The Spy's Kiss (13 page)

Simon must have decided the same, because he suddenly intervened. Tugging on Clermont's sleeve, he said in an exaggerated, petulant whisper, “What of our shooting lesson? You promised! And I've brought you to ask Serena, just as you said I must.”

Clermont looked at her, eyebrows raised.

Anything to get both of them away from the nefarious Meyer. “Half an hour, no more,” she said grudgingly. The time limit was for Clermont's sake, but Meyer would not know that. And she had to admit that Clermont seemed nearly well this morning. No trace of a limp, and he carried his injured wrist easily, the bindings scarcely visible under his cuff.

“Is the viscount not somewhat young for firearms?” Meyer asked as Simon and Clermont disappeared.

“He is eleven,” she informed him, adding, ambiguously, “He was very sickly as a child and as a consequence does not always behave like other boys his age.” If Meyer took that to mean that her cousin was a bit simple she would not go out of her way to enlighten him. After lunch she would take Simon aside and order him to avoid Meyer for the rest of his visit. As for Clermont, she would devise some scheme or other to keep him out of the library. Better still, out of the house altogether.

 

 

The greenhouse was warm and had a wet, earthy smell, which reminded her of the first days of spring. Clermont was already walking down the center aisle, fingering the occasional plant and looking at the labels on the seedlings. Unobtrusively, Serena took a long-unused key out of her pocket—Mrs. Fletcher had located it, with some difficulty, tucked into the head gardener's planting book—and locked the door behind her. For added security, she took off her pelisse and hung it across two trellis hooks by the door so that it obscured the view through that wall. The whole building was glass, of course, but along the sides exotic plants like bamboo and papyrus grew tall enough to provide some degree of privacy.

Clermont's voice came from right behind her, making her jump. “Is this a tryst, Miss Allen? Dare I flatter myself that you were not seeking your cousin in my room last night?”

She whirled and saw him looking down at her with an ironic smile. “I wished to speak with you in private,” she said stiffly. How had he moved so quickly without making any noise?

“Very well. May I suggest the bamboo grove, then, as an appropriately secluded spot?” He bowed and waved her on, following behind her down the narrow aisle. There was no place to sit, so she stood, hands clasped, and faced him. Framed in narrow-edged green leaves, he looked suddenly remote, unpredictable, even dangerous. It was hard to remember that he had been bedridden less than a week ago.

A frond brushed his neck, and he held it up between thumb and finger, examining it with care.

Her temper, already frayed, snapped. She ripped the leaf out of his hand and flung it away. “Do not tell me what type of bamboo plant that is,” she said fiercely. “Do not point out the rare orchids. Do not ask to see the
Dionaea muscipula
—yes, we have one; Simon feeds it flies. I am sure you have conned your lessons very well, but I am not interested. I did not bring you to the greenhouse to see how well you knew your tropical plants. I have something to say to you, and I did not want to risk any eavesdroppers or interruptions.”

“I see.” He gave her that grave stare which had haunted her from the first time she had seen it in her uncle's study. Not defensive, not anxious. Watchful. Patient.

Her heart was beating in her throat. He was the trespasser; she belonged here. Why did he seem so calm, when she, who had done nothing wrong, could feel her hands trembling?

“I am at your service, Miss Allen. What did you wish to tell me?”

She took a deep breath. “I know you are a fraud.”

He winced. “An ugly word.”

“Let us phrase it more politely, then. Your interest in butterflies does not appear genuine to me.”

“You have said so before. But I do have some interest in butterflies,” he said cautiously.

She shook her head. “No more than I do.”

He was surprised, and momentarily distracted. “You don't care for them?”

“I think them repulsive,” she confessed. “At first they look beautiful, but when you examine them closely you realize they are simply worms with giant wings.” Then she forced herself back to the main point. “My feelings are not to the purpose. Once I saw you with something which did genuinely interest you—your lenses—it was painfully obvious that the butterflies were not your real object in coming to Boulton Park.” He started to object, but she held up her hand. “Wait. Here is what I wish to say: I don't know why you are here, or why you decided to pass yourself off as an Aurelian. Until yesterday, your pretense seemed harmless enough. Perhaps my aunt had persuaded you to—to come and make my acquaintance; perhaps you wished to ingratiate yourself with my uncle. In either case, you made a poor choice of strategies: my uncle and I, although not related by blood, share a distaste for liars.”

His jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

She swallowed. “I find that circumstances have changed. You once offered to leave if I requested you to do so. I am asking you now to honor that pledge.”

“You want me to leave?”

“Yes.” Her voice was very low.

There was an expression on his face she could not read. Disappointment? Relief?

“Even if one of your surmises about my reason for coming to Boulton Park is correct?”

“Especially if one of them is correct.” She could barely breathe.

He stepped closer. “Half French, and a liar. Two counts against me.” The ironic smile was suddenly back. “What do you say? Shall we make it three?”

“What do you mean?” Now her voice was so faint it was almost inaudible.

He moved closer still, bent his head, and kissed her.

It had been a long, long time since she had been kissed. She had forgotten what it felt like. The taste of another mouth, the firm press of a hand against her back, the delightful, alien touch of shaved skin against her face. For a moment, recollection blended with sensation, and a sweet surge of nostalgia rose in her. Then everything changed, and she crossed into foreign territory. He moved his hand up to her neck, turning her slightly, pressing her closer. His mouth grew fiercer. She found herself flattened against him, felt his heart thud above her breast. And if he had only one usable hand, he was certainly making the most of it. It traced imperative circles, caressing her hair, now her neck again, now moving down along her shoulder—

She tore herself away. “No,” she managed to say. “No.”

He wasn't smiling now. He looked as though he had taken another blow on the head. “Miss Allen—”

“No!” She almost shouted it.

He didn't move, didn't attempt to stop her as she unlocked the door with shaking hands, not looking at him, swallowing something which felt suspiciously like a sob in her throat. She tore her pelisse off the hooks—literally tore it—and fled across the garden, ignoring the paths, headed straight for the sanctuary of the house.

Clermont watched her running through the bare flower beds, the unfastened pelisse billowing behind her. She paused once at the terrace door, turned to look straight at him, and then vanished into the house.

That was a mistake, Julien,
he thought.
A very, very serious mistake.

“Mr. Meyer! Do come in.” Bassington set down his newspaper, which Meyer had already seen. It predicted, for the tenth day in a row, that Napoleon would accept terms of peace within twenty-four hours. The earl's hearty greeting, however, was as false as the newspaper. The moment Pritchett had bowed himself out, Bassington stood up and set his hands aggressively on the desk, fists clenched. “Well?”

“Mr. Clermont is a cool customer,” said Meyer. “There is no point in continuing this charade. I've no desire to discuss the habitats of tropical moths with a slight German accent for the next three days. Mr. Clermont has done his homework; I have done mine; we could circle each for days in a scientific stalemate. I have concluded that a change of tactics is in order.”

“Indeed. And what would that be? Drag him off to the cellars and beat a confession out of him? Try to bribe his servant? Search his room?”

Meyer grimaced. “No to the first option. I decided the second was too risky. And my man has just returned from pursuing the third.”

Shocked, the earl sank back into his chair. “You searched the luggage of a guest
in my house
?”

Without waiting for an invitation, Meyer sat down opposite Bassington. He had no intention of letting the earl get the upper hand in this conversation by keeping him standing. “Yes. Although that servant of Clermont's is like a guard dog. You would think the man had the crown jewels in the bottom of his trunk. Rodrigo had to wait for two hours to have a clear shot at the room, and dared not remain there long. Still, he found some very interesting items.”

“Oh?” The earl's tone was scornful.

“Take a look at this.” Meyer held out a lump of grayish wax.

Bassington turned it over, frowning, and studied the design stamped into the wax. His eyebrows shot up. “Where did you get it?”

“An impression from an engraved silver hairbrush, in his trunk. One of a matched pair. It seems Mr. Clermont is certainly French.”

“It could have been purchased,” the earl objected, “from the legitimate owner. Many French noblemen found themselves in financial difficulties after fleeing the republic.”

“Perhaps.” Meyer leaned forward. “But recall, my lord, that according to Mrs. Digby, Clermont wears a signet on a chain around his neck. Lady Bassington and the butler are the only ones who saw it on his hand—” He paused significantly.

“—and my wife treats him like royalty,” Bassington finished. “Very well. I take your point.” He stared down at the crest incised into the wax. “This certainly explains her interest in the young man. I suppose I should have asked her straight out who he was, but she enjoys having secrets occasionally, and I have been preoccupied with other matters.”

“Those other matters, my lord, are of far more significance than Mr. Clermont's possible connections to an exiled royal house. The man is very likely a French spy.”

“A spy? From that family? Don't be absurd!”

Meyer suppressed the urge to give Bassington a half dozen names of nobly born émigrés who had been caught working for Napoleon in London.

“Did you find anything else? Something which might provide at least a shred of evidence for your suspicions? Papers? Letters? Political pamphlets?”

Meyer shook his head. “Nothing my servant could find easily, at any rate. There were more than a dozen books in the room, though, and he could not examine all of them.”

“What sort of books? Histories? Anything about Russia, or Austria?”

Meyer coughed.

“Let me guess. Proceedings of the Aurelian Society. From my library. As would be natural for a man here to study the collection.”

“Precisely. Six calf-bound folios. Also, several volumes of your father's journals. And various other scientific tomes.”

“May I ask, then, Mr. Meyer, why you wish to continue this inquiry? You have apparently found nothing, except possibly a hint that Mr. Clermont is connected to the last house in France I would ever suspect of assisting Napoleon Bonaparte.”

“There could be any number of explanations for his change of allegiance,” Meyer pointed out. “Money. A woman. A family quarrel—Barrett told me Derring had mentioned something of the sort, followed by three years of self-imposed exile in Canada. Or simple pragmatism. He would not be the only French aristocrat to decide his best interests lay with the empire.”

“He would be the only one to do so after Napoleon executed his kinsman simply for bearing the family name,” snapped Bassington. “And it is one thing for a nobleman of the
ancien regime
to accept a command in the imperial army; quite another to descend to rummaging through desks in a private home and stealing papers. To make such an accusation without firm proof is unthinkable.”

Meyer sighed. “I do have firm proof—of fraud, at least, if not of anything more serious. I have not yet shown you the other item my servant discovered.”

“What sort of fraud?”

“Mr. Clermont has insinuated himself into your household by manufacturing the accident on Clark's Hill,” said Meyer.

“Nonsense! The man was nearly killed!”

“A miscalculation, I believe. Nor were we meant to find the trap. He intended it to look like a simple riding accident.” Meyer took out of his satchel a length of rope. Clean, new rope. Its color was a warm gold, like beeswax, rather than the dusty brown of the samples taken by Googe, but there was no mistaking it. It was identical to the rope discovered on the trees. “From Mr. Clermont's saddlebags.” Meyer's tone was almost apologetic. He laid it on the desk. “Only my concern for her ladyship prevented me from arresting Mr. Clermont immediately.”

The earl was frowning at the rope. “This does not necessarily mean anything,” he said.

“It seems quite straightforward to me: he hears, somehow, of your involvement with the negotiations and conceives of a plan to exploit his friendship with Philip Derring and gain entry to your house as a gentleman naturalist. When that limited visit proves unsatisfactory for his purposes, he arranges an ‘accident' on your land and is then given lodging and complete freedom to search the premises.”

The earl's expression told him he was getting nowhere.

Meyer tried another tack. “My lord, I am not asking you to risk the embarrassment of an open accusation. As I told you, I considered arresting the man but decided against it for the moment. There is a very simple solution to this dilemma. If you will return to London and place the correspondence in Sir Charles's hands, the question of Mr. Clermont's intentions will become moot.”

“You will, however, report what you have found to your colonel.”

“Of course.”

“And therefore, Mr. Clermont, without his knowledge and without any chance to defend himself, will be suspected of an infamous crime and, most likely, placed under surveillance.”

“That is true,” Meyer admitted, “but you and the countess will escape becoming embroiled in a sensational scandal.”

“You are suggesting that I sacrifice the reputation of a man who is potentially innocent of any wrongdoing to preserve my own comfort?”

Meyer held up the rope. “I find the potential for Mr. Clermont's innocence very small at the moment. Surely you see how damning this is?”

“Very well,” said the earl, exasperated. “I will go up to London, although it is a wretched place to be at this time of year. I will take the confounded letters with me, carrying them on my person, and deliver them to Barrett. On one condition.”

“Which is?” Meyer asked, wary.

“We settle this business with Clermont right now. I'll not have him hounded by you and your fellow couriers.” He stood up, muttering, “Bloody spies. See plots and thievery everywhere.” He did not bother to lower his voice much.

“I beg your pardon, my lord, but how do you propose to ‘settle this business,' as you put it?”

“Ask the man to his face who he is, of course. And why he has rope in his saddlebags.” The earl stamped over to the double doors which gave onto the gallery and wrenched them open. “Pritchett!” he bellowed.

A startled footman scurried off in search of the butler.

“Where is Mr. Clermont?” Bassington demanded when Pritchett appeared a minute later.

“In the library, my lord. With Master Simon.”

“Tell him I would like a word with him.” Bassington paused and looked at Meyer. “No, wait. I'll go up myself. Catch him off guard. You would prefer that, wouldn't you, Mr. Meyer?” His tone was contemptuous.

“I think such an interview very ill-advised.”

“But you will nevertheless wish to hear what is said.” The earl did not wait for an answer, but jerked open the concealed door in the paneling and started up the tiny staircase.

Meyer, perforce, followed, bitterly regretting his decision to confide in the earl. It was tempting to storm back to London and ask White why someone as irritable and stiff-necked as Bassington should be playing such a prominent role in the delicate negotiations with Russia. Still, he himself was at fault. Had he not antagonized the earl at their first meeting Bassington might consider him an ally rather than an adversary. The purpose of this confrontation in the library was, he thought, as much to humiliate Nathan Meyer as it was to exonerate Julien Clermont.

The earl turned at the top of the narrow stairwell and gestured to his right. “There is a doorway about ten yards farther along which will let you into one of the side rooms,” he said in a near-whisper. “Go out—carefully—and you can enter the library as though coming from the upper hall. I'll join you in a few minutes.”

Easing himself into the deserted anteroom, Meyer crossed silently to the far end, turned, and returned to the library doors on the near side using his shuffling old-man walk. They were closed, but not quite latched. He could hear the boy's voice, excited, asking a question, and Clermont's deeper voice answering. Then a young woman, sounding amused. Miss Allen was here as well, then; as he pushed the right-hand door open, he saw her dark head between the two fair ones. They were all bending over the lens grinder, which was partly disassembled.

The low murmur of voices stopped. Automatically he fell into the slight stoop he affected as Meyer the scholar, and blinked nearsightedly. But he was not, in fact, nearsighted, and as he saw the three faces turn towards him at the sound of his footsteps, he could read each expression clearly. The boy: a flash of defiance masked at once by an exaggerated look of innocent puzzlement. Clermont: polite interest. Meyer's hopes for a revealing slip during the coming interview died. This was not a man whose face or gestures would betray him. As for Serena Allen, she gave him a burning glance so full of knowledge and purpose that he felt it almost as a physical blow.
I know who you are,
her look said.
I know why you are here. And I will do everything I can to hinder you.

 

 

“Must you go?” Simon was asking.

“I'm afraid so.” Clermont unscrewed another clamp from the end of the machine and set it into a compartment in the big wooden case.

“What about my telescope?”

“Simon!” Serena said, laughing. “Have you no manners at all, you wretched boy?” She was buoyant with relief. Clermont was leaving, and the oppressive tangle of suspicion and tension and excitement which had enmeshed her for the past week would vanish with him.

“Your lens is finished; I'll send you a case and refractor from London,” said Clermont absently.

She heard the noise at the door first; the other two were busy unfastening the next clamp. But as the door swung inward, they looked up as well.

It was her enemy. Meyer's mild air and apologetic smile didn't deceive her. She glared at him.

“Good morning, Miss Allen, my lord, Mr. Clermont,” he said, bowing awkwardly to each in turn. He took in the open case and the half-dismantled equipment. “You are packing the machine?” He sounded disappointed, and Serena wondered if that was part of the scholarly mask or if he had let his real feelings show—his frustration at seeing his prize getting away.

“Yes, he's
leaving
,” said Simon, with an aggrieved air.

“Without finishing my telescope.”

Meyer expressed regrets for the loss of the company of a fellow scientist and pulled up a chair when his offer to help pack the lens grinder was accepted.

There was a knock at the door, and a footman came in. “His lordship is not in his study, sir,” he said to Clermont. “I am sure he will return shortly, however. Shall I wait for him there and see if he will be able to receive you?”

“I suppose so.” Clermont was struggling with a recalcitrant screw. “And the countess?”

“Her ladyship sends word that she will be downstairs in three-quarters of an hour.” The servant bowed and withdrew.

“She'll try to persuade you to stay,” Simon predicted, “or invite you to come back after you've visited your grandfather. But you won't come back, will you?”

“Perhaps I shall see you in London,” Clermont said, not looking up. He gestured for Meyer to hold the clamp in place so that he could get a better purchase on the bolt.

“Serena and I don't go to London these days.”

Now he looked up. At her, then at Simon. “Why not?”