The Spy's Kiss (10 page)

“It takes hours—days—to grind a lens properly. I told you that.”

Simon's face fell. “May I come back after lessons, then? Or must I wait until tomorrow?”

“Simon!” said Serena in her rarely used mind-your-manners tone.

Clermont ignored her. “You may come back,” he said firmly, “after you have spoken with your father. That was the bargain.”

Grumbling, Simon relinquished the handle and left, with a last dark look at Clermont.

“What bargain?” asked Serena warily. Bargains with her cousin were rarely a good idea.

“Simon tells his father that he took his pistol last week; I help him make a telescope.”

“But that is an absurd imposition on you! You should not let him plague you; I will speak to Mr. Royce about it.”

“Miss Allen,” he said. “I am at present confined to my room, on a diet of jellies and broth. I find the viscount's company a pleasant distraction. Far more pleasant than the distraction of worrying that some poor tenant of your uncle's who happens to own a frieze coat might be charged with firing that gun at me.”

“You don't really imagine he will go to my uncle and confess, do you?”

“Yes, I do.” His face was almost stern. “He gave me his word. Very reluctantly, and with a ferocious scowl.”

“But—”

“The scowl guarantees the pledge. Trust me; I am a very good judge of these matters.”

“Would you care to place a wager on it?” she retorted. His calm assumption that he had Simon's measure was, for some reason, profoundly irritating, even though she herself had practically begged him to take the boy in hand.

“Certainly. A guinea against a chicken that he comes through by this time tomorrow.”

“You want me to stake a
chicken
?” she said incredulously.

“Roast chicken. With dressing.” A dreamy smile softened his face. “And mushrooms. I am very partial to mushrooms.”

“Done.” She put out her hand and he clasped it. “You know,” she said, as she turned to go, “Dr. Wall and I had already decided that you could have solid food again tomorrow.”

“Yes, but if Simon goes to his father this afternoon, I shall have my chicken tonight.”

“I think it far more likely that you will lose a guinea,” she warned him.

 

 

That was how she found herself, that evening, eating dinner in Clermont's chambers. In her concern to discourage Clermont as a potential suitor she had perhaps interpreted Dr. Wall's orders about diet a bit too zealously—something she had realized, with a stab of guilt, when her patient had proposed such unusual stakes for their wager. Still, after a head injury, a fever, and several days of near fasting, he would likely regret it if he ate an entire bird. She waylaid Vernon outside the sickroom and suborned him. At half past six (the early hour a concession to Clermont's invalid status) she arrived, dressed with great propriety in a gown of pale blue sarsenet and accompanied by Mrs. Digby in the role of chaperone.

Vernon had been as good as his word. Clermont was also formally attired, and the small table in the anteroom had been set for two with the best china and crystal. A tea tray next to the fireplace had been thoughtfully provided for Mrs. Digby, who had worn her Sunday best for the occasion and consequently looked something like a large crow perched on her chair.

“I am informed that I won the wager,” Clermont said as Serena came over to the table.

“You did. Within ten minutes of the time Simon left the room.”

He rose and held her chair for her. “Was your uncle very angry?”

“You mustn't get up,” she said automatically, although he looked startlingly healthy now that he was fully dressed. Then, in a voice too low to carry over to the nurse: “No, and that is fortunate, since he can be terrifying when he is in a fury. Evidently he was more pleased than dismayed, counting it greatly in Simon's favor that he had come forward on his own. Or apparently on his own,” she amended. “But he did punish him—a few strokes with a switch—and my aunt has collapsed in hysterics after calling my uncle an unfeeling brute.”

Two footmen came in with the chicken, a dish of sautéed mushrooms, serving utensils, and a carafe of wine. While they were in the room Simon's ordeal was not mentioned. Once they had been dismissed, however, and Vernon had begun serving, Clermont started to say, “Have you seen Simon since—” He broke off. The valet had removed the cover from the platter, and it was now clear that there was only one chicken.

“White meat or dark, Miss Allen?” asked Vernon politely.

“There is only—I see there is but one bird,” said Clermont, rapidly modulating his tone from outrage to polite surprise. He eyed it balefully and Serena knew what he was thinking:
And it is none too large, either.

It had been the smallest one she could find. “It was very short notice,” she said coolly. “And since it is indirectly thanks to you that my aunt has retired to bed with her smelling salts and my uncle to his study, I thought you owed me your company for dinner.”

He glanced longingly at the tiny chicken but said nothing while Vernon divided the portions and doled out a few mushrooms on each plate. Nothing, that is, until he tasted his wine, at which point he choked and demanded, “What have you done to your uncle's hock?”

“Watered it.” White wine would not have been her choice, in fact, but it did not reveal dilution to the eye as clearly as red. “Pritchett assured me that this bottle could be spared; it was past its prime.” She added in her most helpful nurse-voice, “Perhaps you would prefer tea? I could ring for one of the maids.”

He looked, if possible, even more horrified than he had after tasting the wine. Then his eyes narrowed. He leaned back and surveyed her. “You're enjoying this,” he said thoughtfully.

“Well, yes,” she admitted, “I am.”

Amusement and indignation battled; amusement won. A reluctant smile appeared. “And what have I done to deserve this torment, Miss Allen?”

She smiled back, feeling oddly light and happy and sure of herself. So sure of herself that she answered honestly, “I don't know. But I intend to find out.”

“The house,” Serena explained, “was remodeled forty years ago. It was originally brick, a single long block, and it was refaced with stone and expanded to a U shape, with two wings extending towards the gardens in back of the house. This wing is fully occupied by the conservatory, as you see.”

He nodded politely and tried to conceal his limp as he followed her around some potted orange trees. In spite of the headache, which still attacked him every time he stood up, it felt wonderful to be on his feet, dressed, and out of the room where he had been imprisoned for three and a half days. Her offer to escort him on a gentle stroll through the house had surprised him; he had thought he would be confined to his bedroom, or perhaps his bedroom and the library, for another day.

“The rarer plant specimens are in a special greenhouse better adapted for tropical species; perhaps tomorrow Dr. Wall will allow you a short walk on the grounds and I could take you there.”

“That would be very kind of you.” He hadn't done much research on the plants; would that reinforce her suspicions? Perhaps he should spend this afternoon in the library refreshing his memory of the late earl's botanical preferences. Someone who professed interest in butterflies would have at least some knowledge of the plants they fed upon.

“The other wing”—she gestured towards the opposite side of the house, clearly visible through the glass which formed one wall of the conservatory—“houses the library and collections on the upper floor and my uncle's study and receiving rooms on the lower floor. The two wings are connected on this level by a series of public rooms at the front of the house and by this gallery at the back of the house—there is a step up; mind your head in the doorway.”

He followed her from the bright warmth of the conservatory into a long, narrow room with an elaborate parquet floor. The outer wall was set with a series of tall windows; the inner wall was studded with pictures. More precisely, with portraits. Men and women in a bewildering variety of costumes and poses jostled against one another or set their feet on the top of another picture. “Ancestors?” he asked, surveying the two-dimensional company in their frames.

“Yes,” she said. “Not mine. Simon's. I am from Aunt Clara's side of the family.”

He knew that, of course, but remembered to look as though he was hearing it for the first time.

“This gentleman is the founder of the line.” She indicated a Cavalier whose dashing peruke and feathered hat contrasted oddly with his square, stolid face. “Henry Piers. A wealthy farmer who supported the king during the civil war and was rewarded with an earldom by Charles II. That is his wife; she was the orphaned daughter of a less fortunate royalist and brought only her looks and her noble ancestors as her dowry.”

He studied the adjacent portrait, which showed a stunningly beautiful young woman with fair hair and wide eyes. “The first earl may have thought it an ample jointure, under the circumstances.”

“He was apparently besotted with her,” said Serena dryly. “He was originally from Lincolnshire and was granted a very large holding there adjoining his own lands, but when she begged him to settle near her former home in the Cotswolds he went back to the king and exchanged half a shire's worth of rich land for a few dozen hilly acres of rocks and trees.”

He was still studying the portrait. “She looks familiar,” he said slowly. “Is this portrait well known?”

“Come over here, and you will see why you recognize her.” She led him down to the far end of the room and pointed to a small oval painting of a child.

“Simon,” he said immediately. The resemblance to his ancestress was subtle but unmistakable: something about the set of the eyes and their shape.

“Yes, and look at this.” She indicated a large picture on the adjacent wall. It showed two women seated on a lawn surrounded by trees. Their elaborately dressed hair and wide skirts suggested a date well back into the last century, and after a moment he recognized the small building in the distance as Boulton Park in its earlier, brick incarnation. Two small boys stood between the women, one leaning lightly on his mother's shoulder, the other petting a dog.

“Who are they?” He could see at once that both boys, although different enough in coloring, had the same wide stare as Simon.

“My uncle and his cousin.”

He stiffened and glanced again at the picture. The dark eyes of the taller boy smiled at him mockingly from beneath a shock of hair so blond it was nearly white. He forced himself to look away, to ask the question his role demanded, “And the man of science, the fourth earl?”

“Here.”

An ugly man, especially compared to Simon and the demon-eyed young Bassington, but his expression was kindly and thoughtful. After a moment Clermont realized that the ugliness might not be original: the nose, whose bulbous asymmetry disfigured the face, looked to have been broken.

“Did the late earl have a taste for boxing?” he asked, turning to Serena.

She laughed. “You noticed his nose? I'm afraid he was rather wild as a young man; there are a number of stories about how his nose was broken and all of them involve women and climbing into other men's houses at night.”

“So Simon has inherited more than his face from his grandfather,” he commented lightly.

“A misspent youth is apparently a Piers trait, yes,” she said. “You wouldn't think it now, but my uncle was also quite an adventurer in his younger days. As for his cousin Charles, his escapades were so shocking that he was eventually forced to go abroad. He died recently on the continent, and evidently it was an ugly affair. Even Simon has not been able to discover what happened, and a stack of old diaries was whisked away and locked up somewhere.”

“I know where they are.” It was Simon's voice, coming from behind the wall. Both Serena and Julien looked round, startled. A moment later a thin line in the paneling grew wider, and Simon slipped through a narrow doorway set into the inner wall. The painting hanging on the door swung tremulously as the door opened and shut and at last subsided, slightly crooked.

“Simon, it is very rude to eavesdrop,” hissed Serena.

“I wasn't eavesdropping,” the boy said indignantly. “I was just coming along the corridor and heard you talking about Cousin Charles's diaries. You use these corridors yourself, Serena.”

“Not nearly so often as you do,” she said tartly. Surveying his clothing, she added, “Nor, it appears, have you confined yourself to the corridors. You must have come down the chimney stair from your bedroom; you have soot on the back of your jacket.”

“Bother,” muttered Simon, twisting his head and trying to look over his shoulder.

“Let me guess. You have pleaded a headache to be excused from afternoon lessons and are meant to be in bed right now with a cloth over your eyes.”

“Wrong!” said her cousin triumphantly. “Royce was called away; there's a new butterfly-man here. A real one.”

Julien was about to deny the implied accusation, but his hostess anticipated him.

“Simon, do you have the remotest notion of proper conduct?” she demanded in an exasperated tone. “Eavesdropping—yes, you were, don't bother to argue; bursting out of the servants' corridor and interrupting us; and now insulting a guest. What next? Hiding under the desk in your father's study?” Clermont noticed that she did not correct the assumption behind the insulting slip, only the insult itself.

Simon flushed. “He isn't a butterfly-man; you know it as well as I do.”

“Why do you say that?” Clermont asked, before Serena could intervene. He expected a sullen mutter, but instead the boy frowned, bit his lip, and thought for a minute.

“You dress too well,” he said slowly. “And you have a very fine gun. And you were able to ride Tempest.”

“Damning evidence,” agreed Clermont, smiling.

Simon's eyes flashed. “Come with me, and I'll show you what I mean,” he said imperiously. He darted to the end of the gallery, opened the door, and held it for the adults. “Quiet,” he cautioned as he beckoned them through. “He's just down at the far end of the next room. You can see him from here if you edge over a bit.”

The gallery had admitted them into a small reception room; it connected to a larger hall through double doors. At the far end of this second hall Clermont saw an older man standing, apparently absorbed in an Italian landscape on the wall adjacent to the door of Bassington's study. He carried a shabby leather bag, and his jacket pockets bulged with odd lumps. At that moment, the door to the study opened, and Royce came out to escort the visitor in. They were too far away to hear his name, but they saw him bob nervously as he followed the secretary through the door.

“That,” said Simon in a vehement whisper, “is a real butterfly-man. You are nothing of the sort.”

Clermont looked at Serena. The gray eyes measured him silently, and this time she did not bother to rebuke her cousin. Why should she? thought Clermont. She agrees with him. He saw her glance significantly at the now-closed study door and then at him; her infuriating half smile appeared. She was no fool. She knew that the last person he would want to meet here at Boulton Park was a genuine scholar.

 

 

Bassington had been looking forward to a leisurely afternoon in his sitting room reading the latest batch of newspapers from London. Instead he was here, elbows planted resentfully on his desk, contemplating a letter that was as unwelcome as the man who had delivered it.

The earl looked up from this testimonial at the figure who stood quietly on the other side of the earl's writing table. This was a man of middle years, tall but slightly built, rather angular and stiff in his posture. Scalloped indentations on the bridge of his aquiline nose suggested that he habitually wore spectacles, and in fact a gold-rimmed pair were, at the moment, neatly tucked into a small pocket in his waistcoat. Everything about him advertised the scholar—the stoop of the shoulders, the neatly queued gray hair, the loose and old-fashioned cut of his well-worn jacket, the vague dreaminess of his expression. The visitor's attention at the moment seemed to be more on the bookshelves behind his host than on the earl himself. But when the earl, exasperated, set the letter down by his inkstand with a derisive snort, Meyer withdrew his gaze from the bookshelves and waited politely.

“This is preposterous,” said the earl, glaring. “Barrett did not say anything of this when we met last week.”

“At that time, the affair was not so urgent.” Meyer studied his host, the abstracted air suddenly gone. His English had lost its faintly Germanic accent as well. “For example, you were not, at that time, embroiled in a case of attempted murder.”

“I do not wish to offend you, Mr. Meyer,” said the earl coldly, “but if I had had any notion that Barrett was planning to involve you and White's courier service I would have refused his offer of assistance. And, I might add, I am still inclined to do so, in spite of my present difficulties, and in spite of the trouble you have obviously taken to arrange your visit. I cannot believe that your presence here will be at all useful. Quite the reverse, I should think. How could you possibly maintain such a charade? What if it were to become known that you were a visitor in my home?”

“Your father received Emmanuel Mendes daCosta in this very study, I believe,” the other observed mildly. “And the name Meyer is not unknown in zoological circles. One of my cousins has published a monograph on Baltic eels. In Latin.”

“That is nothing to the purpose,” growled the earl. “I had assumed Barrett and White had in mind some sort of gentleman scientist, someone who would not be out of place as a houseguest.”

Meyer raised his brows slightly, but made no remark. Scowling, the earl looked away—first across at the windows, curtained now against the late afternoon darkness, then into the fire, and finally down again to the surface of the desk. He studied White's letter. It had been dropped partially unfolded against the side of the inkwell, with the result that it resembled a paper model of one of the butterflies which filled the mahogany cabinets in the closet upstairs.

“You are telling yourself,” said Meyer, reading his thoughts, “that if I had any notions of genteel behavior, I would take a hint and bow myself out. That my inability to understand the insult you have just put upon me is proof of the truth of that insult. That I know nothing about the charge of the Special Commission, about your present dilemma, or, for that matter, about butterflies.”

Taken aback, Bassington looked up. But Meyer was no longer standing by the desk. Moving with a speed and silence that seemed at odds with his initial, awkward bearing, he had vanished into a door at the back of the room, which led to a servants' staircase. A few moments later he reappeared, carrying a long, shallow wooden drawer with a glass cover and brass handles.