The Spy's Kiss (7 page)

On the evening of the second day, he began to feel markedly better. Dr. Wall visited briefly and warned him this state might be temporary, but Clermont was so delighted to be rid of the nausea that he disregarded this warning and persuaded Mrs. Digby (a far less severe guardian than Bassington's niece) to forego another dose of Dr. Wall's powder and fetch him instead some watered wine and a plate of toasts. His clothing had been returned, to his great relief, although he had not been permitted to get dressed yet. Perhaps, he thought, he would confound the pessimists and recover sufficiently by morning to escape Boulton Park before Vernon's return. Feeling very satisfied, and, for once, properly sleepy, he dropped off.

A loud noise in the middle of the night startled him awake. Later, he realized it had come from the fireplace; when he first woke, however, he was only conscious of acute misery. His head was on fire; his entire arm was aching; his stomach was in turmoil. He tried to sit up and could not, but when he collapsed back onto the bed he found the sheets soaked with sweat. He began to shiver uncontrollably. The covers seemed to be winding around him, damp and threatening, and he tried to throw them off, then remembered how cold he was and pulled them back over his chest.

A strange old woman appeared and tried to pull off the covers and he shouted furiously that he was cold, damn it, and forcibly wrested the sheets out of her hand. Then he noticed that the bandages on his wrist were too tight; the skin felt swollen and hot. He tore the wrappings off and burrowed under the quilts, still shivering. He reached mechanically for reassurance in back of the pillow as he did so and was hit by a fresh wave of anxiety. His gun! Where was his gun?

He demanded its return, at once, in his most imperative tones. There were more noises, doors opening, alarmed voices. He lay still, with his racing pulse thudding in his ears, and as it slowed sanity returned. The strange old woman was Mrs. Digby. She had been trying to straighten the bed, not steal the quilts. His bandage had been wound on tightly to hold the splint in place on his wrist. His gun was in his saddlebags, which were, of course, somewhere in Oxfordshire on the back of that accursed mare.

He pushed back the covers and said, embarrassed, “Mrs. Digby?”

The old nurse hurried over from the doorway.

“I do apologize,” he said. “I was—I believe I must have had a nightmare.”

She surveyed the tangled sheets, the damp spots on the pillow, and peered into his eyes. “What you had, young man, was a bout of fever; that's clear enough,” she said with asperity. “Likely you'll have another spell before morning, and it's my own fault for letting you get round me with your pleading that you fancied a piece of toast and wouldn't it be dry and hard to digest without a bit of wine. Miss Serena will be very cross with the both of us.” She nodded significantly towards the hall, and he heard hasty footsteps.

His chief nurse burst into the room, anxious and disheveled. She was in her nightgown, with a dressing gown thrown over it but not tied. Her hair was tumbling down her back, and her feet were bare. When she saw her patient sitting up in bed, looking rather shamefaced, she stopped abruptly. A slow flush rose up her neck. She was angry, he realized, and embarrassed. She was also the most glorious thing he had seen in years. The thin lawn nightrail flowed down her like the drapery on a classical statue, and as the pink rose into her face he thought momentarily of Galatea, of cold marble brought to life.

“Hold still, do,” the old nurse said to him, scolding. She was binding the splint back onto his wrist. To Serena she said, turning sideways for a moment, “He's himself again, Miss Allen, and now I'm sorry to have fetched you out of bed at this hour, but he gave me quite a turn. Tossing, and pulling at his splint, and swearing, and the sheets soaked.”

Serena stalked over to the bed and examined the sheets and pillows. She pointedly avoided looking at the occupant of the bed. “These bed linens will have to be changed,” she said. She disappeared for a moment, and Clermont heard her speaking to someone in the hall.

“Emily said something about a loud noise,” she said to the nurse as she came back in, trailed by a sleepy-looking maid.

“There might have been something—” Mrs. Digby began cautiously.

“Yes, from the chimney,” he interrupted, happy that it had not been a hallucination. “It sounded like a door closing, or a lid banging down.”

Serena and the nurse looked at each other.

“That young devil,” muttered Mrs. Digby. “I declare—” She was silenced by a warning glare from Serena, and vanished, murmuring something about tending to Master Simon. Clermont's bed was speedily remade and a fresh warming pan provided. Serena's last act before she vanished back down the hall was to stand and watch him while he drank a double dose of Dr. Wall's powder. She must have put something else in it as well, because he found himself shortly overcome by drowsiness.

He slept again off and on, dimly aware that someone was sitting in a chair next to the bed but never summoning up enough energy to look and see who it was. Finally a change in the light prompted him to open his eyes. He saw Serena, now fully dressed, standing by the window and holding the curtains slightly aside. The sun was just coming up.

She turned at the rustle of the sheets. Her face was in shadow, but he fancied there was an almost wistful quality to her expression.

“Go back to sleep,” she said softly.

He was suddenly, perversely, wide awake. “What are my other options?” He reviewed them mentally: flee Boulton Park clad only in a nightshirt and dressing gown or lie in bed contemplating all the reasons why his presence here was dangerous, unethical, and probably futile.

“I could read to you,” she offered, to his surprise. “If you like.”

He blinked. “If it is not too much trouble—”

She was already moving towards the door. “History? A novel? Poetry? Sermons? What do you prefer?”

“Anything but sermons,” he said, before he could stop himself.

She laughed and disappeared, returning a few minutes later with a slim octavo volume.

“What is it?”

“You must guess.” She cleared her throat. “ ‘What dire offense from amorous causes springs—'”

“Pope. ‘Rape of the Lock,'” was the instant response. Curious, he asked, “Do you like him? I thought he was rather out of fashion these days.”

“I find him very restful after a dose of Mr. Coleridge,” she said tartly.

“Well, then, fire away,” he said, settling back to enjoy himself. Pope was not his favorite English poet, but he suspected Miss Allen might be able to persuade him differently, at least in her present amiable mood.

She read very well, and he found himself annoyed by the inevitable interruptions: a maid building up the fire and opening the rest of the curtains; Mrs. Digby with fresh bandages; another maid with some broth; occasional pauses by Serena to comment on what she saw from her seat by the window. It must have been well past nine o'clock when she suddenly froze, looked out the window for a long moment, and then swore under her breath. Not a maidenly oath like “Confound it” or “Drat,” either. He had distinctly heard the word “Damnation.”

“What is it?”

“Never mind,” she said, jumping up. “I'm afraid I'll have to leave you for a bit. I'll send you Mrs. Digby again.”

“ ‘Two handmaids tend the sick, alike in place, but differing far in figure and in face,'” he offered, after a moment for rapid calculation of the meter.

“That is
very
unkind to Mrs. Digby.” Her tone was frosty, but he had seen the telltale twitch at the corner of her mouth.

“Pope,” he said gravely, “is not kind.”

Warned by Pritchett that there was “a bit of a situation” upstairs, Bassington approached the hallway leading to the sickroom with caution. Googe, after waiting patiently for two days, had finally been summoned by the earl. Unfortunately, Bassington had neglected to consult the nursing staff about his decision, and the constable was apparently having some difficulty persuading them to let him see their patient. Sure enough, as the earl rounded the corner to the east wing he spied his niece standing with her arms folded in front of the door to the guest suite.

“Do step aside, miss,” pleaded the exasperated Googe. “ 'Twill be only a few questions. Mrs. Digby says the gentleman sat up and ate some breakfast. If he can eat porridge then surely he can speak with me for a minute. I'll take care not to tire him, I promise.”

“It was not porridge,” said Serena sternly. “He cannot tolerate solid food yet. He had broth. And he only sat up briefly while we changed the bandage on his head. I'll not have him disturbed for no good reason; he was very poorly last night.” She looked bone-tired, and the earl deduced correctly that the patient was not the only one who had had a difficult night. There were hollows under her eyes, and her movements looked stiff and weary. Unlikely, he decided gloomily, that she would take the scolding he was about to give her in good part.

Serena spied the earl approaching, and her face brightened. “Uncle, do help me,” she said. “Mr. Googe insists on interviewing Mr. Clermont, but he is still far from well. I cannot see why it is so urgent.”

“Your lordship!” Googe had also taken heart at Bassington's appearance. “I'm sure you understand my position, my lord. Following on the incident last week this is a very suspicious matter.” His voice took on a plaintive note. “Just a brief conversation. To ascertain the basic facts. So as to be able to set an inquiry in motion, as is my duty.”

“I'm afraid he is right, Serena,” said Bassington. “I confess to some alarm myself, although I trust you will not repeat that remark in your aunt's hearing. And I allowed Mr. Clermont a full day to recover before I summoned Mr. Googe.”

“You may have half an hour,” was her grudging concession. She rapped on the door, held a low-voiced conference with Mrs. Digby, and ushered them into the sickroom.

Clermont was propped partway up and sipping a steaming mug of something whose odor made the earl wince in sympathy. At the sight of the two men he tried to sit up properly and began a long, courtly period about inconvenience and regrettable foolhardiness, but Bassington waved him to silence.

“No, no, Mr. Clermont, I should be apologizing to you. I am mortified that a guest of mine should suffer such an outrage on my land. We will, of course, do our utmost to discover the criminals. Mr. Googe”—he indicated the constable with a gesture—“would like to speak with you for a few moments, if you feel able.”

“The constable? Criminals?” Clermont frowned. “But it was a prank, surely? Some boys playing a game, perhaps, who ran off and left the rope, not realizing what might happen?”

“Beg pardon, sir, my lord,” interposed the constable, “but Bates and I have already been up and inspected the ropes. No boy tied those. A grown man, on horseback, and a large man at that.”

“Poachers, most likely,” added the earl.

“I do not wish to press charges,” said Clermont, with an unconscious arrogance that Bassington noted and filed away. “You need not trouble yourself further, Mr. Googe.”

“I am afraid the matter cannot rest there,” said Bassington. “You see, Mr. Clermont, I shall press charges. Because the trap was in all likelihood not intended for you. It was either intended for my gamekeeper or for me.”

“Good God,” muttered Clermont, obviously startled and dismayed. In another moment he had composed himself. “I did not think of that, sir. In that case I would be glad to assist Mr. Googe now, if that is convenient.”

The first part of the interview was a meticulous repetition of the information he had given four days ago. It was established once again that Mr. Clermont, a resident of London, had been staying at the Burford Arms. Whilst riding a hired horse (Googe did forget himself here so far as to observe that he had never heard of Tempest needing human assistance to jettison her rider before) Mr. Clermont had come upon an unexpected obstacle in the form of a rope tied across the path across Clark's Hill. No, the gentleman had no enemies in these parts. No, he had seen nothing suspicious after his initial encounter with the man in the frieze coat: no traps, no other evidence of poaching. In general, he had found the paths unfrequented. Occasionally he had seen Miss Allen walking on the hillside.

“Yes, my niece usually walks in the mornings,” the earl confirmed, abstracted. “My son is supposed to accompany her on fine days, but he often lies abed.”

“He was out yesterday morning, Uncle,” interposed Serena. “For which we are all very grateful.”

Googe cleared his throat, reminding them of his mission. “And last, if I might have a full description of your injuries, sir?”

Serena answered for him: “Sprained or possibly broken wrist, blow to head, cuts, twisted ankle, chills, fever.”

There was silence as the constable faithfully recorded every item. “I believe I'll spend a few hours at the Burford Arms,” said Googe to the earl, closing up his notebook and heaving himself to his feet. “See if I hear anything useful. I've spoken with Purvis about that earlier matter, and he swore up and down 'twaren't him, but I'll be curious to discover where he might have been yesterday morning.”

Bassington acknowledged Googe's bow as he left the room. But the earl did not leave, in spite of a warning glare from Serena. Something was nagging at him, something to do with Clermont's response to one of the questions. When Googe had inquired whether Clermont had enemies, the man had clearly hesitated. How had he phrased it? That he knew of no one in England who held any brief against him?

“I noticed that you hedged a bit when Mr. Googe asked you about enemies,” he said slowly. “Is there anyone who might have intended that trap for you?”

“I doubt it.” Clermont stared thoughtfully down at the bandages on his hand. “There is my cousin,” he acknowledged finally. “My grandfather gave me an estate which should have been part of his portion.”

“Is he in England?”

Clermont shook his head. “I thought he was in Italy. But when my servant returns from London, I will have him make inquiries.” He frowned. “In fact—now that I think of it, he did once hire someone to challenge me to a duel. Perhaps it would be best to ask Mr. Googe to wait, until Vernon can ascertain his whereabouts?”

“I think Purvis a far more likely culprit,” said the earl. “Googe will probably have a confession from him this evening, and we can dismiss your mysterious cousin.”

“That is what I am afraid of,” muttered Clermont.

“In the meantime,” continued Bassington, who had not really taken in this last remark, “I beg you to consider Boulton Park your home. We will endeavor to make your stay as comfortable as possible.”

“Time is up, Uncle,” announced Serena, rising.

Reluctantly, the earl got to his feet. “What happened, by the way? At this duel your cousin contrived?”

“Oh, I disarmed the fellow without much trouble.” Clermont gave a twisted smile. “My family had made sure that I had all the requisite skills to take my place in an extinct aristocracy. Fencing, shooting, dancing—you know the sort of thing.”

Serena accompanied her uncle to the door and stepped out into the hall with him. Laying her hand on his arm, she began, “I beg your pardon, Uncle, but could you tell me whether—”

As he noted her drawn face and hastily dressed hair he remembered his wife's instructions. “Did you sit up with that young man last night?” he interrupted.

“Mrs. Digby and I took it in turns, yes,” she admitted. “The night before as well.”

“Your aunt was right, then; she told me you had been there alone for several hours.”

“And what is wrong with that, may I ask?” she responded, on the defensive. “Or do you think some poor maidservant should lose a night's sleep to play propriety? I would not have trusted anyone save Mrs. Digby to watch him in my place; he was quite ill. And Dr. Wall prescribed some powders which would be dangerous if the dose were mismeasured.”

“Don't try to cozen me with measures and doses, Serena,” said her uncle sternly, “or remind me that you have nursed Simon many times, or describe the sensible practices of the Ursuline nuns. This sort of thing simply will not do here in modern-day England. If you must remain with Mr. Clermont, one of the maids will be assigned to stay in the room with you.”

“For mercy's sake, Uncle, he can barely sit up! And tonight I will only be stopping in once or twice; he is coming along very nicely. Or would be, if you and Googe had not plagued him just now.”

“Even so,” said the earl implacably, “the servants will talk—or, more to the point, Mrs. Childe will talk, and your aunt will be mortified. You may ask Mrs. Fletcher to relieve the maid of duties for the rest of the day, if that will salve your conscience about keeping a servant awake. This is quite a different affair from your vigils with Simon.” He saw her fuming and neatly forestalled further objections by saying, “You had something you were going to ask me?”

Serena bit her lip. “Yes. I—I wondered if it was usual for gentlemen to have firearms with them in bed.”

“What?” He was startled. “No, it most certainly is not! Why do you ask?”

“Well—” she hesitated, then said in a rush, “apparently Mr. Clermont normally sleeps with a gun under his pillow.”

“How very odd. But then, Philip wrote that he lived in Canada for several years. He may have acquired the habit there.”

His lack of concern must have at least partially reassured her, because she headed off towards her own room without pursuing the issue further. But Bassington stood frowning for a moment. Something was bothering him; something connected with Clermont, and it slid away from him whenever he tried to think about it. Something about the young man's appearance, perhaps? Or something he had said? Or something he
hadn't
said when Googe had questioned him about the attacks? With an exasperated snort he gave up and headed back down to his study.

“I have some good news for you,” Serena announced when she visited her patient later that day. He looked worn out, which was not surprising, since he had just endured a visit from her aunt. Having been present at several of the earlier visits, Serena could predict the course of this one: renewed apologies for the accident, deftly passing on to a suggestion that he might require a long stay at Boulton Park, and, from there, moving to coy hints about why such a stay might be a desirable thing for all parties. She wondered if the countess had been less coy and more direct in her absence. The thought made her shudder. But certainly Clermont had exhibited no signs of embarrassment or self-consciousness on seeing her just now.

“You are releasing me from durance vile?” he said promptly.

She shook her head. “Not quite yet.”

“Tempest has reappeared unharmed?” He had been asking after the missing animal every day.

“As a matter of fact, yes, she has. And your saddlebags have been sent over.” She beckoned to a tow-headed footman, who came in and deposited the bags on a table by the armoire. “That will be all, Hubert.” As the footman withdrew she moved purposefully over to the table.

Clermont looked alarmed. “There is no need to unpack the bags—my servant—”

She was rummaging through one of the pouches. “That is the second piece of good news,” she said over her shoulder. “Your servant should be here tomorrow morning. With your luggage. I'm sure you will be very glad to have your own clothing again. As well as this.” She turned, holding out a small pistol.

He was silent for a moment, then reached out and took it. “I made quite a fool of myself last night, didn't I? I was hoping only Mrs. Digby had heard me bellowing that I needed my gun.” But she noticed that he checked it carefully to see if it was loaded and tucked it firmly down between the mattress and the side of the bed.

“Worried about men in frieze coats?” she asked dryly.

He grimaced. “I've been meaning to consult with you on that topic. I'm afraid that your uncle and Googe have put the two incidents together and come up with something much more serious than is warranted.”

“I consider the second incident fairly serious,” she said coldly. “You were almost killed. But I take your point. You feel that someone—presumably me—should enlighten my uncle about the real source of that shot on Tuesday last.”