The Spy's Kiss

Julien had been grateful for that promise of enforced silence. It could have been the opera, he had told himself, where he would have been trapped for an entire evening in a box visible to hundreds of spectators while he conversed with Miss Allen in front of her aunt—or worse, in front of Mrs. Childe. Ten minutes in the concert rooms at Hanover Square had revealed his mistake. Conversation, in the campaign he was conducting, was a shield. It permitted deflections, sidesteps, counterattacks. It was amusing. It was distracting. And now, sitting next to Serena Allen, there were no distractions.

He was achingly aware of her, of the tension in her shoulders and her fierce grip on the program in her lap. She was pretending to read it, and beneath her swept-up hair the back of her neck curved downwards, delicate and vulnerable. Even when he forced himself to look straight ahead he could see the pale, graceful arc out of the corner of his eye. Looking at his own program was no better. He could not stop thinking about her.

THE SPY'S KISS

NITA ABRAMS

ZEBRA BOOKS

 

Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

Julien Clermont rode over to call on the Earl of Bassington two days after receiving the earl's note. The delay was, in his opinion, a remarkable feat of self-restraint. Kicking his heels in the village for forty-eight hours with his quarry less than six miles away had not been easy, but Vernon had persuaded him. According to the valet's unerring sense of propriety, an interval of several days was required for persons of Clermont's consequence before taking up such an invitation.

“Ah, yes, my consequence,” Clermont had said. “We mustn't forget that.”

“It would not do to appear too eager,” his servant reminded him, “under the circumstances.”

That argument had silenced him. He had sent off a civil reply thanking the earl and vaguely promising to call at his earliest convenience. But when the designated morning proved wet and blustery, he refused to listen to Vernon's warnings about muddy boots and colds in the chest and other disasters which might result from riding over to Boulton Park in the rain.

“I've never taken a chill in my life. As for the mud, Bassington has an army of servants, you told me so yourself. They can mop the front hall if I track in a bit of dirt.”

“It is not customary in England to pay the first call in inclement weather unless one has the use of a carriage,” said Vernon stiffly. “Only regular visitors will be expected on a morning like this.”

“I most certainly intend to be a regular visitor.” Clermont picked up his leather notebook and stuffed it into a small satchel along with the case for his magnifying glass. “And,” he added, looking out the window of his parlor on the upper floor of the Burford Arms, “it has stopped raining.”

“Not for long,” was the valet's parting shot as his master headed out the door.

Vernon was right, as usual. Julien had barely passed the junction at the outskirts of Burford when the sky began to darken. By the time he came up to the stone wall, which protected Bassington's park from the traffic on the Bath road, tiny drops were beginning to brush the side of his face.

He drew rein and thoughtfully eyed the rusted iron gate in the wall. If he kept to the road he still had three miles to go. The gate, he knew, led to the wood which adjoined the lower end of the garden west of Boulton Park. He had explored this part of the earl's land several times now, and had even ventured into the gardens late one night. If he cut through the trees and went over the hill, he could be at the house in ten minutes. What was worse—to arrive soaked, or to trespass yet again, this time in daylight?

He knew what Vernon would advise: retreat to the inn and wait until tomorrow. Or hire the hideous carriage which sat, slightly tilted to one side, in the stable of the Burford Arms. Waiting until tomorrow was out of the question. And picturing the state of the upholstery in the inn's ancient vehicle, Clermont decided that even a very damp visitor would make a better impression than a visitor who was picking tufts of decaying mustard-colored velvet off his garments as he climbed the front steps. All in all, it made sense to take his chances on the shortcut. There was not much risk that he would be spotted approaching through the park. No gardener was likely to be out in this weather, and he had never seen a soul on his forays into the wood during the past week. He dismounted and led his horse up to the gate. It was unlocked. He had pried open the padlock himself on his first expedition into the enemy's territory.

The gate gave its customary screech as he pushed it open, and a clump of blackbirds darted up from the branches above him. His horse sidled and stamped at the sound, sending more birds into the air. Closing the gate behind him produced yet another eruption. He swung back into the saddle and turned his horse onto the narrow path which threaded its way east from the road. There was a long, muddy ascent, which he remembered, and several gullies full of melting ice, which he had not remembered. The gelding, slipping once or twice, grew nervous and Clermont judged it safer to proceed at a walk. The wind had picked up, and drops were showering down on him from the leafless branches. Still, he thought, he would emerge from the woods in a minute or two and, if he were lucky, could cut down to the front drive before the rain began in earnest.

He was not lucky. At the bottom of the hill, just as he was riding up out of yet another mud-filled ditch, the bushes ahead of him shifted suddenly. A short, slight figure leaped out onto the path in front of him, wearing a shapeless wool hat pulled down over the eyes and a large red muffler, which concealed the lower part of his face. One gloved hand was clenched at his side. The other was holding a pistol, pointed straight at Clermont.

Clermont's first thought was that some gamekeeper was about to shoot him as a poacher, and while he fought to get his startled horse back under control he was trying to remember which of his six pockets held the earl's letter. But as the chestnut subsided, it dawned on him that keepers rarely lay in wait for poachers at ten in the morning. Moreover, the person in front of him was rather small to be a keeper—not to mention oddly dressed, in a short jacket and breeches which clashed oddly with the shapeless hat. The hand holding the pistol was trembling violently. Above the muffler, blue eyes were bright with a feverish combination of terror and exhilaration.

It was a boy, he realized. He took in for the first time the fine leather boots, the silver buttons on the jacket. He would give good odds that this was Bassington's son. The eleven-year-old viscount, according to the groom at the Burford Arms, was “a rare handful,” an assessment which appeared to be, if anything, an understatement. And the gun was a deadly one, a long-barreled dueling pistol, with a trigger made to go off at the lightest touch. Clermont thought that on balance he would have been safer with an angry gamekeeper.

“Stand and deliver,” the boy croaked in what was meant to be a gruff bass. The effect was somewhat spoiled by the layers of wool over his mouth.

“Is your pistol loaded?” demanded Clermont, hoping the answer was no.

“Yes, of course,” said the boy indignantly in his normal voice. The muffler slipped and Clermont caught a glimpse of a fine-boned face and fair hair before the would-be highwayman hastily pulled it up again.

Keeping his tone casual, Clermont said, “Are you certain? Did you keep the powder dry?”

The boy looked down involuntarily at his damp jacket.

“Let me have a look.” Clermont nudged his horse forward and reached for the gun. “I'll return it,” he promised, as he saw the boy hesitate.

Grudgingly the gun was released.

“A Manton,” Clermont said matter-of-factly as he examined it. “One of the new ones, with a water-proof pan. If you loaded it correctly, the powder should be fine.” He held it out at arm's length, pointed it over the trees, and pulled the trigger. A sharp report set his horse dancing and produced a veritable explosion of agitated blackbirds. “Is that how you knew I was coming?” he asked, gesturing towards the clouds of birds. “From seeing the birds fly up near the gate?”

“You liar!” The boy was furious. “You said you would give it back!”

Julien extended the pistol. “Here it is.”

“But now it isn't loaded!”

“Otherwise, I assure you, it would be very irresponsible of me to keep my promise.” He added in severe tones, “This thing can fire if you even twitch a finger, let alone wave it up and down as you were doing. You could have killed my horse just now playing your little game of highwayman.”

The boy looked taken aback. “That's only Budge's chestnut,” he muttered sulkily after a moment. “He can't be worth much; he shies at everything and stumbles if you try to make him trot when he doesn't want to. I'll wager my father wouldn't have to pay more than five pounds for him.”

“You could have killed
me
, then,” Clermont pointed out.

“You're a trespasser. For all I know you're—you're a robber. Or a smuggler.”

The wind dropped for a moment, and in the lull, Clermont caught the sound of voices shouting. They faded away and then grew closer. He heard hoofbeats and an agitated cry: “Master Simon! Master Simon, are you here?” Then another, breathless voice, calling out that there were footprints on the path.

“This is your fault,” hissed the boy, glaring. “They would never have found me if you hadn't fired the gun.”

“Who is ‘they'?” asked Clermont, holding out his hand imperatively for the pistol.

“My tutor and Bates.” Sullenly the boy relinquished it for the second time. “You're not going to keep it, are you?” he asked, looking anxious. “It's my father's.”

For answer, Clermont leaned over and flipped the telltale slouch hat into the bushes. “Unwind that muffler,” he advised. “And don't say anything foolish.”

The next minute an elderly groom had cantered up, followed by a blond man in his twenties with one of the worst seats Clermont had ever seen. The groom simply eyed the boy in grim silence, but the younger man slid clumsily off his horse, scolding before his feet even touched the ground.

“Simon, have you no consideration for your mother? She is nearly in hysterics! We've been searching for half an hour, and when we heard the gunshot I assure you the countess was not the only one to feel anxiety on your behalf.” He surveyed his pupil with displeasure. “What she will say when she learns you have been out in the wet without your cap I do not know. You promised faithfully, you may recall, to wear both your cap and your muffler and to return at the first sign of rain or snow.”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. . . .?” Clermont interposed.

“Royce,” said the tutor stiffly.

“Mr. Royce, then. Your pupil saw me struggling with my horse and came to assist me. I am sure you would have done the same.” Having successfully diverted attention from Simon, he anticipated the tutor's next question. “I was riding along the road south of the park and saw a suspicious-looking fellow in a frieze coat prying open the gate. I shouted and he ran into the woods; I followed him in, of course, and when he heard me behind him he fired at me. My horse took exception to the noise, and if this young man had not run up and seized the bridle I believe I should have taken a nasty fall.”

“Is this true?” demanded the tutor, frowning at the boy.

“Are you calling me a liar?” Clermont's tone was mild, but the groom, who had been examining the torn branches of the shrubs near the path, suddenly lifted his head.

Royce drew himself up. “Who might you be?” he asked, still suspicious. “You do realize that you are trespassing? I've a good mind to summon the constable and see what he thinks of your story about a man in a frieze coat.”

Sighing, Clermont fished in his pockets until he found the envelope. “This will no doubt be a disappointment to you,” he said, holding it up so that the crest was clearly visible, “but the earl is expecting me. He has kindly offered to let me examine his father's butterfly collection. My name is Clermont.”

There was a stunned silence. Simon was the first to break it. “
You
are the old man who is coming to look at the butterflies?”

“Simon!” said the tutor sharply.

“Well, they always are,” Simon said. “Old, that is. And they hunch, and smell of cheap snuff, and wear spectacles. I wish I could see Serena's face when she discovers you are her latest charge!”

“That's quite enough.” The tutor had Simon's arm in an iron grip, but he smiled thinly at Julien. “The earl is indeed expecting you, Mr. Clermont. I have been serving as his secretary lately and recall your correspondence perfectly.” He added, in the most natural tone Clermont had heard him use, “I fear I am better suited to secretarial duties than to pedagogical ones. I must ask you to forgive the viscount's lack of conduct.” He added in a low voice to Simon, “After you have changed into dry things and had your tonic perhaps you will write your father's guest a note of apology.”

“No, no, that won't be necessary,” said Clermont hastily. But the tutor was pushing the errant viscount onto his horse and leading the animal off with only a sketch of a bow in farewell.

“If you'll follow me, I'll show you around to the stables, Mr. Clermont,” said the groom. He scrupulously avoided looking at the slight bulge in Clermont's coat pocket.

After studying the older man for a moment, Julien took out the pistol and handed it to him. “Make sure you clean it before you put it back,” he said. “And you might advise the earl to lock his weapons away from now on.”

The groom snorted. “Much good that would do. Master Simon can open any lock in the house. Why, he's taken his mother's jewelry out of the safe just to plague her.”

“Why isn't he off at school?” asked Julien bluntly.

“He has a delicate constitution,” the man explained, his face expressionless.

Julien raised one eyebrow. “Indeed. How very convenient.”

“Just so, sir,” said the groom with feeling, pocketing the pistol and the coin which accompanied it. “I'll see this is returned, and no one the wiser.”