The Spy's Kiss (24 page)

He saw the books immediately. They were piled on a table just to the left of the outer door, unmistakable in their red leather bindings, stamped with a crest he knew all too well. They were virtually identical, in fact, to the journals of the late earl. Holding his breath, he crossed to the stack of books and picked up the first one. It was for the spring of 1807. The next one was for the winter of 1810. He opened another, and another. The oldest was from 1799. Cursing, he looked around for more volumes. There were none in sight. There was, however, a crate beneath the table. He knelt, and opened it. It was full of red leather books.

And then he heard, too late, a soft footfall behind him and felt the barrel of a gun pressed into the side of his neck. “Don't move,” said a stern voice. “Barrett! LeSueur! I have him.”

The door to the hall opened; suddenly there was light, lots of light, two unshielded dark lanterns shining straight at him. The gun left his neck, and its owner stepped over towards his companions from the hallway. Julien blinked, and raised his own lantern. Facing him, looking very grim, were Barrett, LeSueur, and Nathan Meyer. LeSueur was in uniform.

The young officer straightened and cleared his throat. “Mr. Clermont,” he announced, “You are under arrest.”

Of course he was under arrest. He wished Meyer had just shot him. He got to his feet and looked at Barrett. “Will it—will my name be released? Is this public?”

“What
is
your name?” asked Meyer. “Your full name. And title.”

“Louis-François Julien de Bourbon-Condé, Marquis de Clermont,” he said wearily. He looked again at Barrett. Damn it, did he have to beg?

Barrett understood. “Is there a name you would prefer that we use for the records?”

He shuffled mentally through his estates until he found an obscure one. “Savignac. Louis de Savignac—no, just Louis Savignac. That will do. If this can possibly be kept from my grandfather, I would be very grateful.”

Meyer gave him an odd look.

“Well, Mr. Savignac,” said LeSueur. “We don't take parole from scum like you, even if you are a marquis. If you would condescend to stretch out your hands in front of you, I can fasten these manacles and we can be on our way.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“The Tower.”

“The Tower?” Was this some sort of nightmare, nurtured by too many evenings with Shakespeare's history plays? “I thought it wasn't used as a prison any longer.”

“It isn't, for ordinary criminals.” LeSueur snapped the locks closed on the bracelets. “But in any case you will not be held with the other prisoners there. For situations like this, we find it convenient to use our own cells. If you are truly concerned about your privacy, you should be very happy with your situation there. No one will ever know where you are, or what has happened to you, unless we choose to tell them.”

The human mind is a complex and devious entity. Even intelligent, well-educated people are often capable of holding two contradictory sets of beliefs simultaneously. They merely store them in different areas of their brain. For example, if someone had asked Julien Clermont the following morning what crime he would be charged with, he would have answered “trespassing.” Or perhaps, “trespassing and attempted burglary,” although in his own mind he had more right to those diaries than anyone else now living. If that same person had then asked him which official normally arrests persons charged with such crimes, and where the accused man might be incarcerated, he would have answered “the watch” and “Newgate.” He had been living in England nearly his entire life, after all. He was not unfamiliar with English law, or with London's ramshackle system of policing its streets. And yet it didn't occur to him to wonder why he had been taken into custody by a military officer, why he had been subjected to a humiliating and very thorough search of his person, why his cell was not a cell but a small windowless room which had clearly been recently used as an office—it still had a desk and chair in it—and then hastily furnished with a pallet and latrine bucket.

Admittedly, he had only had five hours of sleep in the last two days. He was unwashed, unshaven, and hungry. But when two sentries unlocked the door of his room at nine o'clock and escorted him downstairs, he still expected to be taken before a magistrate. He expected to be fined, possibly deported—although the real penalty, to his way of thinking, would be the eternal contempt of everyone he had ever cared about, from his grandfather all the way to Serena Allen.

The first clue that his expectations were wrong came when the sentries opened the doors of what he had thought would be some sort of courtroom. Instead he was shoved into what looked like a small council chamber. There was a long table, with chairs on both sides. On the left side were three officers: LeSueur, the younger Meyer, and an older man with a large mustache he vaguely recalled seeing at the ball. On the right side were Sir Charles Barrett, Nathan Meyer, and a smooth-faced man he did not recognize. At a clerk's desk in the far corner another man, perched on a stool, was laying out pens and a blotter next to a large notebook. There was no judge. There was also no chair for Julien.

The sentries withdrew and closed the doors behind them; in his corner, the clerk held his pen poised over the blank page of his notebook. Julien stood, weary and heartsick, looking down the table at the faces of the six men.

Barrett raised one eyebrow at the man with the mustache. “Colonel White?”

“I'll let you do the honors,” the older man said. “You caught him in your house, after all.”

Barrett nodded. “Well, Mr. Clermont,” he said, in a calm, pleasant voice which Julien found unaccountably terrifying, “I see no reason to beat about the bush. You are an intelligent man, and I'm sure you are aware that the game is up. The letter wasn't on your person, and when we searched your luggage early this morning at the White Horse we did not find it there, either. The matter is too important to me to worry about justice in its pure form. If you will assist us in recovering it I will guarantee your safety.”

“Letter?” Julien looked at LeSueur, who was regarding him as if he were a poisonous reptile, at the older Meyer, and then back at Barrett. “What letter?”

“Don't waste our time, Clermont,” said the colonel. Julien recognized the voice now; it was the man he had overheard in Barrett's study the night of the ball. “We could just execute you out of hand, you know. We have enough evidence to hang you five times over.”

“For
trespassing
?” Then even his tired brain began to function at last. Colonels did not convene tribunals in the Tower to interrogate trespassers. He should have known what was happening the minute he saw Nathan Meyer pointing the gun at him last night. Resignation and despair suddenly gave way to rage. Julien swung to face his tormentor. “This is your doing, isn't it? You've persuaded them I'm some sort of spy.” He pointed an accusing finger. “You turned Bassington against me; that's why he wouldn't listen to me the other night. I would have called you out after your visit to Boulton Park, but I thought it beneath me to kill a vulgar old catchpoll for being overzealous at his job. I let it go. I let it go, but you didn't. You kept after me, had me followed. And now you've somehow arranged this farce of a tribunal.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Julien saw LeSueur forcibly restraining the younger Meyer, who had risen halfway out of his chair.

Barrett said, still in that same calm voice, “Mr. Clermont, you can hardly accuse Mr. Meyer of overzealousness at this point. Bassington has told us about your stratagems to gain access to Boulton Park. You were seen lurking near my study on Friday night during the ball. Saturday night you were seen in the vicinity of my house again, both by Bassington's guard and by a link-boy. Sunday morning I find an important letter missing from my safe. Sunday evening you reappear in my study—demonstrating, I might add, an intimate knowledge of that room and its special features. It is useless to protest your innocence.”

He retorted hotly, “It may be useless, but what else am I to do? I
am
innocent.” Then, recalling his activities of the past month, he added, “Innocent of stealing papers, at least. I do not deny forcing my way into the earl's household. I regret it now deeply, but I believed I was justified at the time.”

“Do you deny that three of us here found you in my study last night?”

“No.”

“How did you know of the hidden entrance?”

He tried to keep his face from shouting “Simon.” “I accidentally witnessed someone using it and deduced where it led.”

“What were you looking for there?”

“It is—a personal matter. A family matter. Related to my purpose in visiting Boulton Park.”

“A family matter? In my study?” He sat back. “Very well, what
was
your purpose at Boulton Park?”

“I am not at liberty to say. I confided my reasons to Lord Bassington.”

White leaned across the table and said in a low tone to Barrett, “Did you invite Bassington this morning?”

“Yes, but he refused to come,” Barrett said in the same low voice. “He is very distressed, as is the countess. He gave me a statement, however, which does not support Mr. Clermont's version of the facts.” He turned back to Clermont and raised his voice again. “Do you deny that you were also in my study late Saturday night?”

“I do.”

“You were observed in Manchester Place at three in the morning. A link-boy then saw you emerge from the private walkway by my house, a walkway which leads to the concealed entrance to my study, two hours later. Mr. Meyer saw you approach by that same route last night and gain entrance to my house. Do you still deny you took that letter?”

“I know nothing of any letter. Yes, I deny it.”

“Where were you, then, during those two hours?”

With Serena Allen. Coming just one step short of duplicating his father's crime against his mother. He couldn't think of a plausible answer, and he certainly wasn't going to tell the truth. He settled for the simplest lie. “I went for a walk.”

“In the middle of the night? A two-hour stroll which miraculously wound up one street away from where it had started? Nowhere near your own lodgings, or any neighborhood where late-night entertainment is available?”

“Yes.” He prayed that Barrett would not ask him to describe his route.

“Did anyone see you while you were walking? Anyone save the guard and the link-boy?”

“No.”

White made an exasperated gesture. “Mr. Clermont, do you think we are children? Do you understand the consequences to yourself of this absurd pretense? You are accused of a capital crime. You have been offered a very generous inducement to cooperate.”

Pride goeth before destruction
. “I went for a walk,” he said, setting his jaw.

Barrett sighed and looked at LeSueur. The young officer stood and opened the door, beckoning to the two sentries. Julien found himself seized, not gently, and marched down three more flights of stairs to a small basement room. It looked more like the Tower he had pictured: stone walls, stone floor, small barred window. LeSueur kept him there for what seemed an eternity, still on his feet, hungry and thirsty and dizzy with fatigue, asking the same questions over and over again. By the end he had condensed all his answers down to two phrases: “I am not at liberty to say” and “I went for a walk.”

At last there was a knock on the door. It was the younger Meyer. “I'll take him back up,” he said. LeSueur had lost his crisp military bearing some time ago. His hair was tousled, and he had loosened his neckcloth. He merely nodded.

Meyer glared at Julien all the way back up the four flights of stairs to his makeshift cell. “If you get out of this tangle alive,” he said as he unlocked the door, “I should kill you myself, for insulting my father.”

“I don't think I'm getting out of this.” Julien leaned against the door.

“I don't either.” Meyer pushed the door open, and Julien hauled himself upright again. “Although I don't believe you took that letter.”

“I didn't. But your opinion seems to be a minority view.”

“Where did you go between three and five the other night, though?”

Julien just looked at him.

“Ah, yes. You went for a walk.” The younger man wasn't glaring any more. “I'll have them bring you something to eat,” he said abruptly.

“Could I have some water, as well? For shaving?”

Meyer shook his head. “They won't let you have a razor.” But an hour later, just as Julien was finishing his long-delayed breakfast, the two sentries reappeared, escorting a nervous middle-aged corporal with a basin and shaving gear. He only cut Julien once.

Fed and reasonably clean, Julien sat down cross-legged on his pallet and considered his options. He could ask to have Serena summoned to testify on his behalf. He rejected that option instantly. He could write to Bassington and beg him to tell the full story of their interview. He rejected that option almost as quickly. The chances of such an appeal succeeding were slim, and he found himself reluctant to parade the Piers's dirty laundry in front of strangers. He could ask his grandfather for help. That was out, as well. The phrase “I would rather die” suggested itself as apt. Finally, he could wait and hope for a miracle. He could wait, and hope for a miracle, and catch up on his sleep. He stretched out, covered his shoulders with the tiny blanket lying on the pallet, and closed his eyes.

 

 

After two more unsuccessful attempts to see her uncle by fair means, Serena resorted to foul: she waylaid him in the front hall as he was returning from his club late that evening.

“Not now, Serena,” he said curtly, handing his coat and hat to Rowley. He started to brush past her.

“I am sorry, but I must insist. It is very important.”

“If it is about Mr. Clermont, I have already told you, the subject is closed.”

Rowley was hurriedly backing through the nearest door, out of the line of fire.

She moved so that she was between her uncle and the staircase. His face grim, he lifted her off her feet, set her to one side, and started up the stairs. Shocked, she stood frozen for a moment. Then she called after him, not caring if the servants heard her or not, “Uncle, I have never known you to be unjust.”

He didn't turn around, but he stopped, one hand on the banister.

“Please?” She could hear her voice tremble.

Slowly he came back down and led her into an anteroom which opened off the hall. She thought he would be annoyed, but instead he looked sad. “Believe me, Serena, Mr. Clermont isn't worth your concern. He is a very dangerous, unscrupulous young man. I do not wish to be unreasonable, however. I will hear you out, if you can be brief.”

She took a deep breath. “I called on him yesterday morning.” She added hastily, seeing him start to get angry again, “I took a maid. And he would not allow me to stay. He told me I should not be there.”

“Well, at least he has that much sense,” her uncle muttered.

“I am perfectly well aware that I should not visit gentlemen at their lodgings,” she said, stung. “But you had forbidden him your house, and I needed to see him.”

“And he had as little success evading you as I did just now,” he commented dryly. “Very well. Why did you feel this imperative need to speak with a man who had just insulted you grossly?”

“That's just it,” she said. “He didn't insult me, not intentionally. He told me why he had requested an appointment with you.”

Now he was angry. “A damned lie! I beg your pardon, Serena, but that he could bring himself to repeat that scandalous drivel in front of you is past bearing.”

She put her hand on his arm, afraid he would try to leave again. “Uncle, wait. Wait, and let me finish. I told him you were not his father. He didn't believe me at first. Consider the evidence from his point of view: his mother mentions the name Bassington. He discovers that he bears a strong resemblance to your son, and to certain family portraits. Your own banker tells him that your father ordered payments made to his mother.”