The Spy's Kiss (31 page)

“What would your father be doing in the records room?” the countess demanded. “He only goes in there on rent day, or when he and Mr. Cruik are going through so many accounts they cannot bring all the ledgers to his study.”

“I don't know,” said Simon. “But he is there; I heard him talking. And there are a lot of soldiers in there, as well. And two guarding the door.”

Serena and her aunt looked at each other and set off at a near-run around the corner.

The records room was a sizable apartment used for estate accounts. It was in the same wing as her uncle's study. Royce used one part of it for his office, but the place was not suitable for a military council, if that was what this was. The room had no amenities at all—no windows, no carpet, no chairs save those at Royce's desk and the worktable.

The guards allowed the two women in without comment.

No one really noticed the new arrivals. The earl, looking stunned, was standing by the worktable, where a pile of jewels lay gleaming in the lamplight. Mrs. Childe was protesting furiously as a slender man Serena found vaguely familiar examined each piece and then set it aside.

“All genuine,” the man said finally to Sir Charles. When he spoke, Serena recognized him. It was Meyer, looking years younger. The vague, scholarly dreaminess had vanished; he looked stern, almost menacing. “Most pieces quite recent, although the brooch there is older, likely French. I would estimate the total value at something over three thousand pounds.”

Next to Serena, the countess gave a little gasp.

“May I ask how you obtained these jewels, Mrs. Childe?” said a tall man in a colonel's uniform who was standing to one side.

“You have no right!” she spluttered. “These are family pieces, gifts! Protection for my old age!” She caught sight of the countess. “Tell them, Clara,” she demanded. “Men have no notion of how thrifty women are, how we save and plan for the future!”

The countess did not answer. She was staring at the glittering pile of gold. Serena, after a rapid calculation, discovered that the annual income from an investment of three thousand pounds was nearly as much as the entirety of her own (admittedly meager) dowry.

“I told you her jewels were real,” Simon said. He spoke to Serena, but he did not bother to lower his voice. Serena hadn't realized he had followed them in, although she should have known he would never have missed an opportunity like this.

“There!” Mrs. Childe pointed at Simon. “If you are looking for a thief, there is your culprit! Nasty, sneaking little worm! He has been in my room often enough, and his father's study, as well! There's not a lock in the house can stop him!”

Royce, standing behind his desk on the other side of the room, was looking on in horror.

“Come now, Mrs. Childe,” said the colonel crisply. “There is a great deal of difference between childish mischief and theft. The criminal we seek reads French and German, and possibly Russian as well. Surely you do not believe the viscount to be such a prodigy? For that reason we eliminated the servants as suspects. You must admit that it looks very odd for a supposedly penniless widow to amass a small fortune in jewels while residing in a kinswoman's household. If you have a reasonable explanation, by all means let us hear it.”

“You have no proof, none at all,” she said, glaring in turn at the colonel, at Bassington, at Meyer, and at Royce. The secretary instinctively backed up a step and tripped slightly over the leg of his own chair. “You come storming in with your dragoons, Colonel White, and say that Mr. Clermont was not guilty after all, and the real thief is here in the house. Well, how is anyone to know, now Mr. Clermont is so conveniently dead? Will you arrest everyone in turn and shoot us as the fancy takes you?”

White gave a nod to one of the soldiers by the door. The man opened it, and Clermont stepped in.

It would have been more dramatic if he had been exactly as she had seen him that day at the Tower, hair tousled, in his shirt sleeves. Or if they had carried him in, limp, with the blood everywhere. But it was shocking enough as it was. He simply walked in, the dark eyes shadowed, and stood in the center of the room, looking gravely at each person in turn.

Mrs. Childe, for once, had nothing to say. She simply stared. The earl and the countess stood speechless, openmouthed.

Only Royce moved. Shuddering, he collapsed into his chair and put his head in his hands. “Thank God,” he said weakly. “Thank God.” He looked up again, as if to reassure himself that Clermont was really there.

Clermont walked over to the desk. He looked tired and unhappy. “It was you, wasn't it, that night at the ball?” he said to Royce. “I noticed you talking to one of the Russian attachés. And then you disappeared, ostensibly to hunt for Simon, and no one saw you for two hours.” He turned to Barrett. “I have already told you that I was concealed in the passageway outside your study, Sir Charles, while Simon and Miss Allen made their appearance at the kitchen door. What I did not recall until just now is that there was someone else in the passageway with me.”

“You did not see this person.” It was Barrett.

“Naturally not, as my main concern was that they should not see me.” He looked again at Royce. “You were hoping to get into the study while I was known to be in Sir Charles's house, were you not? But then you heard me and Simon in the passageway and realized that I was headed there myself. Did you learn later that I was seen by a footman as I left? Did that decide you to break in the following night and take the letter, now that I was sure to be blamed? A much more serviceable scapegoat than the viscount, don't you agree?”

The whole room was silent. No one moved.

Royce's face was flushed. “I suppose I could deny it,” he said. “You have no proof, as Mrs. Childe was reminding everyone just now.”

The earl gave an inarticulate cry. He was trembling, and had to put his hand on the back of a chair for support. “You—you—” he stuttered, then closed his eyes.

Royce was stacking papers on his desk, closing up the ink, stowing pens in the drawers. A pistol suddenly emerged in his hand from one of the drawers. It was not pointed at anyone in particular, but the expression on Royce's face left no doubt he was prepared to use it. He backed slowly towards the door behind the desk. Simon had moved closer to Serena and was clutching her sleeve like a much younger child.

Bassington looked up as his secretary reached the door. “What was it, then?” he whispered. “Money? A girl? Some family scandal?”

“No, I suspect I will be the family scandal,” said Royce bitterly. His hand was on the key.

“Dammitall!” cried the earl, taking one step towards him. He contemptuously ignored the pistol. “I receive you into my home, I sponsor you, I trust you not only with my affairs, and the affairs of the nation, but with”—his voice began to shake—“with my son, and you throw it all away for money?”

“I didn't do it for the money!” flared Royce. “Acquit me at least of that, sir! I never spent a penny of it on myself.” He gestured at Mrs. Childe. “You wanted to know where those jewels came from? I gave them to her, to buy her silence after she caught me copying one of your letters a few months ago. She asked for more and more, thinking she was squeezing a poor fool for all he was worth, not knowing I was overjoyed to pay, to get rid of the foul stuff.”

“Then why?” The earl's voice cracked.

“Has it never occurred to you,” said Royce passionately, “that some Englishmen might in fact
admire
Napoleon?” He gestured towards a stack of books on his desk. “I was a patriot until I came to work for you, my lord, and began reading about English law and English taxes and English land reform. Reform? Hah! Robbery, more like! And the taxes are worse! As for our laws—have you consulted our penal code lately? Do you know that it is still possible to hang a man for stealing five shillings' worth of meat? To transport a youth who throws mud at a soldier in a village? To own slaves? Do I regret the deception I was forced to practice? Yes, I do. But my honor seemed a small price to pay for improving the government of Europe. You, of all men, should understand. You share the same ambition. It simply happens that we have different views about the best means to that end.”

Barrett interrupted. “And how does selling diplomatic correspondence to Austria help Napoleon?” he asked in a sharp tone.

“Napoleon is finished,” said Royce. “I saw that months ago. The allies will carve him up like a trussed pig. I chose the state I believed most likely to carry on Bonaparte's program, the guardians of his heir, the Hapsburgs. The King of Rome will take up his father's legacy.” He pulled a folded set of blue sheets out of a book on his desk and tossed them contemptuously on the floor. “You can have the letter back, if it will ease your mind. It was useless without a signature.”

There was a stifled cry of dismay from Mrs. Childe. “Foolish boy! You should have kept it! Exchanged it for a pardon! Now you have nothing!”

“I have this,” said Royce, hefting his pistol. He trained it once more on the earl. With his other hand he groped behind his back and opened the door, removing the key. A clumsy bow of acknowledgment to Bassington, a wider one to the room at large, and he had backed through the door. They all heard it close, and lock.

One of the soldiers started forward, but Bassington waved him back. “It's a storage closet,” he said grimly. “Full of boxes of old tax receipts. This is the only door.”

Serena held her breath, waiting for the sound of the gun. All around her she could see everyone in the room frozen, strained towards the closed door. After a minute, the men began to look at each other uncertainly. After two minutes, the colonel looked at Meyer.

“If he's still in there he could blow my head off when I try to pick the lock,” Meyer said mildly.

“What do you mean, if?” snapped Bassington. “Where else would he be? It's a cupboard, not an anteroom!”

“Idiots,” muttered Simon under his breath. Fortunately, no one but Serena heard him.

Meyer was kneeling by the door. After a minute he pushed something or pulled something, and the latch clicked.

Cautiously, two of the soldiers, pistols primed, pushed open the door.

The room was empty.

Cursing, White and the soldiers ran out into the anteroom. Bassington and Meyer were hard on their heels, along with Simon, who was offering loudly to show everyone where the passage came out. Serena saw Mrs. Childe scuttle furtively after them, with as much of her hoard scooped into her skirt as she could carry. No doubt she was hoping to escape in the confusion, but the countess seized her arm.

“I think we should wait for the gentlemen upstairs,” said the countess in a hard voice.

Julien had come over to stand beside Serena. “I am sorry,” he said in a low voice. “Another apology to add to your collection.”

She shook her head. “No need,” she said.

He looked taken aback. “You don't mind that I played the ghost in that vicious little version of Hamlet?”

“I did something worse. I broke my promise. I told Simon I had seen you. I went to him this morning and explained that you were alive and what I thought might happen today. And then I told him to come down and show Jasper that hidden door, just in case.”

“You knew? You knew it was Royce?”

She hesitated. “I suspected. He was ill, physically ill, when he realized that they were going to execute you. He nearly killed us both trying to get us to Whitehall in time to stop them. When he thought we had arrived too late he was so distraught he fainted. Ever since then he has been stumbling around as though he had died, instead of you.”

“I am not sorry he escaped,” he admitted. “I know I should be more outraged—he tried to frame Simon, he succeeded in framing me, with considerable assistance from my own stupidity, and he betrayed your uncle. But I think I am as relieved to see him get away as he was to see me alive.”

“If he got away.”

He smiled at her. “Didn't I just hear Simon offering to show the nice soldiers where the passage comes out?”

“True.” She felt a bit of the dread which had enveloped her all morning fade. Perhaps Jasper would escape after all, and her uncle would be spared the ordeal of a trial.

He offered her his arm. “Shall we go upstairs and protect Mrs. Childe from your aunt?”

She shuddered, but laid her hand on his sleeve and moved towards the door. “I suppose I must. Aunt Clara looked ready to stab her.”

“I have never seen your aunt angry before.” He paused. “I hadn't thought you resembled her very much, until I saw her march over to Mrs. Childe just now.”

“The women in my family are noted for their tempers. My mother and my aunt were nicknamed the Furies by their brother.”

He raised his eyebrows. “What happened to your aunt, then?”

“She married my uncle and reformed.”

Amused, he said, “If you marry me, are you planning to reform?”

“I am not marrying you.”

“My question was phrased in the conditional mode,” he pointed out. “Intellectual curiosity.” His hand was covering hers, though, and it didn't feel like intellectual curiosity when his fingers curved in a possessive circle over her knuckles.

“Hypothetically speaking, then, if I were to marry you—or anyone else—I have no plans to reform.”

“Good,” he said. “Hypothetically speaking, that is.”

This time he was going to get it right. He had his rooms at the Burford Arms again; after searching for Royce for twenty-four hours the soldiers had given up and gone back to London. He had Tempest—he had bought the mare outright from the amazed landlord of the Queen's Rest. But he had not ridden her tonight; no, he had deferred to Vernon for once (and to his own sartorial splendor) and had hired the inn's dilapidated coach. Overdressed in knee breeches and the ridiculous blue-and-silver waistcoat, he stood outside the earl's study and tried to compose himself.

The butler gave him an inquiring glance, and Julien nodded.

“The Marquis de Clermont, my lord,” Pritchett announced as he opened the door.

The earl, Julien was relieved to see, looked just as nervous as he was. “Ah—do come in, Marquis,” Bassington said. He rubbed his nose absently and gestured towards a chair. Julien suspected he had been fortifying himself from one of his illicit snuffboxes.

“You've come about my niece,” said the earl.

Julien sat down. “Yes, sir.”

Bassington shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “She hasn't much of a dowry, you know.”

“I am aware of that. I would be prepared to make a very generous settlement on Miss Allen. I indicated as much in the note I sent you this afternoon.”

“Have you spoken with her? Told her of your intentions?”

He sighed. “Once. Briefly. She refused me.”

Restless, the earl tapped his fingers against the desk. “Why have you come to me, then? I have little say in the matter. She is fully of age. It is true that her dowry cannot be released without my consent, but if you are as wealthy as your letter suggests, that would make no difference to you.”

Why had he come to Bassington? “I wanted to do the thing properly,” he said slowly. “There is too much between us that cannot be forgotten or overlooked. I felt I should at least make certain you were willing to have me in the family, after everything that has happened.”

“It seems to me you are part of my family whether I am willing or not,” said the earl.

“No.” Julien leaned forward. “There is a difference between the dry facts of kinship—who is descended from whom—and inclusion in the life of a family. My own childhood taught me that. I can disappear. I have done it before. I have estates in France which may well be restored to me soon. I own land in Canada—good timber land, miles of it. On foot, it takes days to cross from one side to the other. I have a house in Montreal and a farm southeast of the city. I need not trouble you or the countess further.”

“And Serena?”

“As you say, it is her decision. I will ask her again to marry me, but if you have reservations about my suit, I will do so in writing rather than in person. I will not force you to endorse my offer by escorting me into her presence.”

Outside the window an owl hooted softly. The earl sat, frowning, turning a letter opener over and over in his hand. At last he said, “I am not sure what I can say, what is right, what is fair to you and to me and to my niece. I distrusted you from the start, without knowing why. And liked you, in spite of my suspicions. I must have recognized, dimly, your resemblance to Charles. Can I judge you, judge your fitness as a husband, when every time I look at you now I see my cousin's face? Can I judge anyone, when the man I chose to educate my son and assist me in my work proved yesterday to be a traitor? You taught Simon more in a month than Royce taught him in two years.”

“He has a natural aptitude for science,” said Julien, embarrassed. “Likely inherited from your father.”

“I am not speaking of lens grinding. Who persuaded my son to confess his theft of the dueling pistol? Who persuaded him to shield Serena on the night of the ball? Who persuaded him to stop playing invalid and agree to go to school?”

Julien blinked. “You have been talking with Serena—with Miss Allen?”

“No.” The earl gave a sad smile. “With Simon. He came to me this morning, and told me he had helped Mr. Royce escape. He concealed him in some hidden room yesterday afternoon, brought him clothing and money, and led him out through a tunnel into the woods once it grew dark.”

“The secret forest,” Julien said, half to himself.

“You see?” Bassington gestured helplessly. “I knew nothing of any such place. You did. I asked Simon why he had come to me, and he told me about your bargain with him concerning his theft of the gun, and about the incident at the Barretts', and about his nighttime visits to your room. Simon, too, resembles my cousin. It has worried me for years. But now—” He broke off and got to his feet. “I am not being very clear, am I? We are talking of Serena, not Simon.”

“I should not have come this evening,” said Julien, rising also. “It is too soon, after the events here yesterday. I beg your pardon.”

“No.” The earl laid a hand on his arm. “Let me try again. What I mean to say is that you already are a part of the Piers family, not merely by the dry facts of kinship, as you call them, but also by the choices you made when you sought me out—both the wise choices and the foolish ones. Even if Serena does not accept you, I would hope to see you again.”

“Thank you,” said Julien in a low voice. “If I do go abroad again, I shall be sure to write and let you know where I am.”

“I would appreciate it,” said the earl. He moved towards the door. “I believe we should go up to the drawing room now, before the ladies grow too anxious.”

Julien nodded. He doubted whether the ladies could possibly be as anxious as he was. He had known, of course, that the earl would tell Serena. That there would be a very public meeting with his intended bride, in front of her aunt and uncle. Then her guardians would withdraw, discreetly, and he would be left alone with her. But not for very long. And not at night, in a dark bedchamber, where her body could say yes while her reason was saying no. That was the price for doing things right.

All the way up the stairs he reminded himself to count his blessings. He was alive. He was not in prison. The earl had forgiven him. Royce had escaped. The loathsome Mrs. Childe would not be present to smirk when he walked into the drawing room in a moment. He did not know where she had gone, but apparently the countess had evicted her less than two hours after Royce's confession.

“My lord,” said Pritchett, hurrying up to Bassington as the two men approached the drawing room. “My lord, you have—”

“In a moment, Pritchett,” Bassington said curtly. He gestured towards the doors of the drawing room. “Announce the Marquis, if you would. Miss Allen will be waiting.”

“But my lord—”

The earl walked over and reached for the door handle. Horrified, Pritchett hurried past him and threw it open. “The Marquis de Clermont,” he announced, with considerably more pomp than he had used downstairs.

Julien stepped in.

“Very well, what is it that is so urgent?” he heard Bassington ask as the door closed behind him.

But Julien already knew the answer. It was sitting opposite him, in a gilt-armed chair, wearing lace and silk and looking, as usual, inimitably elegant and aristocratic.

“My dear Julien,” said the prince in French. “I rejoice to find you alive. And using your proper title, for once.” He did Julien the signal honor of rising to greet him.

Numbly, Julien crossed the room and kissed his grandfather's hand.

“Now,” continued the prince, in quite a different tone, “What is this I hear of an offer of marriage?”

 

 

Her bedchamber was not a safe refuge any longer. Too many people were coming in uninvited (her aunt) or even opening the door when it was locked (Simon). She tried Simon's secret room, but evidently he had used it yesterday to hide Jasper, and the servants kept coming by to gape at the empty trunk and the battered chair. Rumors were already spreading that Simon had stashed away a fortune in gold and jewels in the trunk, which he had given to the villainous Royce as a bribe to leave the country quietly.

In the end she had gone out for a long walk, leaving word for her aunt that she needed some fresh air. Through the garden, where the crocuses were finally showing. Into the park, up the hill to the first fence. The great house lay cupped in its valley below her, its outline blurred in the fading light. It looked peaceful, inviting—not at all the sort of place to have witnessed yesterday's dramatic events.

She sat down on the top step of a stile and considered her options. Soon—very soon, judging from the rapidly falling darkness—Julien Clermont would be calling on her uncle. He had made it quite clear what his errand was. At this very moment she should be in her room, changing her gown.

Well, she had played by those rules once, and lost. She was not going back down to the house until she knew what answer she would give him. That was more important than which dress she wore.

After a while she saw torches in the garden and heard, faintly, voices calling her name. She still had no notion what she would say when he asked her to marry him. She couldn't think. Too much had happened too quickly. It was unfair of him to give her so little time. Two days ago she had thought he was dead, and now he was in her uncle's study discussing dowries and settlements.

A torch was climbing towards her. It was Bates. With a sigh she got up and brushed off her skirts.

“Miss Allen? Her ladyship sent me to find you and light your way back down the hill.”

Perhaps she would never know the answer. Perhaps he would ask her to marry him, and she would simply stare at him until they both fainted from hunger. She followed the groom back to the house in silence.

“You're to go to the drawing room at once, miss,” he said as they reached the side entrance.

“Thank you, Bates.” There were two carriages in the stable yard, she saw. One had the Condé crest. Julien was here, then, in formal state. Her aunt had told her this afternoon that he was a marquis. She looked at the coach, with its gilded crest and polished brass rails, and then down at her muddy dress. It would never work. She would tell him no. With a small sigh she went into the house and started up the stairs.

Her uncle was standing outside the drawing room, talking to Pritchett. “Serena!” he exclaimed. “I thought you were with your aunt!”

“I went for a walk.” She blushed, looking at her bedraggled hem in the merciless light of the wall sconces. “I lost track of the time,” she said lamely.

“Come in, then, come in,” he said. “Mr. Clermont—the marquis, that is—will be wondering where you are.”

“But, Uncle—” she said, spreading out her skirt helplessly. She suddenly wanted to change her gown. She wanted to sweep in garbed in crepe and silk, dripping with jewels, head held high, and tell him—what?

Emily came hurrying out of the side room where she had been waiting. She took one look at Serena and gave a small shriek. But she hustled her mistress off and did the best she could with a clothes brush and a comb. The earl was tapping his foot impatiently when she reemerged.

Pritchett opened the doors and her uncle marched in, steering her by the elbow towards the center of the room.

She saw Julien at once. He was arguing with an old man, a stranger. They were talking rapidly and heatedly, and it took Serena a moment to realize that they were speaking French. Julien caught sight of her in turn. He stopped in midphrase and bowed to her.

Her heart seemed to lurch sideways as his eyes met hers.

Then her aunt hurried over. For once she seemed oblivious to Serena's untidy state. “George,” she said in a low, agitated voice, “it is the prince!”

“So Pritchett said.” Her uncle cleared his throat. “Monsieur de Condé, this is a great honor.”

The older man whirled. He surveyed first her uncle and then Serena, giving each a long, cold stare.

“Is this the girl?” he said to Julien in French.

Julien stepped forward. “Grandfather,” he said in English, “may I present the Earl of Bassington and his niece, Miss Allen? My lord, Miss Allen, the Prince de Condé.”

Grudgingly the prince gave a small nod to the earl and an even smaller one to Serena. He did not bother switching to English. Instead he attacked her uncle at once in a stream of ornate French. It was outrageous, unthinkable. He would complain to the Foreign Office. He would complain to the king. Such an insult, on the eve of the triumphant return of the Bourbons to France! A Condé, arrested, abused, terrorized with threats of execution, used as bait for thieves, and now forcibly wed to some provincial nobody without a penny to her name!

“No one is forcing me,
grandpère
,” Julien interrupted. He moved to stand by Serena. He was angry; she could see the rigid line of his jaw.

The prince snorted. “You are too young to know what is good for you. Have you not heard the news? Schwarzenberg has beaten the usurper thoroughly. Bonaparte retires in disgrace. France will be ours again within the month, and you will be able at last to assume your rightful position. To throw yourself away on this one?” He gestured at Serena. “Bah!”

“And what is wrong with the niece of an earl as a bride, pray?” snapped Bassington. He spoke English.

“Her dowry?” inquired Condé disdainfully in the same language.

The earl glared. “Six thousand pounds.”

Serena gulped. Even removing a zero, the figure was too high.

“And who were her parents?”

“Her father,” said Bassington, “was the British ambassador to the court of the Sultan. He was the grandson of a marquis and held numerous important posts under Mr. Pitt.”

Serena's father had held numerous posts—including a temporary one as ambassador when the real ambassador had dropped dead one sultry day—but they had only been important to the Allens' exasperated creditors.