The Spy's Kiss (27 page)

“The mint is not open to visitors,” the sharp-faced man said. “Nor are the armories. But you may see the Royal crown and scepter, if you like, in the Jewel Office.”

“Where do they execute people?” Simon said eagerly. “Do they still behead them?”

The officer laughed. “I am afraid we have descended to more mundane methods. Usually criminals are hung, up on Tower Hill. The last execution here in the Tower itself was over two hundred years ago.”

 

 

“Well?” Colonel White said impatiently. He was sitting in the anteroom of his office, one floor below Clermont's cell. Next to him on one side sat Barrett; on the other side was Nathan Meyer, whose son was pacing back and forth across the narrow width of the chamber.

Drayton peeled off his cassock and dropped it onto the floor. “You didn't tell me Clermont had attended some blasted seminary school for ten years!” he said angrily to Barrett. “My Spanish is good; my French is passable. And he speaks English like a native. But would you like to know what language he confessed in? Latin! Twenty minutes of Latin! I didn't even
know
some of those words!” He threw himself into the one remaining chair and added in disgust, “I had to ask him to repeat a few key items. He now has a very poor opinion of the priests of the parish of San Ignacio.”

“We are not interested in the language of his confession,” White said coldly, “merely in its substance. Or is your Latin so rusty you could not understand him?”

“No, I followed it. After my initial shock. He's innocent. James was right on both counts. Clermont was after the diaries on Sunday night, and he was with the girl during those two hours on Saturday night. He's protecting her. His grandfather seems to be a coldhearted tyrant, by the way. No wonder he wanted to find his father.”

“Congratulations,” Meyer said to his son. He didn't sound very happy.

Drayton looked around the room. No one else appeared pleased by his news, either. “What's wrong? I should think you would be relieved.”

“Well, for one thing,” said Barrett, “if he isn't the thief, we need to know who is. And what that person will do with the letter. And whether he plans to come back for more evidence. I don't fancy living with armed guards in my study for the duration of these negotiations. We've now spent four days following a false lead.” He sighed. “Thank you, though, Richard. It was very good of you to help us out.”

Drayton ran a hand over the newly shaven spot on the crown of his head. “You realize I won't be able to go out in public for weeks?”

“It grows back in faster than you'd think,” said James. “In the meantime you can stay home with my sister and contemplate the approaching blessed event. Shall I walk you home? I believe my wife is at your house in any case.”

There was a thoughtful silence after the two younger men had left.

“Are you thinking what I am thinking?” Barrett asked White.

“That we will to have to shoot Clermont even though he is innocent? Yes.” He sighed. “I hate this sort of thing. When I took this post I thought I would be working under Wellington, not Castlereagh.”

Meyer muttered agreement under his breath. “They are on the same side,” Barrett reminded them.

“Yes, but Wellington has scruples,” White retorted.

“You are a colonel,” Barrett said. “Colonels are not entitled to scruples. Or at least, they are not entitled to act on them against explicit orders from the Foreign Office.” He turned to Meyer. “Can you make sure the appropriate individuals are present as witnesses?”

Meyer nodded glumly. “When shall we perpetrate this travesty?” he asked White.

“Tomorrow at sunset?” White was looking at Barrett. “No point in delaying. If the Prince somehow gets word of his grandson's whereabouts, he will raise holy hell and we will no longer be able to deny we knew he was a Condé.”

“When we tell my son about this he will raise unholy hell,” said Meyer. “Perhaps we should do it at noon.”

“Noon it is.” Barrett rose. “Until tomorrow, gentlemen.”

Julien had spent the morning very pleasantly—at least in physical terms. The corporal had come and shaved him again and had brought him a clean neckcloth. His breakfast had arrived hot, for once, and there had been coffee instead of ale. The tedious and somewhat frightening interrogation sessions had magically ceased.

Unfortunately, now that he was rested, well-fed, and relatively clean, he had been free to contemplate his behavior over the past month. It was an ugly picture. His victims rose up before him in an accusing pageant: the countess, smiling proudly as she watched him dancing with Serena; the earl, horrified at his duplicity; Simon sitting up in bed, saying, “Is that why you gave me my telescope? So that you could come to our house?” And Serena, of course. Serena, looking up at him on the staircase behind the Barretts' ballroom. Serena in her bedchamber, pointing the pistol at his head. Moving her hand awkwardly up his body. Huddled on the floor, crying silently.

That one had been too painful. He had taken refuge in the sufferings of St. Antony. It hadn't worked for long. The saint's victories over temptation and deception contrasted all too starkly with Julien's own behavior. In fact, Julien thought, his actions bore a disturbing resemblance to those of the defeated Satan. Lies. Seduction. Vengeance. He was sitting at the desk with the last of the coffee, reflecting that his quest had been appropriately rewarded by the discovery that he was the son of Charles Piers, when the priest reappeared.

In his present mood, Julien was quite happy to see him. “Good morning, Father,” he said as he rose. “Thank you for the book; as you see, I have been studying it.”

“I am glad you like it.” The young priest did not look glad. He looked harried. “But we have more pressing affairs now.”

A logical and ominous explanation for the absence of LeSueur and his brutish intimidators suddenly presented itself. Justice had not prevailed. They had concluded that he was guilty; hence, no need for further questioning. “I see.”

“The colonel has asked me to prepare you. They will come for you at noon.”

Instinctively Julien looked around for a clock. There wasn't one, of course, and he had left his watch behind when he went out on that fatal Sunday night for what he thought would be a quick visit to Barrett's study.

“It is just after eleven,” said the priest, understanding what he wanted to know. “We have nearly an hour.”

Julien thought that on the whole it was better not to have too much time for further contemplation. He had spent the whole morning engaged in that activity, and he would have preferred being pushed down the stairs again. But he could not suppress a morbid curiosity about the details. “Will they hang me?” he asked.

“Certainly not!” The priest was shocked. “That would be far too unreliable. It will be a firing squad. Very dignified.”

There was a certain delicious irony here, Julien thought. The English had screamed the loudest and the longest when Napoleon had shot the Duke of Enghien. And now they were going to shoot Enghien's cousin. Against the wall of a medieval dungeon, just like Vincennes. All he needed was a dog to howl over his body.

“Might I—do I have time to write a letter or two?” he asked.

“If they are brief. You must be ready, you know, when the soldiers come, and there is a great deal at stake.”

His immortal soul, of course. Julien wondered how many sins he could possibly have committed between yesterday afternoon and this morning while locked in a windowless cell, but he did not think his letters would take long. The sentry fetched pen and ink and paper, and Julien sat back down with the dregs of the coffee and composed four brief notes. The first was to his grandfather. He said merely that circumstances had arisen which made it unlikely they would meet again, and that he wished to convey his respect and admiration for the Prince. He could not bring himself to lie and thank the man for the grudging gift of his name. Instead he would have to hope that respect would be sufficient. He wrote a similar but warmer note to Derring, and asked him to help Vernon find a new position. The letter to Bassington took a bit longer. After some false starts, he produced the following:

When it came to writing Serena, however, he could not think of what to say. He sat staring at the blank piece of paper until the priest, with very unclerical impatience, coughed suggestively. At last he wrote only two lines, and signed it with his initials. Then, before he could change his mind or add any postscripts, he sealed it up, enclosed it in the letter to the earl, and looked at the priest.

“That's the lot,” he said.

The priest muttered something about people's odd notions of what was important and motioned him to his feet.

Julien stood. He was remembering the priest's remarks about despair. “Would you advise me to protest? Request a delay?”

The other man shook his head. “Not a good idea. Trust me, the sooner the better with this sort of thing. Your audience would be very unsympathetic, in any case.”

That was certainly true. Julien pictured himself explaining to Barrett or the earl that he could not possibly be the thief because he had been breaking into the earl's house—again—and spending time with his niece. In her bedchamber. Watching her take off her nightgown. Bassington would shoot him right then and there.

“Very well,” he said. Dignity. He would have dignity. That was something. “I'm ready.”

“Good. Take off your jacket.”

Serena was still keeping to her room the following morning. To her surprise, there had been no scoldings as a result of her expedition with Simon. The countess seemed to feel that it was a miracle she had not gone into a decline and expired; eccentric behavior was to be expected after the shock of her suitor's perfidy. Her uncle was preoccupied with whatever affair was taking him to the Tower—perhaps Clermont's arrest, perhaps something else; he had not been seen at a meal in two days. Royce, too, was looking gaunt and anxious; he had been spending long hours copying drafts of the public portion of the earl's reports and ferrying sealed packets back and forth between Whitehall, the Barretts', and Manchester Square.

When there was a knock at her door, Serena assumed it was Simon. Now that Royce was so busy, her cousin had taken to bringing her his Latin when he could not work it out on his own. “Come in!” she called, hiding her book hastily under her skirt. Unable to resist the temptation to impress Simon, she had been reading an English translation of Livy.

It was Rowley, looking flustered. “There is a young man below with a message for you, Miss Serena,” he said. “I have shown him into the small drawing room.”

“A message?” Who would send her a message? Rowley clearly didn't know; he was giving her puzzled little glances as he led the way downstairs. Could it be from Clermont? But no, her uncle had expressly instructed all the servants to return unopened any communications from their disgraced former guest. An emissary from Julien would never have been admitted to the house. As for Philip, he had left town; his sister had at last produced his first nephew and he had been summoned to Lincolnshire.

The man in the drawing room was a complete stranger. He was wearing a green military uniform; he looked young, almost too young to be an officer. Mrs. Childe and her aunt were attempting to make polite conversation, but he was barely listening to them. The moment she came in, he swung around without even bothering to excuse himself.

“Miss Allen?” At her nod, he said, “I have an urgent message for you. May we speak apart for a moment?”

She drew him across the room to the embrasure by the window. “Who are you?” she demanded. “Who sent you?”

“Never mind that,” he said impatiently. “I need to ask you something. You must excuse me; I have no time to spare your feelings. Was Julien Clermont with you just before dawn on Sunday morning?”

She stood frozen, hardly believing what she had heard.

“Miss Allen, please!” he said in low, urgent tones. “Was he?”

She had never been a good liar. “Yes.”

“Are you willing to swear as much before a tribunal? I cannot guarantee that your testimony will not be made public, although I will do my best.”

A tribunal. He had been arrested. “Yes,” she said again, louder. “Mr. Clermont was with me at that time, in my bedchamber. For several hours. I will swear to it.” Her aunt had risen and was staring at her, one hand pressed to her throat.

“Will you come with me now? He is in imminent danger of being executed, largely because he has been unable to account for his whereabouts during those hours.”

The countess was shaking her head. Serena wasn't sure if she was telling her to say no, or denying that she had ever harbored such a depraved young woman in her household. “Serena,” she said feebly. “Surely—there must be some mistake.” She turned to the young man. “There is some mistake,” she repeated.

He didn't even look at her. He had seized Serena's hand and was hurrying down the stairs with her and out the front door. Her aunt and Mrs. Childe followed, making little noises of distress and protest.

At the sight of several carriages blocking the southern end of the square, the young officer swore under his breath. He beckoned to the groom holding his horse. “I will ride ahead and see what I can do,” he said. “You have until noon.”

Royce came up, out of breath, clutching a dispatch case. “What is this? Why was I called out here?” he said, looking back and forth from Serena to the two older women to the officer, who was now in the saddle.

“Are you acquainted with Miss Allen?” the officer asked.

“Yes, although, if I may—”

The young man cut him off. “Get her to the Tower. At once.” He touched his hat and wheeled away.

“Serena, you cannot mean to go!” Her aunt was clutching her arm. Then she saw Serena's face. “At least let me come with you,” she begged. “I will order the carriage . . .”

“No time,” said Serena mechanically. With a vague notion of finding another hackney she began walking towards Oxford Street, with Royce on her heels. Then she broke into a run, but she was hampered by her skirts, and her thin slippers skidded sideways on the uneven paving. She stopped and looked at the vehicles clustered at the lower end of the square.

“Whose carriage is that?” she asked Royce, pointing to the closest one.

“I don't know.”

“Lady Wallace's,” said her aunt, who was hurrying up behind her.

“Can you drive it?” Serena asked Royce.

“Yes, but why? What has happened?”

“If I don't reach the Tower by noon, they will kill Mr. Clermont.”

That silenced him. He turned gray.

She marched over to the coachman. “We need to borrow your mistress's carriage. It is a matter of life or death.”

“I'm sorry, miss, but it would be much as my place is worth—” He stopped, gulped, and got down from the box. Royce had taken a very serviceable-looking pistol out of the dispatch case and was pointing it right at him.

“Thank you,” Royce said. “Could you assist the ladies?”

Serena had already jerked open the door. She had decided it was faster to take her aunt and Mrs. Childe than to argue with them, and she came close to pushing her elderly kinswoman into the coach when she had trouble managing without steps. “Hurry,” was all she said to Royce.

She hung out the window all the way down Oxford Street, which was jammed with wagons and pedestrians. Royce was screaming at other vehicles to get out of the way, lashing both drivers and horses with his whip. When they came into High Holborn the traffic eased somewhat and she sat down again briefly, but as they passed St. Paul's the clock began to chime, and she thought her heart would stop as the notes rang out.

Silence.

She clutched the doorstrap in relief. Not noon, not yet, only the third quarter hour. She put her head out the window again. They bumped down Cornhill, with Royce taking the carriage right over some boards piled in the street in front of a shop; the two older women screamed slightly as the wheels bounced back onto the paving. At the Custom House, Thames Street narrowed precipitously to accommodate the scaffolding for the construction and there was a line of vehicles waiting their turn to pass; Royce somehow managed to scrape around them.