your fitness as a husband, when every time I look at you now I see my cousin’s face? Can I judge anyone, when the man I chose to educate my son and assist me in my work proved yesterday to be a traitor? You taught Simon more in a month than Royce taught him in two years.”

  “He has a natural aptitude for science,” said Julien, embarrassed. “Likely inherited from your father.”

  “I am not speaking of lens grinding. Who persuaded my son to confess his theft of the dueling pistol? Who persuaded him to shield Serena on the night of the ball? Who persuaded him to stop playing invalid and agree to go to school?”

  Julien blinked. “You have been talking with Serena—with Miss Allen?”

  “No.” The earl gave a sad smile. “With Simon. He came to me this morning, and told me he had helped Mr. Royce escape. He concealed him in some hidden room yesterday afternoon, brought him clothing and money, and led him out through a tunnel into the woods once it grew dark.”

  “The secret forest,” Julien said, half to himself.

  “You see?” Bassington gestured helplessly. “I knew nothing of any such place. You did. I asked Simon why he had come to me, and he told me about your bargain with him concerning his theft of the gun, and about the incident at the Barretts’, and about his nighttime visits to your room. Simon, too, resembles my cousin. It has worried me for years. But now—” He broke off and got to his feet. “I am not being very clear, am I? We are talking of Serena, not Simon.”

  “I should not have come this evening,” said Julien, rising also. “It is too soon, after the events here yesterday. I beg your pardon.”

  “No.” The earl laid a hand on his arm. “Let me try again. What I mean to say is that you already are a part of the Piers family, not merely by the dry facts of kinship, as you call them, but also by the choices you made when you sought me out—both the wise choices and the foolish ones. Even if Serena does not accept you, I would hope to see you again.”

  “Thank you,” said Julien in a low voice. “If I do go abroad again, I shall be sure to write and let you know where I am.”

  “I would appreciate it,” said the earl. He moved towards the door. “I believe we should go up to the drawing room now, before the ladies grow too anxious.”

  Julien nodded. He doubted whether the ladies could possibly be as anxious as he was. He had known, of course, that the earl would tell Serena. That there would be a very public meeting with his intended bride, in front of her aunt and uncle. Then her guardians would withdraw, discreetly, and he would be left alone with her. But not for very long. And not at night, in a dark bedchamber, where her body could say yes while her reason was saying no. That was the price for doing things right.

  All the way up the stairs he reminded himself to count his blessings. He was alive. He was not in prison. The earl had forgiven him. Royce had escaped. The loathsome Mrs. Childe would not be present to smirk when he walked into the drawing room in a moment. He did not know where she had gone, but apparently the countess had evicted her less than two hours after Royce’s confession.

  “My lord,” said Pritchett, hurrying up to Bassington as the two men approached the drawing room. “My lord, you have—”

  “In a moment, Pritchett,” Bassington said curtly. He gestured towards the doors of the drawing room. “Announce the Marquis, if you would. Miss Allen will be waiting.”

  “But my lord—”

  The earl walked over and reached for the door handle. Horrified, Pritchett hurried past him and threw it open. “The Marquis de Clermont,” he announced, with considerably more pomp than he had used downstairs.

  Julien stepped in.

  “Very well, what is it that is so urgent?” he heard Bassington ask as the door closed behind him.

  But Julien already knew the answer. It was sitting opposite him, in a gilt-armed chair, wearing lace and silk and looking, as usual, inimitably elegant and aristocratic.

  “My dear Julien,” said the prince in French. “I rejoice to find you alive. And using your proper title, for once.” He did Julien the signal honor of rising to greet him.

  Numbly, Julien crossed the room and kissed his grandfather’s hand.

  “Now,” continued the prince, in quite a different tone, “Wha
t is this I hear of an offer of marriage?”

  Her bedchamber was not a safe refuge any longer. Too many people were coming in uninvited (her aunt) or even opening the door when it was locked (Simon). She tried Simon’s secret room, but evidently he had used it yesterday to hide Jasper, and the servants kept coming by to gape at the empty trunk and the battered chair. Rumors were already spreading that Simon had stashed away a fortune in gold and jewels in the trunk, which he had given to the villainous Royce as a bribe to leave the country quietly.

  In the end she had gone out for a long walk, leaving word for her aunt that she needed some fresh air. Through the garden, where the crocuses were finally showing. Into the park, up the hill to the first fence. The great house lay cupped in its valley below her, its outline blurred in the fading light. It looked peaceful, inviting—not at all the sort of place to have witnessed yesterday’s dramatic events.

  She sat down on the top step of a stile and considered her options. Soon—very soon, judging from the rapidly falling darkness—Julien Clermont would be calling on her uncle. He had made it quite clear what his errand was. At this very moment she should be in her room, changing her gown.

  Well, she had played by those rules once, and lost. She was not going back down to the house until she knew what answer she would give him. That was more important than which dress she wore.

  After a while she saw torches in the garden and heard, faintly, voices calling her name. She still had no notion what she would say when he asked her to marry him. She couldn’t think. Too much had happened too quickly. It was unfair of him to give her so little time. Two days ago she had thought he was dead, and now he was in her uncle’s study discussing dowries and settlements.

  A torch was climbing towards her. It was Bates. With a sigh she got up and brushed off her skirts.

  “Miss Allen? Her ladyship sent me to find you and light your way back down the hill.”

  Perhaps she would never know the answer. Perhaps he would ask her to marry him, and she would simply stare at him until they both fainted from hunger. She followed the groom back to the house in silence.

  “You’re to go to the drawing room at once, miss,” he said as they reached the side entrance.

  “Thank you, Bates.” There were two carriages in the stable yard, she saw. One had the Condé crest. Julien was here, then, in formal state. Her aunt had told her this afternoon that he was a marquis. She looked at the coach, with its gilded crest and polished brass rails, and then down at her muddy dress. It would never work. She would tell him no. With a small sigh she went into the house and started up the stairs.

  Her uncle was standing outside the drawing room, talking to Pritchett. “Serena!” he exclaimed. “I thought you were with your aunt!”

  “I went for a walk.” She blushed, looking at her bedraggled hem in the merciless light of the wall sconces. “I lost track of the time,” she said lamely.

  “Come in, then, come in,” he said. “Mr. Clermont—the marquis, that is—will be wondering where you are.”

  “But, Uncle—” she said, spreading out her skirt helplessly. She suddenly wanted to change her gown. She wanted to sweep in garbed in crepe and silk, dripping with jewels, head held high, and tell him—what?

  Emily came hurrying out of the side room where she had been waiting. She took one look at Serena and gave a small shriek. But she hustled her mistress off and did the best she could with a clothes brush and a comb. The earl was tapping his foot impatiently when she reemerged.

  Pritchett opened the doors and her uncle marched in, steering her by the elbow towards the center of the room.

  She saw Julien at once. He was arguing with an old man, a stranger. They were talking rapidly and heatedly, and it took Serena a moment to realize that they were speaking French. Julien caught sight of her in turn. He stopped in midphrase and bowed to her.

  Her heart seemed to lurch sideways as his eyes met hers.

  Then her aunt hurried over. For once she seemed oblivious to Serena’s untidy state. “George,” she said in a low, agitated voice, “it is the prince!”

  “So Pritchett said.” Her uncle cleared his throat. “Monsieur de Condé, this is a great honor.”

  The older man whirled. He surveyed first her uncle and then Serena, giving each a long, cold stare.

  “Is this the girl?” he said to Julien in French.

  Julien stepped forward. “Grandfather,” he said in English, “may I present the Earl of Bassington and his niece, Miss Allen? My lord, Miss Allen, the Prince de Condé.”

  Grudgingly the prince gave a small nod to the earl and an even smaller one to Serena. He did not bother switching to English. Instead he attacked her uncle at once in a stream of ornate French. It was outrageous, unthinkable. He would complain to the Foreign Office. He would complain to the king. Such an insult, on the eve of the triumphant return of the Bourbons to France! A Condé, arrested, abused, terrorized with threats of execution, used as bait for thieves, and now forcibly wed to some provincial nobody without a penny to her name!

  “No one is forcing me, grandpère,” Julien interrupted. He moved to stand by Serena. He was angry; she could see the rigid line of his jaw.

  The prince snorted. “You are too young to know what is good for you. Have you not heard the news? Schwarzenberg has beaten the usurper thoroughly. Bonaparte retires in disgrace. France will be ours again within the month, and you will be able at last to assume your rightful position. To throw yourself away on this one?” He gestured at Serena. “Bah!”

  “And what is wrong with the niece of an earl as a bride, pray?” snapped Bassington. He spoke English.

  “Her dowry?” inquired Condé disdainfully in the same language.

  The earl glared. “Six thousand pounds.”

  Serena gulped. Even removing a zero, the figure was too high.

  “And who were her parents?”

  “Her father,” said Bassington, “was the British ambassador to the court of the Sultan. He was the grandson of a marquis and held numerous important posts under Mr. Pitt.”

  Serena’s father had held numerous posts—including a temporary one as ambassador when the real ambassador had dropped dead one sultry day—but they had only been important to the Allens’ exasperated creditors.

  “Her mother,” continued the earl, “was a Beaufort, and closely connected with the family of the Duke of Somerset.”

  That part was true. She hoped that the prince had never heard of the Beaufort women and their infamous tempers.

  “I,” said Condé, “can offer him the daughter of a count.”

  The earl laughed contemptuously. “A French count? London is full of Monsieur le Comte and Madame la Comtesse these days. Shabby creatures, living off the charity of gullible English folk who believe anyone with a Parisian accent is an exiled aristocrat.”

  Julien had bent over; her aunt was speaking very low into his ear. He nodded.

  “Come with me,” he said to Serena, grabbing her elbow.

  This was certainly rather bold, especially seeing that she had not yet agreed to marry him. She followed him, however, not at all unhappy to leave the two older men to discuss her lineage without her.

  He stopped at the door. The earl and prince were still arguing furiously. Julien said loudly, “You will excuse us, I am sure.” At that the two men turned, but he was already bowing to the countess. “Lady Bassington, your most obedient.” And then they were out in the hall and he was nearly running, pulling her along. “Where is the nearest secret passage?” he said, his expression grim.

  “They are not secret,” she said automatically. “The servants all—”

  He had spotted one of the concealed doors, and yanked it open. “Which way?” he demanded, as they ducked into the corridor.

  She was still recovering from the shock of being dragged bodily from her uncle’s drawing room. “Where do you want to go?”

  “Your bedchamber.” He added hastily as she stiffened, “Only for a moment, an
d your maid will be there. Everything very proper. You will need her to help you pack, in any case.”

  “Pack?” She pulled her hand away. “Where am I going?”

  “Not you. We. Both of us. And your maid. We are eloping.”

  She stamped her foot. “You haven’t even asked me to marry you!”

  “Yes, I did,” he reminded her.

  “Not properly! I was half asleep! I thought you were an intruder!”

  “You want me to grovel? I will grovel.” He sank to his knees on the dusty floor. “Will you do me the honor of accepting my hand in marriage?” he said, eyes raised to her face.

  She arched one eyebrow. “That is all? No professions of undying devotion?”

  “Serena,” he said, still on his knees. “We will have three days in a carriage for me to tell you how I feel about you. Right now we have ten minutes before my grandfather stops shouting at your uncle and realizes that I may have run off with you. He travels with armed retainers. I have spent a great deal of time this past month facing people who were pointing guns at me, and I would prefer to leave Boulton Park before my grandfather adds himself to the list.”

  There was very little light in the corridor, but there was enough to see that he was not joking. “You mean it,” she said, incredulous. “You are truly intending to carry me off to Gretna Green.”

  “I am not carrying you off. I am asking you to marry me, and if you agree, we will depart immediately for Scotland.”

  “Why Scotland?” She was fencing now, avoiding the real question. “Sixteen-year-old heiresses run away to Gretna. Surely we are more respectable than that.”

  “It is the obvious solution,” he pointed out. “We avoid the difficulties attendant upon the marriage of a Catholic and a Protestant. We escape the wrath of the Condés. We wait three days to get married instead of a month. Given the amount of time I have spent in your bedchamber lately, that last item alone would make it worth the journey.” He got to his feet, brushing the dirt off his knees as best he could.

  “But—there will be a terrible scandal.”