The Spy's Kiss (25 page)

“Lies. Coincidence,” he said impatiently. “Once he had met Simon he noticed a slight similarity, yes, and determined to take advantage of it, perhaps to extort money from me.”

“A ‘slight similarity'?” She folded her arms. “Uncle George, haven't you realized the truth yet? Who else, as a young man, sometimes claimed to be your father's heir? Who was in France the year before Mr. Clermont was born?”

“My cousin,” he said slowly. “My cousin Charles.”

“And what did your cousin Charles look like when he was Mr. Clermont's age? Didn't he have very fair hair, and wide-set dark eyes?”

He cleared his throat. “Difficult to compare the two men. We wore wigs in those days, you know.” But he was frowning. “It is possible,” he admitted after a minute. “I must admit, it is entirely possible. I had never thought of it.”

“Go see Mr. Hewitt,” she urged. “That is all I ask. If Mr. Clermont proves to be Charles's son, then he is a Piers. And in that case he had some justification for what he did.”

He was shaking his head. “No, best to leave it, my dear. I am sorry, but even if your surmise is correct, the family would no more wish to claim him than they did his father. He seems to have inherited more than his coloring from my cousin.”

She felt the blood leave her face. “What do you mean?”

He touched her shoulder awkwardly. “Forget him, Serena.”

Julien tried to keep track of time, but it was difficult. Sometimes when they came to get him and take him down to the basement it was light outside, sometimes it wasn't. Sometimes he was able to sleep as long as he liked; at other times they were shaking him awake from a groggy trance. His treatment on the way to and from the basement grew rougher and rougher, but the questioning itself was always coldly, meticulously precise and courteous. “May we ask who is employing you, Mr. Clermont?” “Could you tell us the whereabouts of the letter, Mr. Clermont?” “Could you describe your activities during the two hours before dawn on Sunday, Mr. Clermont?” Usually it was LeSueur asking the questions; occasionally it was another, older officer he did not know.

On what he thought was his third morning in the Tower, one of the sentries deliberately pushed him down half a flight of stairs. He landed at the bottom, slightly stunned, and looked up to see the sentry staring down at him with no expression on his face whatsoever. He was wise enough not to say anything about it to LeSueur, nor did he react in any way when the same sentry came to collect him at the end of the session. But when he had regained the relative safety of his cell he sat down at the empty desk and thought hard.

He had always prided himself on his independence from his mother's family. They had treated her brutally; they had made her son feel guilty for his own existence; they had admitted him to their ranks only as an insulting last resort, when the guillotine was claiming other, more legitimate aristocrats. He had resolved long ago to take from the Condés only the minimum he felt was owed to him.

Being pushed down the stairs by a pockmarked enlisted man who stank of onions made it suddenly clear that he had unconsciously accepted much, much more from his grandfather than he had ever realized. He had accepted a set of beliefs about who he was and how he would be treated. For example, he had simply assumed that there would be no serious consequences of this arrest until they had decided he was guilty. No beatings, no rotten food, no freezing rooms without bedding or blankets. In fact, now that he was being honest with himself, he was not certain whether he had fully believed there would be serious consequences if he
were
judged guilty. Would they, in truth, execute Julien de Bourbon-Condé, the grandson of the most respected and influential member of the French royal family? When he had nobly resolved to lie about his visit to Serena, had he actually thought the choice was between his death and her dishonor?

Too late to change his story now, though. After three days of stubborn denials, no one would believe him if he recanted. An innocent man with a reasonable explanation would have produced it in the first five minutes. Since there was nothing to be done at this point, he tried to persuade himself to forget about it. He washed his face, which was throbbing slightly on one side, and sat back down with his only reading material—a copy of the
Observer
from several months ago. The servant had sold it to him this morning for the outrageous sum of twelve shillings. It proved difficult, however, to find a story which didn't mention anything unsettling—letters, for example. Or France. Or fathers.

He was still feeling shaken, physically and mentally, when the same sentry opened the door an hour later. “You have a visitor,” the man said sullenly. He stepped aside, and Bassington came into the room.

What was he supposed to say to a first cousin once removed whom he had accused of debauching his mother? Julien settled for getting up out of the chair and nodding stiffly.

The earl took off his hat and set it on the desk. “Might I have a few minutes alone with him?” he asked the sentry. The man muttered something under his breath, but he withdrew and closed the door behind him.

“You are bruised,” said Bassington abruptly, moving closer. “Have you been mistreated?”

Julien put his hand up to his cheek and touched the tender spot in front of his right ear. “I fell.”

There was a long silence. The earl wandered around the room, examining dark squares on the wall where maps or pictures had been hanging. He sat down at last in the chair behind the desk and looked at Julien.

“I was perhaps too hasty in dismissing the evidence you presented to me the other night,” he said slowly. “My niece tells me that she spoke with you on Sunday about this matter. At her urging, I have been to see Hewitt, and it seems almost certain that she is right. You are the son of my cousin Charles.”

So it was true. An aching sense of loss filled him. He didn't want some dissolute black sheep for a father. He wanted George Piers—irascible, stubborn, snuff-addicted, honorable, intelligent George Piers.

“Charles was a great trial to my father,” the earl said, after another pause. “I am afraid I was not very sympathetic to my father's complaints; I always had a secret fondness for my cousin. In those days he seemed quite dashing and glamorous to me. As a result my father stopped confiding in me. Will you believe me when I tell you that I had no idea there was a child in France?”

Apparently Julien was expected to respond to this. He cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said, “I believe you.”

“Now that I know you are a kinsman, I feel some responsibility towards you. I thought it my duty to come and inquire after you here. Although I fear I cannot help you much in your present circumstances.”

Maybe he didn't want Bassington for a father after all. The last thing he needed was another disapproving relative passing judgment on his mistakes. “Thank you, sir,” he said stiffly.

There was another silence, then the earl asked cautiously. “Did you steal that letter?”

“No.” It was his turn to say: “Do you believe me?”

“I don't know. Nor, to be honest, would it make much difference if I did. It's in White's hands now.” The earl tapped his fingers nervously on the desk. “Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked abruptly. “Clothing, books, that sort of thing?”

“If you could get word to my servant—tell him—well, not the truth. Tell him I have gone out of town unexpectedly. He will be very anxious.”

Bassington looked uncomfortable. “He has already called at my house; I'm afraid he was sent away. I will have Rowley locate him and pass on your message.”

“And perhaps you could convey my apologies again to the countess? And Miss Allen?”

The earl looked even more uncomfortable. “If there is a suitable opportunity, yes.”

Julien wondered what a suitable opportunity would be. His funeral, probably.

Bassington rose. “Anything else?” He walked over to the door and rapped on it sharply. Julien heard the key turning in the lock from the outside.

“Wait—there is one more thing.” He thought the answer would be no, but it didn't hurt to ask. “My father's diaries. Is there any chance I would be permitted to have the volumes from the year he met my mother?”

“The 1780's, wasn't it?”

“1784.”

Bassington thought for a minute. “I don't see why not. He didn't settle in Russia until 1805. I will ask Barrett.”

“Thank you,” said Julien. “Thank you very much. I have quite a bit of leisure time for reading at the moment.”

“Are you certain you want them?” Bassington asked in an unexpectedly gentle tone. “I haven't looked at them myself, you know. I had heard so many ugly stories about Charles already, and now that he is dead it seemed almost cruel to go in search of more. You are welcome to borrow anything in my library, if you want something to read.”

“I need to know,” he said. He raised his eyes to meet the earl's. “When I thought it was you, I wanted to learn everything about you. I read your speeches in the newspaper; I dug out old volumes of the
Royal Society Bulletin
to look at your essays; I walked by your house in London. And eventually, as you saw, that wasn't enough. I can't take revenge on a dead man. The idea of avenging my mother was wrong in any case; I admit that. But I still want to understand who he was.”

“Well, don't judge him too harshly,” said Bassington. “He will likely paint himself as black as pitch in the diaries; he always relished the thought of being a devil. But no one is ever all bad. I choose not to read the diaries, and to remember instead that Charles was willing to risk his life on behalf of his adopted country. In fact, he died protecting the author of that missing letter. Which means that I, at least, hope you are telling the truth when you say you did not steal it.”

Sir Charles Barrett looked at the hat resting on the stand in the front hall. “We have a visitor?” he asked his butler. “At this hour?”

“It's Major Drayton, sir. Apparently he came in last night from Portsmouth and took the liberty of stopping by this morning to see her ladyship.”

“Drayton,” said Barrett thoughtfully. “I see. Where are they, Staples?”

“The library, sir.” At a nod from Barrett he stepped over and held open the door.

Sara Barrett looked up as her husband came into the room. “Charles, look who is here!” she said, beaming. “Richard!”

The dark-haired young officer next to her rose.

“So I heard.” Barrett crossed the room and shook hands with his brother-in-law. “Good to see you back in England. Is there any news yet?”

The younger man grimaced. “Not yet. The doctor tells me it will be another few weeks. I don't know how Rachel can stand it.”

Barrett laughed. “Patience, my boy. Be glad you will have some time with your wife before the new arrival claims all her attention. In fact, you should count yourself lucky to be given leave at all.”

“Oh, nothing much was happening in Gibraltar. The action has all moved up north. My colonel said he could spare me.” Drayton sat back down. “How are things here? I thought I might call down at the Tower, see how White and the others are doing.”

Barrett eyed him speculatively. “Curious you should say that.”

His wife glared at him. “Charles, he's on
leave.
His wife is about to be confined, for heaven's sake. I don't know what sort of crisis you're involved in at the moment, but I'm not blind. There is something going on. And I do not see why you should drag Richard into it.”

“I'm not dragging him into anything, Sara. I would merely like to consult him.”

She took the hint and rose. “If you
dare
to leave this house without coming to find me, I shall never speak to you again,” she told her brother. “As for you,” turning to her husband, “if White and his couriers send Richard off to France again I shall never speak to you, either.”

“Well,” said Drayton, after the door had slammed behind her. “Sara seems a trifle . . . on edge.”

Barrett sighed. “It's been a difficult week. Sara and Lady Bassington were matchmaking, and the hero of their romance is now under arrest for stealing confidential diplomatic correspondence. From my safe.”

Drayton whistled softly. “How very awkward.”

“Indeed. It gets worse. The same man turns out to be a by-blow of Bassington's cousin.”

“Of Charles Piers? The scandal-monger?”

“So you've heard of Piers?”

“White mentioned him, yes. We purchased some information from him last year, I believe. That is an unfortunate connection.”

“Very unfortunate. Bassington is the chief author of the initiative discussed in the aforementioned correspondence. And there's more: the alleged thief is also the grandson of the Prince de Condé on his mother's side. Formally recognized by the family, complete with the title of marquis.”

“Well, why don't you make him the secret husband of Metternich's daughter, while you're at it?” said Drayton sarcastically.

“Don't laugh, Richard. I'm not making this up.”

“You're telling me that a Condé, who is also related to Bassington, is stealing government documents?”

“We caught him breaking into my study at midnight,” Barrett said flatly.

“Oh.” The younger man brooded for a moment. “Well, what did you want to consult me about?” he asked.

“This thief. This young man, Julien Clermont. That's what he calls himself; he doesn't use the Condé name.”

“What about him?”

Barrett frowned. “We've reached something of an impasse. Clermont denies everything, we can't find the letter, and now some people, including Bassington, are starting to say that perhaps Clermont
did
have a reason to break into my house—that he was after Piers's diaries, which were also in my study.”

“Who would break into a man's house at midnight to read his father's diaries? Why didn't he just ask you for the bloody things?”