The Spy's Kiss (5 page)

“Mr. Clermont,” he corrected.

“Of course, if that is your preference.” She gave him a peculiar smile, her lips pressed tightly together, and then curtseyed again and backed away.

If she had been his worst enemy she could not have angered and humiliated him more thoroughly. He had to physically restrain himself from looking around to see who had noticed.

“What was that about?” Serena was staring in bewilderment after her cousin's retreating form.

“I believe she is under some sort of misapprehension. Perhaps she is a bit hard of hearing?”

“Mrs. Childe? Far from it.” She shook her head. “How odd. Normally she takes care to be very well-informed about all my mother's guests. She was asking Aunt Clara about you just a few minutes ago.”

It was time to change the subject. “You are looking very elegant tonight, Miss Allen,” he said.

“So are you, Mr. Clermont.” She glanced pointedly at his conservative black breeches and white waistcoat, which matched those of every other male in the room. “I had meant to warn you that Aunt Clara's notion of an informal potluck is nearly twenty for dinner with eight courses, but I see you deduced that for yourself.”

“The luncheon yesterday was fair warning. May I?” He didn't wait for an answer but seated himself beside her. “How did your aunt gather such impressive numbers on one day's notice?”

Serena smiled cynically. “She told them there was a distinguished visitor, of course, and dropped coy hints about the real purpose of your visit.” The smile vanished suddenly; she leaned towards him and asked fiercely, “What is the real purpose of your visit?”

Two days' worth of encounters with Miss Allen had prepared him for something of the sort. “To consult the late earl's journals and examine some of the specimens he acquired from Drury's estate,” he answered at once. “What leads you to think otherwise?”

She sat back and looked at him calmly. “First,” she said, “you do not behave like a collector. You had no sketches in your sketchbook, for example. And the diaries you have been reading are from the 1780s, a decade before my uncle's father began corresponding with Dru Drury. Second, Aunt Clara is behaving very oddly towards you. One would think you were a royal duke from the way she has received you. And third, you have not explained why you were in the park yesterday morning or what induced you to lie to protect my cousin.”

She had not lowered her voice, and Clermont looked around instinctively to see if anyone was paying attention. The countess was glancing their way, but she was at the other end of the room, and their nearest neighbors, the two dandies, were ogling one of the Orset girls, who had bent forward to listen to something her sister was saying, revealing a considerable expanse of bosom.

Somewhat reassured, he sat back in his turn and smiled politely in case her aunt was still watching. “Miss Allen,” he said through his teeth, “allow me to remind you of the nature of drawing-room conversation. Its most salient characteristic is that it might be overheard by others in the drawing room. It is therefore usual to confine oneself to remarks about the weather (for ladies) or to compliments on the appearance of one's female companions (for gentlemen). On further acquaintance it is permissible to discuss books, music, and theater. Politics and religion are frowned upon. Inquisitions are beyond the pale. I have done my part—and, I might add, my compliment was sincerely meant. In return you suggest that I am some sort of criminal.”

“And you have not answered my questions.”

“Very well.” He glanced around once more to make certain no one was listening and steered a course as close to the truth as he dared. “I explained why I have no sketches. You may believe me or not, as you choose. The journals: I have consulted a number of different volumes, and some of the later ones referred back to earlier voyages of Lord Bassington which caught my interest. Your aunt, I am afraid, has apparently overestimated the significance of some of my family connections. I came in through the back gate of the park yesterday—it was already open, by the way—because I wished to arrive at the house before it began to pour. As for your cousin, let me ask
you
a question. If you caught an eleven-year-old—a child, unknown to you, but obviously well-bred and meaning no real harm—in a similar situation, would you have exposed him in front of his tutor and a groom?”

Her eyes fell. “No,” she acknowledged, “in your place I would likely have done the same. Although if you had known Simon better you might not have been so certain he meant no real harm.”

“That boy should be at school,” he muttered, remembering.

“He should,” Serena admitted, “but my aunt will not hear of it. And to tell the truth, I would miss him.” Her face softened for a moment and he blinked, astonished at the transformation.

Well,
he thought,
so that's what Miss Allen looks like with her guard down.
He stored it away for future reference.

“In any case,” he said briskly, “you need not concern yourself with my nefarious purposes, since tomorrow will be my last day at Boulton Park.”

“It will?” she was clearly surprised.

“I am afraid so. I have engagements in town.”

“I will not be here tomorrow,” she said. There was even a tinge of regret in her voice. The announcement of his departure had, as he had hoped, allayed her suspicions. “I am promised to Fanny Orset for the day.”

“In that case, might I ride over on Thursday morning and say farewell? I am truly very grateful for your help these past two days.”

Her guard was back in place, but her tone was almost courteous. “You needn't trouble yourself.”

“It would be my pleasure,” he assured her. “After all, Tempest deserves a final chance to unseat me.”

 

 

Philip Derring looked puzzled when Sir Charles Barrett hailed him just outside Hatchard's. The two men barely knew each other. Barrett's urgent invitation to join him for a drink at his club was clearly even more unexpected. Catholics were not normally made welcome at White's.

“I believe I've just met a friend of yours at Boulton Park,” Barrett explained after the servant had brought them a small bowl of punch. He ladled out a cup for Derring and passed it across. “An intriguing young man, name of Clermont. I was hoping you could tell me more about him. It looked to me as though he might be pursuing Miss Allen, and I have always had a great regard for her.”

The younger man looked shocked for a moment. “Julien? Courting Serena?” Then his face cleared. “Ah, no, now I remember! He has gone to look at the butterflies! He asked me for a letter weeks ago.”

“Is he a scientist, then?”

“No, no.” Derring sampled the punch. “More of a gentleman adventurer, I would say, although he is very well read and can talk about nearly anything so plausibly you'd swear he had taken his degree in it.”

This answer confirmed Barrett's worst fears. His heart sank. “How long have you known him?” he asked casually.

“Fifteen years. More. We were at school together, then spent a year sharing lodgings in Bologna—couldn't attend university in England, of course. He studied medicine. We came back here, and Julien had some sort of dustup with his family, went off to Canada for several years. I still have the letters he sent me. He had some remarkable experiences. Shot a bear, as I recall, which might not seem all that unusual, but the creature was in his bedroom!” He reflected a moment, then added, “I suppose he is a bit of an amateur naturalist, at that. He wrote me that he had dissected the bear, as well as a number of other animals. And I know he has been calling on someone here in London who was connected with that butterfly-hunter's club Bassington's father patronized.”

“The Aurelians.”

“Yes, that's it.” He took another drink. “I hope he has been made welcome at Boulton Park? I was the one who urged him to stop in there when he told me he had become interested in butterflies.”

“Lady Bassington certainly seems taken with him.”

Derring grinned. “He's very charming, is Julien! Particularly to the ladies. With that face, and those odd dark eyes and gilded hair.”

“You looked taken aback when I mentioned that he might be paying court to Miss Allen,” probed Barrett. “How much of an adventurer is he? Ought I to warn Bassington?”

Derring's grin vanished. “Julien Clermont is one of my oldest friends,” he said stiffly. “I would vouch for him under any circumstances, to anyone. If I looked taken aback, it was because he has told me repeatedly that he will never marry.”

“Many young men make such promises.”

“No, he means it. He's very proud, in his own quiet fashion, and his situation is—unusual.”

Barrett refilled his guest's cup and waited. “In what way?” he said at last, after Derring had been sipping reflectively for a minute.

“He's illegitimate,” said Derring bluntly. “His grandparents have treated him quite well, all things considered, but the stubborn fool believes he has no right to accept the position they have conferred on him, still less the right to ask a well-born girl to share it. And unfortunately, his family is very, very highly placed. Too highly placed for Julien to be content with some tradesman's daughter.”

“How high?” asked Barrett, leaning forward.

“You'll keep this to yourself? Julien would have my head if he knew I had said anything.”

Sir Charles Barrett's fabled ability to elicit confidences from near strangers was based largely on his reputation as a man who could keep a secret. “You have my word on it.”

Derring drained his cup and looked defiantly at his host. “Royalty.”

Vernon was clearly delighted that they were leaving. He bustled about, whistling cheerfully as he packed.

“Have you settled with the landlord?” asked Clermont, shrugging out of his greatcoat. He had gone for a quick early-morning ride.

“Yes, sir. Did the mare give you any trouble?”

“Nothing I couldn't handle,” he said absently. “She gets one more chance, when I ride over to Boulton Park after breakfast.”

“Can't fathom why you would want two outings on that she-devil in one morning,” muttered Vernon.

“I'm celebrating our first dry day in Burford,” Clermont said. “And since I shall be spending the afternoon and evening in a post chaise, I can use the fresh air.” Vernon was traveling on ahead with the luggage, which was already piling up near the door. It was a mystery to Julien why he should need so many boxes and trunks for a one-week excursion, but Vernon was always horrified when his master suggested taking fewer changes of linen or only two jackets. Even during their expeditions into the Canadian forests he had insisted that Julien bring items which had gone unworn for months: a dressing gown, evening wear, silk waistcoats.

A serving maid edged into the room carrying a large tray and looked around for a place to set it down.

“Ah, very good,” said Vernon, sweeping a pile of shirts off the table by the fireplace to make room for the tray. “Your breakfast, sir.” He nodded to the maid in dismissal and pulled out the room's lone chair with a flourish.

“The coffee-room is suddenly beneath me?” said Julien sardonically, seating himself.

“There were Uncouth Persons there earlier, sir, and I deemed it advisable to ask for a tray to be brought up.”

The Uncouth Persons were presumably the two farmers he had seen talking to Budge when he had gone through on his way to the stables an hour ago. He suddenly wished he could have breakfasted with them. Perhaps they could have told him something more about Boulton Park and its inhabitants. The late earl's journals had been frustratingly vague on all matters not connected with insects or tropical plants. But the thought of trying to interrogate two rustics was repugnant, almost as repugnant as the charade in the cabinet-room. Nor, he suspected, would he make a very good job of it. “Here, my good fellows! A tankard of ale for you, with my compliments, and would you happen to know where Lord Bassington was on such and such a day, in such and such a year? Or whether he has received correspondence from a certain foreign country? Sent monies abroad secretly?” The chances of a pair of farmers possessing the information he needed were vanishingly small, and even if they did, the close-mouthed folk of rural Oxfordshire would never pass on anything they knew of their noble landlord to a stranger.

He stared at the tray. Food at the Burford Arms was plain but well-prepared, and there was a substantial platter next to the coffeepot with boiled meat, spiced plums, two coddled eggs, and some rolls. He couldn't eat any of it, he realized. Perhaps his stomach was being prudent, given the strenuous schedule he had laid out for the day. He contented himself with sipping coffee and looking over his notes until a reasonable amount of time had passed, crumbling one of the rolls to stave off inquiries about his appetite.

“I'm off again,” he said abruptly, shoving his chair away from the table. “What time is the post chaise coming?”

“Noon.” Vernon was struggling with a recalcitrant strap on one of the larger bags.

“Tell Budge to have the boy wait if I am not back by then.”

The valet looked up, startled. “It's just gone nine now. Are you planning a long stay?” He had tried yesterday to persuade Clermont that there was no need to ride over for a farewell visit this morning, that it would delay them considerably on their trip back to town. Julien did not want to start that argument again.

“If Lady Bassington invites me to stay for luncheon, I promise to decline,” he said. He grabbed his coat, waving off Vernon's attempt to help him on with it, and slung it over his shoulder. “Don't wait up for me when you reach London,” he added. “If I start out late, I may stop for the night in Twyford.” Ignoring a final protest from the valet, he clattered down the stairs.

The price for clear skies at this time of year was frigid temperatures. He stamped up and down in the yard to keep warm while Jeb led Tempest back out. No mud this morning; the ground was frozen. The mare picked her way unerringly through the stiff ruts as he headed east from the village. He would miss her, he thought. She really wasn't a bad animal if you were willing to let her work off some of her excess energy before you asked her to behave.

He turned onto the road which ran along Bassington's land. He was warmer now and enjoying the brilliant purity of the sky. The tree branches looked like fine lace, and tiny crystals in the stones of the park wall glinted in the sun. When he reached the iron gate he swung off Tempest's back with no hesitation. It was still unlocked, in spite of Serena Allen's warning, because he had slipped Bates a sovereign and asked him to delay repairing the bolt for a few days. Tempest didn't like the noise the gate made, but she was getting accustomed to it and only sidled a bit as they went through.

“Well, girl,” he said softly, mounting up again. “Shall we have a last run up to see the view? Perhaps we'll meet Miss Allen on her morning walk and give her another excuse to glare at us.” He guided the mare onto the path which ran up the hill. The bottom part was steep, and he held her to a walk, but the slope leveled out near the top, and he urged her to a trot as they neared the summit. Then a canter—a bit fast for this terrain, he knew, but he had ridden this way half a dozen times now. The path was broad here and ran across a clearing and then up between widely spaced trees. He was rounding a curve just below the crest of the hill when it happened. He heard Tempest snort, felt something whip across his cheek, and then he was hurled from the saddle and deposited into a painful, splintered darkness.

 

 

Simon was the one who found Clermont, although he generously gave his spaniel most of the credit afterwards, pointing out that he would never have gone up to the top of the hill if Bandit had not wandered off. It was a lucky chance that boy and dog had gone out that morning at all; Serena did not conceal her surprise when he met her at the bottom of the garden. Like most eleven-year-olds, Simon did not care for aimless walks. A goal was required, a goal beyond tramping along sedately for a certain distance, admiring the view, and turning back. Today's goal was to test his new field glass—escaping his geography lesson in the process. And like most eleven-year-olds, Simon did not walk at a steady pace. On the lower part of the hill he had lagged behind, feeling sulky and tired. Serena had been far ahead when he had spied the falcon. At once he was full of energy, and charged up the path, calling urgently to the dog to follow. The falcon, wheeling lazily overhead in the clear winter sky, paid no attention to Simon's cries or Bandit's barking. It banked gradually over to the left, and Simon veered off the main track, trying to keep it in focus. This proved to be impossible, at least while he was trying to walk at the same time.

Impatiently he flung himself down on the brown turf and peered around through the eyepiece as he waited for his pet to catch up with him. In the dim light of a tangled bramble patch he fancied he could see a few small, huddled shapes—birds, hiding from the falcon. They would explode out of the brush in a feathery cloud when the dog arrived. He wondered if he could train his glass quickly enough to see what one of the birds would look like magnified while it was flying. He was practicing this maneuver when his cousin came up next to him.

“Lovely, isn't it?” she said. Her cheeks were rosy with the cold, and she was panting slightly. Simon looked down towards the great house in the valley for one moment, then turned back to the birds.

“Looks the same as always to me,” he said. “I don't know why girls sigh over nature.” He switched to an affected falsetto. “Oh, my dear, you must see the valley from here! An enchanting prospect!”

“I have never sounded like that in my life,” objected Serena, eyes flashing.

“Well, perhaps you are not quite that bad,” he admitted grudgingly. “But Fanny Orset is. And you did write a poem about the gardens once.”

“Simon! I was sixteen!” She looked at him suspiciously. “That reminds me—my old copybook has gone missing. Have you seen it?”

“No,” he lied. In fact, it was under the sofa in the old nursery, where Serena had thrown it at him a month ago. He had just seen it a few days earlier when he was searching for a gear which had rolled across the floor and had taken the opportunity to refresh his memory of Serena's literary indiscretions before sliding it more securely out of sight. One never knew when one might need ammunition against Serena.

“It's beautiful out, but Aunt Clara will think it too cold for you,” she said regretfully. “Shall we go back down?”

Simon frowned. “I'll catch you up; I must find Bandit.” He looked around, annoyed. The falcon was long gone, the tiny birds had hopped or flown away, and the spaniel was probably lost again. He had a gift for falling into disused fire pits, or getting trapped under logs, or chasing cows who then turned around and terrified him so that he fled to the nearest hedge and cowered until Simon rescued him. A few shouts produced no response; grumbling, he shoved the glass in his pocket and started up towards the trees at the top of the hill, calling as he went. At the edge of the grove, he called once more, debating whether to continue on or trust the dog to find his way home. A faint sound reached him. He shouted more loudly, and this time he was sure that he heard Bandit's whine in reply.

The wind freshened, and he noted it with a grimace. If the wind started howling around the house, his mother would never let him hear the end of it; he had promised to turn back at the first sign of a change in the weather. As if the thought had been an evil omen, a gust roared across the top of the hill and nearly knocked him over. He realized suddenly that he had lost his hat back by the bird thicket. With an increasing sense of gloom he climbed on, through a stand of ash. The wind was louder, but he could hear Bandit clearly now, whining and yelping sporadically. Just where the path leveled out, there were two larger trees. Under the nearer tree was Bandit. And he was sitting on what appeared to be a dead body.

“Good Lord, it's a corpse!” said Simon, with a mixture of horror and enthusiasm. He peered more closely at the man's body. “Wait, he's only injured, I think. Move, Bandit, you're smothering him.” The dog was sitting right on the poor fellow's head. “Get
off
him, you blasted mongrel!” Simon commanded crossly, heaving the old spaniel aside. The injured man lay unmoving, eyes closed, but Simon could see the slight rise and fall of his chest, and the pulse at his temple. He's lost his hat, just like me, thought Simon. There was blood and dirt on the man's face, and his lips were beginning to turn blue with cold. That was why it took Simon a minute to recognize him.

He scrambled up. His initial excitement was evaporating rapidly, replaced by panic. “Serena!” he screamed. He tore back down the path, yelling as loudly as he could. “Serena!” She was already a good distance away, but the wind must have carried his voice to her. She turned and looked back. He flailed his arms helplessly to show distress, then beckoned urgently and pointed back to the trees.

She hesitated, and Simon knew what she was thinking. He had played far too many pranks recently. She knew about the pistol, for example, and had given him an unusually stern lecture about the difference between boyish fun and downright idiocy. But she turned and began trudging back up the hill.

“It's the butterfly-man!” he yelled. “He's dead! Or not dead, but hurt, very badly.” He could see Serena's eyes widen; she shouted something in reply, but he did not wait, suddenly afraid Clermont was expiring at that very moment. He ran back into the trees and pushed his way through the brush, not even bothering with the trail. Clermont was still there, and still breathing. Simon knelt down and tried to ascertain where he was hurt. Several places, it appeared. There was a shallow cut across his cheek, which was still bleeding a bit. It looked almost like the mark of a whip. Another graze on the side of his head. More blood on his neckcloth, mixed with leaves and dirt. And he was lying hunched over, as though protecting his left arm, which was cradled on his chest.

Simon heard a scrambling sound, and Serena appeared, breathless. “There you are!” He had never been so glad to see her in his life. “He's just over here, under the trees. He's all over blood.” His voice trembled slightly. “Do you think he's dying?”

His cousin bent over the injured man, peered at his face and lifted his wrist. “No,” she said after a moment. “He's just taken a bad knock on the head. He'll come round soon, I should think. But we must get him inside quickly; his hands are like ice. Here, give me your coat.” She tucked it clumsily around Clermont's shoulders. “Can you run down to the stables and get some men up here with a litter?”

Immensely relieved to turn over responsibility to someone else, he pelted back over the top of the hill, then stopped.

“Serena!” he called, turning back, “I see Bates on his way here already.”

She emerged from the copse after a minute and looked down towards the valley. The head groom was riding up the path at a slow trot, leading another horse. “Aunt Clara must have decided it was too windy and sent after you,” she said. She sounded relieved as well. She waved vigorously until Bates spotted her and waved in return, then she hurried back into the trees, trailed by an anxious Simon.