The Spy's Kiss (16 page)

Julien did not reply. He paced back and forth, hands behind his back, rehearsing every word of the speech he planned to make.

Five minutes went by. Ten. Ten more. At last he heard booted footsteps in the corridor.

“In here?”

“Yes, sir.”

The door opened and a young man who was clearly LeSueur came in. He matched Philip's description perfectly, although Philip had unaccountably left out the captain's most distinguishing feature, a deep scar running down one side of his face.

“Hallo, old fellow,” Derring said uneasily.

“Where have you been? You were meant to come see me—at Whitehall, not here, I might add—four days ago,” said LeSueur, looking irritated. “And who is this? Civilians are not normally allowed onto this floor.”

Derring started to introduce him, but Julien forestalled him. “I am a friend of Mr. Derring,” he said coldly. “And I asked him to bring me here. I am looking for a man named Meyer.”

LeSueur gaped. “You are?”

“There is someone who goes by that name associated with your—enterprise, is there not?”

The captain frowned, clearly uncertain about the proper response to this question. He shot a helpless glance back into the hall, but it was empty.

“He has insulted me grossly,” Julien clarified.

Oddly, that phrase seemed to work some sort of magic. LeSueur's face cleared. He looked resigned, perhaps even amused. He stepped back into the hall.

“James!” he shouted. “Someone to see you. Affair of honor.” He turned back to Julien. “What did you say your name was?”

“Clermont.”

“A Mr. Clermont,” he called loudly out the door. Then he stiffened and whirled around. “Out! Out!” he shouted, turning red. The scar, oddly, stayed white. “Norris!” The subaltern reappeared. “Escort this gentleman out at once. Down the
front
staircase.”

“Not without seeing Mr. Meyer,” said Julien, folding his arms.

Another officer had arrived, a dark-haired young man. His uniform and insignia marked him as a captain of rifles. The small room was getting very crowded. “Who wants me?” he asked LeSueur, glancing with no sign of recognition from Philip to Julien and back.

“Nothing. My apologies. False alarm,” said LeSueur hastily. “This gentleman was just leaving.” He jerked his chin at the subaltern, who stepped forward and laid a tentative hand on Julien's arm. “Not you,” LeSueur said to Derring, who had stepped forward. “You have a few questions to answer, remember? In fact, you now have more than a few.”

“I'm afraid you'll need to come with me, sir,” the subaltern said. He no longer looked impassive. He looked nervous.

“You can't pretend Meyer isn't here,” said Julien to LeSueur, furious. “I heard you call to him. I want to see him. I demand it. Doesn't British law say that a man is entitled to confront his accuser?”

The new captain pushed the other two officers aside. He was frowning. “What have I accused you of? Who are you?”

“Who are you?” Julien shot back. “And why are you protecting this Meyer fellow? What harm can it do to let me ask him a few questions?”

“I
am
Meyer,” the officer said. “James Roth Meyer. Although in this uniform, I go by James Nathanson.”

Julien stared.

LeSueur cleared his throat. “This is the, er, person in question,” he said in a low voice. “The Russian affair. And he therefore needs to be escorted out. At once. Before any interesting visitors arrive.”

“
This
is Mr. Clermont?”

“Yes, sir.”

Julien found himself being scanned from head to toe. He raised his eyebrows and did his own inspection. The aquiline face was vaguely familiar.

“I'll take him down.” A faint smile was beginning to appear on the officer's face. “I believe he must be looking for my father.” He turned to Julien.

“Older man? Looks a bit like me? Very polite, and next thing you know it feels as though a steel trap has sprung around you?”

Still stunned, Julien nodded slowly.

“Are you planning to call him out? If so, I insist on being present.” The officer held open a door on the other side of the waiting room and gestured Julien through to the landing of an open stairwell. “I've been waiting years for this moment. He has been very tiresome on the subject of my own early morning engagements.”

“I couldn't possibly meet him,” said Julien, shocked. “He's old enough to be my grandfather.” Something made him pause, in the middle of the staircase, and look at his escort. “Isn't he?”

“He is forty-four.”

“He—seemed older.”

“Mmm,” agreed the younger Meyer. And that was all he would say, nor did he respond in any way to Julien's indirect queries about his father's credentials as a scientist. At the Tower gate, however, he walked with Julien for a few yards until they were beyond earshot of the guards and said abruptly, “I'm going to give you some advice.”

Surprised, Julien stopped.

“I don't like giving advice,” Meyer—or Nathanson—said. “And I detest receiving it. I suspect you do as well. But for some reason I cannot help myself.”

“What is it?”

“Stay away from the Earl of Bassington. At least for the next few weeks.”

Julien felt himself stiffening. “Can you give me a reason?”

“No.”

“Then I am unlikely to follow your recommendation.” He bowed. “Good day, Captain.”

 

 

James Meyer watched the tall figure walk away towards Lower Thames Street. Something about the set of the shoulders told him that Clermont now considered himself to have been insulted by both Meyers. He thought of the conversation he had had with his father last night. Nathan Meyer wasn't often wrong. But it did happen, occasionally.

16

Rowley, the London butler, was not as fond of his dignity as Pritchett. He had given Serena an enormous smile when the earl's party had arrived the evening before and had even whispered, “Welcome back, miss!” At breakfast this morning he had informed her that she was looking “prime”—a word which would never have crossed Pritchett's lips. And a few minutes ago, when he had carried in a tray with two cards on it, Serena had seen at once from the flying eyebrow he pointed at her that the callers were, in his opinion, for her, although he took the tray quite properly over to her aunt. Mrs. Digby had no doubt filled Rowley in on every detail of the latest events at Boulton Park, and the slanting eyebrow boded ill.

Her fears were confirmed by her aunt's expression once she had glanced at the cards, an expression which could only be described as smug.

“Show them up, Rowley,” she said. He bowed and withdrew, but not without another eyebrow wiggle in her direction.

“Let me guess.” Serena was feeling cross and tired. She had hoped her aunt would not receive callers on their first morning here, but she should have known better. Aunt Clara was never too weary for social intrigue. “It is Mr. Clermont.”

“And Philip.”

Well, that was something, at least. She hadn't seen Philip in nearly a year.

“I think you have made a conquest at last, my dear Serena,” Mrs. Childe said archly from her seat by the fire. “Our first morning here! He wastes no time, I see.”

Serena had trained herself long ago to ignore the widow's remarks. Mrs. Childe's cloying sympathy after André Moreau's escape had been almost unendurable until she had woken up one morning to the blinding realization that it was completely false and designed to stir up her grief and distress rather than assuage it. Now she bent her head down lower over her embroidery. She had taken up embroidery two years ago. It was dull, it was ladylike, and it was very, very useful when you lived with Mrs. Childe. Simon now had a matched set of seat covers depicting various large insects, which her aunt had so far refused to allow on any of the chairs, even the ones in the nursery.

“Mr. Clermont. Mr. Derring,” announced Rowley, trilling the
r
's in Derring.

There was Philip, looking somewhat haggard, although the quick smile he shot her was the same as ever. And Clermont was the same as ever, too: revoltingly elegant. His bright hair seemed to glow at the corner of her vision as he greeted her aunt and inquired about their journey up to town.

Serena heard a rustle of skirts behind her. Mrs. Childe had risen and was sinking into a dramatic curtsey, just as she had on the night of the dinner party. Philip, who had been politely listening as her aunt described muddy roads and overcrowded inns, blinked in astonishment. Clermont's reaction was immediate. He leveled the coldest stare Serena had ever seen at the half-descended widow. It was only for a fraction of a second, but she halted in midplunge, wobbled, tripped slightly over her front foot, then collapsed awkwardly back into her chair, looking flustered. Serena was tempted to pass over her embroidery frame so that the older woman would have an excuse to keep her eyes lowered.

Derring was crossing the room. He murmured a greeting to her cousin, who gave the barest nod in return, and then came over to Serena.

“Philip,” she said. On impulse, she stood up and kissed him on the cheek, which made him blush furiously. “How are you?”

“Very well. And you? I was delighted to hear you had come up to town with your uncle.”

“Any news of Maria?”

He shook his head.

“First babies are always late,” said her aunt, overhearing. “You mustn't worry, Philip, I'm sure we shall have comfortable tidings any day. Do sit down, both of you. I'll ring for refreshments.”

“Well, I suppose—” said Philip.

“I'm afraid we cannot stay very long,” Clermont said at the same moment. “But I had hoped that Miss Allen and Lord Ogbourne might accompany me this afternoon to an exhibition of zoological specimens at Somerset House. If you are not too tired from your journey, that is,” he said to Serena, addressing her directly for the first time.

“Not at all,” she said, with her best demure-maiden smile. “I should be delighted. And I believe I can vouch for Simon's interest.” An understatement. He would be in seventh heaven. He had spent the entire coach ride discussing his plans for “lessons” with Royce while in town, and while he had mentioned traditional favorites such as Astley's Amphitheater and the lions at the Tower, he had also listed the Royal Society, the Observatory, and the British Museum.

“You are inviting Serena to go see dead animals?” said Philip in distaste. “On her first day in town in years?”

“Specimens, my dear fellow. Not at all the same thing. A rabbit which has been caught by a fox is a dead animal. An
oryctolagus cuniculus
, stuffed and mounted, is a specimen.”

“Quite right.” Mrs. Childe had apparently recovered. She nodded. “Rare animals are so very interesting, don't you agree, Mr. Clermont?” There was a fractional pause before the word
mister.

“Certainly.” He bowed affably in her direction.

So, Mrs. Childe was forgiven.

The older woman smiled her odd, closed-lipped smile. “And what is an
oryctolagus cuniculus
?”

He gave Serena a quick glance and she suddenly knew Mrs. Childe had not been forgiven at all.

“A rabbit,” he said gently.

That was almost enough to make her change her mind. But not quite.

 

 

Ten minutes later, with Clermont and Philip safely out of the house, she went up to her desk and wrote Clermont a note. Alas, she had now developed a headache and must beg to be excused from this afternoon's expedition. She actually wrote the word
alas,
enjoying herself very much. After some thought she added that she feared Simon would not be permitted to go without her. She
would
get a headache wondering what mischief her cousin might get up to with Clermont in her absence. “Take that, Mr. Courtly Clermont,” she said aloud as she sealed up the note. “You thought you had me, inviting me in front of my aunt. But two can play the social graces game.”

Somerset House, on raw days in March, seemed to exude a damp chill more appropriate for a prison than the stately home of three royal societies and several important government agencies. Especially when filled with stuffed carcasses of dead birds and animals. Rooms and rooms of them, it seemed, and Simon wanted to see every single corpse. She moved mechanically to the next case. “
Sterna paradisaea
,” read the label. “Arctic Tern. Provenance: Cape Breton. Specimen donated by P.A.K.” Inside was a gray and white bird, its lifeless eyes surveying her haughtily over a blood-red beak. Behind the bird a painted backdrop depicted snow-covered cliffs and a bay filled with chunks of floating ice. She shivered.

Her cousin—the same boy who had demanded extra hot bricks and wraps both mornings in the coach—seemed impervious to the temperature in the exhibition gallery, which was, in Serena's estimate, close to freezing. Of course, perhaps she was not suffering merely from physical cold. Perhaps she was suffering from nerves, because she and Simon between them were currently juggling (here she paused to count) seven complete falsehoods. For Simon, that was nothing, but she was already exhausted trying to remember what she had said to whom.

Serena had been prepared to pay a penalty for outmaneuvering Clermont. And she had known—or thought she had known—what that penalty would be: lying in a darkened bedchamber all afternoon on her first full day in London. Not too steep a price to pay, she had decided, for her victory.

She had reckoned without Simon. Twenty minutes after her note had been sent off, he had burst into her room without knocking. Emily, who had just helped the newly ill Serena into her dressing gown, opened her mouth to scold.

“Out,” Simon said to the maid in a tone eerily reminiscent of his father's more autocratic moments.

Emily fled.

Simon closed the door behind her with a deceptively gentle click. “You
traitor
,” he said to Serena. His blue eyes were like flint. “You weren't even going to tell me about Mr. Clermont's invitation, were you?”

She thought of denying everything, or of trying to convince Simon that she truly was ill. But in the face of his righteous anger—and it was righteous, she had to acknowledge that—she merely sat down on the edge of the bed and sighed. “How did you find out?” Eavesdropping was not as easy in the London house, although Simon had his methods.

“My mother. Who descended on Royce to warn him that his frail little charge was going out later today.” He added, pointedly, “She looked very pleased with herself and nearly forgot to tell me to wear my muffler.”

She should have realized Aunt Clara would go to Simon at once, so that he could be fortified with tonics before venturing out of doors.

“And then,” he said, eyes flashing, “I came running to find you to see when we were leaving and what precisely this exhibition was, and I met Mrs. Digby. Who told me you were laid down on your bed.”

Her conscience smote her. “We'll go tomorrow,” she promised, and then instantly regretted it. It was never wise to show weakness in front of Simon.

“We'll go today,” he said.

“I've already cried off. I'm ill.” She swept her arm out to indicate the turned-down bed, the drawn curtains, and the cloth pad, soaked in lavender water, lying on the floor where the flustered Emily had dropped it.

“We'll go today. At two. Or I will tell my mother how you deliberately humiliated Mr. Clermont.”

“You wouldn't!” He would, she saw. He was furious.

Her penalty, therefore, was much worse than four hours in a dark room. It was two hours in a frigid exhibition hall and more lies than she had ever told in one day in her life. To Emily and Mrs. Digby, the tale of the miraculous recovery, followed by a plea not to distress the countess with any talk of illness. To Rowley, an elaborate itinerary which precluded their using the carriage. The last thing she wanted was for Hoop, the Bassington coachman, to insist on waiting until their fictitious escort appeared to take charge of them. And to her aunt, a whole series of lies: she had promised Simon to take him first to Hatchard's for a book which accompanied the exhibition and had therefore sent a note asking Mr. Clermont to call for her at the bookstore. Yes, she was taking a maid. Yes, Mr. Clermont would bring them back in a carriage so that Simon did not have to walk both ways.

She stared at the tern without really seeing it. At another time she might have found the exhibit interesting. There was a whole family of beavers, for example, posed beside one of their dams, which some devoted amateur naturalist had reinforced with plaster of Paris, cut apart into numbered pieces for shipping back to England, and reassembled. There was an enormous, shaggy sort of deer, called a Caribou, and a short-quilled porcupine which apparently lived in trees instead of underneath hedges. But in any case her interest could never have matched Simon's blazing, concentrated enthusiasm. He had long since abandoned her, darting from case to case and from room to room. She gave up and settled down on a marble bench to see how long it would take him to exhaust himself.

Twenty minutes later she was beginning to wish she had brought a maid with her. The crowd was largely male, and she had drawn several rude stares. A lively family group went by, and she was tempted for a moment to get up and drift over until she stood in the protection of their little circle, where she would look like a maiden aunt or perhaps a governess. Another lie; she rejected it. Instead, she looked at her hands, neatly folded in her lap.

Some of the predatory males grew bolder, walking by her repeatedly and slowing as they did so. One even approached and inquired, with oily solicitude, if she needed assistance. She scorched him with her best glare—what Simon called her snake eyes—and then resumed contemplating her glove buttons. His smooth voice faltered, then died, and she heard his footsteps moving away.

“Well, well.” A new voice, a very familiar voice. “What an unexpected pleasure.
Very
unexpected.”

She forced herself to look up. Dark eyes, dark brows, gold hair, fine-carved mouth. All looking amused. Even his hair seemed to be chortling.

“I am delighted to see that you have recovered from your—indisposition.”