The Spy's Kiss (15 page)

The nurse's revelation wasn't at all what he had expected to hear. In his years in exile, he had become more and more English in manner and speech while losses in the war against Napoleon had mounted higher and higher. The result was that he had become the unwilling auditor of innumerable curses, execrations, and maledictions directed at his countrymen. The remarks were made, of course, without any understanding that Julien himself was French. Often they were the by-products of desperate, raw grief, which was far more painful than the unintended insult. Oddly, soldiers were the least likely to indulge in this sort of venom, even those who had been badly injured. Women were the most likely. When Simon had announced that his cousin hated Frenchmen, Julien had therefore assumed that she had lost someone in the war, and in a way, of course, she had.

His reflections were interrupted by Vernon. “Sir, is it permitted to ask whether your quest was successful?”

“It is not,” said Julien, in a tone calculated to discourage further conversation. It had been successful, or at least partially so. Very painfully, working by inference, he had pieced together from the fourth earl's diaries a rough picture of when his son had been out of the country. And of course, there was the reference to the money.

“Have you spoken with his lordship?” Vernon persisted.

Julien gave him a quelling stare.

“That means ‘no,' I take it.” The servant gave a little cough. “Sir, if I might venture—”

“Venture, and you're dismissed,” Julien snapped. Then he relented. Vernon had been suffering from a combination of anxiety and righteous disapproval ever since their arrival in Oxfordshire two weeks ago. He deserved to know that the end was in sight. “If it will ease your mind, I will tell you that I expect to settle this business within a week or two, once we are in London.”

All he needed now was the name of the earl's banker.

It was very late when the post chaise pulled up to Julien's lodgings in Brook Street, and he was surprised to see a light burning in the front parlor. He had traveled so quickly that he had not bothered to send a message ahead warning his small London staff that he would be returning.

Vernon had noticed the light as well, and frowned as he took the key from Julien and opened the door. The frown deepened when the very distinctive sound of clinking glass was heard from the illuminated room, whose double doors were only partially closed. The two men looked at each other, alarmed and puzzled. Then they heard a startled grunt and a set of quick footsteps. The doors flew open with a crash. A disheveled young man with several days' growth of beard stood staring at the two travelers, a wine glass in one hand and a pistol in the other. Julien recognized it as one of his own. He recognized the young man, as well.

“Derry!” he said, relieved. “What are you doing here? Were you told I was returning tonight?”

“No, I was not.” Philip Derring's normally pleasant face was scowling. “And I know you've only the three rooms, but you'll have to put me up for the time being. I'm in hiding; that's what I'm doing here—thanks to you. The Foreign Office sent the dragoons after me because of your little jaunt down to Boulton Park. I thought perhaps they had hunted me down when I heard the door open at this hour.”

“The dragoons? After you? The devil you say!”

“Not the devil. Worse. Sir Charles Barrett.”

With an effort, Julien recalled the nondescript gentleman who had made one of the luncheon party his first day at Boulton Park. He could not imagine how Sir Charles, Philip, and dragoons could be connected, let alone his own part in it.

“I'll just take your things upstairs, sir,” said Vernon, after a glare in his direction from Derring.

“Yes, and find me something to eat,” said Julien. “I'm ravenous. We came straight through from Henley with only one change of horses,” he explained to Derring as the valet disappeared.

“How jolly for you,” was the bitter reply. “I haven't dared show my face outside for nearly a week.”

Julien stared at him. “Come back in and sit down,” he said, leading the way into the little parlor. Signs of a lengthy and reluctant occupation were everywhere. On the sideboard were empty bottles of claret and hock, the remains of several cold plates, and an open tin of wafers with a few broken pieces left in the bottom. Five days' worth of newspapers were scattered across the floor. Next to the sofa, on a battered end table, a pair of dice sat atop a piece of foolscap with a long list of tally marks. “Right against left?” asked Julien, inspecting the tallies.

Derring nodded glumly.

“Who won?”

“Left. I'll be sure to throw with that hand if I ever dare venture out to my club again.”

“It looks a bit . . . untidy in here. Did the servants take themselves off in my absence?”

“They began pestering me to write you if I wished to stay longer,” Derring said. “Which seemed to me, under the circumstances, a remarkably foolish idea. So I told them if I saw either one of them in this room without a plate of food in their hands I would shoot them, and if they told anyone I was here, I would shoot them
and
their mothers.”

“
What
circumstances?” said Julien. He sank into an upholstered armchair, promptly sprang up, extracted a small paring knife and an apple core from the back of the seat cushion, and tossed them onto a pile of newspapers. Then, cautiously, he sat down again. “I had forgotten what a slovenly fellow you are, Philip,” he said. “Bologna was a long time ago. Now try to explain, in chronological order, what has happened. Slowly. It's one in the morning, and I've been on the road since before noon.”

Derring took a long swallow of the wine in his glass. “It started ten days ago. There I was, minding my own business, walking down Piccadilly, and Sir Charles Barrett hailed me—didn't think the man even knew my name—and invited me in to White's for a little chat.”

Ten days ago. Julien counted back. That would have been the day after Sir Charles had stopped in at Boulton Park. “Go on.”

“He was very straightforward: he wanted information about you. Who were you, what were you like, how long had I known you, were you in fact a naturalist or were you pursuing Serena. . . .”

“And what did you tell him?” Julien asked sharply.

Derring threw up his hands in exasperation. “Who knows? I don't recall telling him anything out of the way. He seemed to be interested in your marriage prospects, so I told him you had no plans to marry, and why, but that is no great secret.”

Vernon appeared at this point with a small tray of food, took in the state of the room in one horrified glance, and left again.

“Did you mention my title? Name my grandfather?”

“No! I swear, Julien, I never mentioned your family by name. I did suggest that they were highly placed, but that is all. And any fool could deduce as much from one look at you.”

For a moment he had thought that perhaps Philip had been the one who had told the countess who he was. His friend had a guilty expression on his face, one Julien recognized from their school days. But no, it was his own cursed fault, for wearing the ring that morning. And in any case, his precautions had proved unnecessary. Bassington hadn't reacted at all to the news that Julien was a Condé. Either he was a master dissembler (which, given Julien's encounters with the earl, seemed unlikely) or his own long-standing theory was correct: Bassington had never even known the name of his victim.

Philip was still talking. “So LeSueur—a friend of mine, do you know him? Sandy hair, thin as a stick? Military chap? No? He's assigned to a crusty old martinet named White who runs a special courier service for Wellington. Surveying, messages behind enemy lines, counterintelligence, that sort of thing. He came to find me at my club a few days after I had spoken with Barrett. Apparently Bassington is involved in some critical diplomatic maneuvers and Barrett didn't care for the idea that a Frenchman was in residence at Boulton Park. Barrett asked White to look into things and LeSueur was detailed to haul me in for an ‘unofficial interview.' I told him I'd be free the next afternoon and he should send a note round to my lodgings and then I slipped out of the club and went to ground here. I've heard of White's gang, and I didn't fancy sitting in one of their detention cells while they grilled me about your Bonapartist acquaintances in Bologna.”

Derring rattled on, but Julien didn't hear him. Events in Oxfordshire were beginning to make much more sense. At the time, Simon's warning about “real butterfly-men” had merely made him resolve to watch his step around Meyer. Its precise significance was now all too clear. Meyer was some kind of military Bow Street runner.
He
was the one who had searched Julien's effects—and engineered the confrontation in the library. Julien's fists clenched unconsciously around the knife he was holding.

“What is it?” asked Derring, breaking off in mid-sentence.

“Barrett thinks I'm a spy.” He could barely choke out the words. “He believes I would worm my way into a man's house, look through his papers, and sell what I find to some greasy stooge of Napoleon's. Damn him!” He sprang out of the chair and began pacing up and down, kicking savagely at the litter on the floor.

“Be reasonable, Julien,” said Derring. “He doesn't know you; I do. Everyone at Whitehall involved in the negotiations with the allies jumps at the drop of a pin these days. They're nervous as cats over there; things are going our way at last and they are afraid if they breathe the wrong way it will all collapse.”

“Be reasonable? You're a fine one to talk! Why didn't you just go off to Whitehall with your friend LeSueur and answer their questions? Don't you realize your disappearance suggests you believe me guilty? What did you think they were going to do? Pull your toenails out until you told them I had a mistress in Italy who happened to be Corsican? This is
England
, for god's sake!”

Derring looked uncomfortable. “I'll find LeSueur tomorrow evening,” he muttered. “Catch him at the club.”

“Dammit, no. That's too late and too chancy. You're going to find him first thing in the morning. I'll wake you. I have a few calls of my own to make, it appears.” Julien sat back down and tried to eat a slice of ham. His hands were trembling.

“By the by,” asked Derring, reaching over to snag a pickled onion from the plate, “what
were
you doing for so long at Boulton Park? I can't imagine the butterflies were all that engrossing. Are you courting Serena? Have you finally abandoned your nonsensical scruples about marriage?”

It suddenly struck Julien that what he had been doing at Boulton Park was exactly what Barrett had suspected: worming his way into Bassington's house and looking through his papers. His indignation seemed a bit hypocritical in that light. Was he going to compound his sin by lying to Philip Derring? The answer, apparently, was yes.

“I am not indifferent to Miss Allen,” he said after a long pause. That was, he acknowledged, true. “But there are some impediments to the success of my courtship.” Also true. Amazing how two half-truths added up to an enormous falsehood.

Derring's face lit. “Good man!” Then he cleared his throat and said, “There was a—a little incident when Serena was younger. You might have heard some rumors. I hope that is not what you meant by impediments.”

“I know about it, yes. Mrs. Digby was kind enough to enlighten me. A ‘little incident' in Miss Allen's past can hardly trouble a man who is the result of a very large incident in his mother's past.”

“Then what is the problem?”

Julien grimaced. “She is not indifferent to me, either. At the moment I would have to say she despises me, but with hard work I may reach the point where she merely dislikes me.” He rose, leaving his food unfinished. “Where have you been sleeping?”

Derring indicated the couch.

“Come upstairs. Vernon will make up the spare bed for you and attempt to get your clothing presentable by”—he glanced at the clock on the wall—“six hours from now.”

“But that's eight in the morning!” Derring said, horrified. “No one gets up at eight! The
servants
are barely up at eight!”

“You need to be at Whitehall by nine,” Julien said, “and I estimate it will take at least an hour to get you shaved and cleaned up.”

Derring ran a hand over his nascent beard and sighed. “Very well. But LeSueur isn't at Whitehall. His unit is housed in some armory building over at the Tower.”

Julien thought for a minute. “In that case, Vernon will wake you at seven.”

“
Seven
?”

“How did we ever manage to share rooms in Bologna?” Julien asked, half amused, half disgusted.

“You weren't such a paragon of virtue then,” was the bitter reply, “as you may perhaps recall.”

“I'm not a paragon of virtue now, either. I'm a bastard. A tidy, punctual bastard.”

 

 

“I don't think this is a good idea,” muttered Derring as they followed the subaltern through a narrow, twisting corridor. “If you want to call on someone and protest your innocence, call on Barrett.”

“He wasn't at home.” Julien dodged a dusty packing-case, which was blocking half the passage.

“Well, it was barely light out! I wouldn't have been at home to you either. Why couldn't you wait until this afternoon and try again?”

“I want this settled.”

“How do you even know your Mr. Meyer is back in London? He was still in Oxfordshire when you left, was he not?”

“I'll wager anything you like he followed me as fast as he could.”

“And what if he is, after all, a naturalist, and I have traded on my acquaintance with LeSueur for nothing? You will look like a fool, and so shall I.”

“He's no naturalist. I am certain of it. A—a reliable source in the household warned me the man had been sent down to inspect me.” Most adults would not consider an eleven-year-old boy a reliable source, but Julien had developed a healthy respect for Simon's eavesdropping abilities.

Derring looked at Julien's set, slightly flushed face and gave up. “You know,” he commented as they turned yet another corner, “I may be untidy, but
you
are stubborn. My vice creates a small nuisance—”

“Hah!” interrupted Julien. “Tell that to what used to be my parlor.”

“A small nuisance,” Derring repeated more firmly, “which well-trained servants can easily remedy. Your vice, on the other hand, has far more serious consequences and I fail to see how you can hire anyone to assist you.”

“Not hire. Marry. A wife. A gentle, loving wife who will advise me and persuade me to mend my ways. You see, all your arguments about the benefits of marriage have at last won me over.”

It was Derring's turn to say “Hah!”

Julien wasn't sure whether the exclamation was directed at the picture of a reformed Julien or at the picture of Serena Allen—his presumed bride-to-be—as gentle and loving. Probably both.

The subaltern, who had maintained an even stride and an expressionless face through the entire journey, held open the door of a small room furnished with two plain wooden chairs and a deal table. “If you gentlemen will wait here, I shall inform you when the captain arrives.” He gestured stiffly towards the chairs and then closed the door.

Derring sat down. “Told you this was too early even for the military,” he grumbled.