The Spy's Kiss (18 page)

“Well, that shouldn't be too difficult,” Julien said, folding his arms. “I'll just tell her I'm a bastard.”

Derring frowned. “She doesn't know?”

“I don't even think Bassington knows. I have hinted at it, but it isn't the sort of thing one just announces. ‘Good morning, my lord, have I mentioned that my mother never married my father?'”

“Well, you are not just
any
by-blow,” Derring said, looking uncomfortable. “Royalty has its privileges.”

“Do you want me to provide Miss Allen with a pretext for sending me away or not?” he demanded.

His friend didn't answer for a moment. Then he said, slowly, “What do
you
want, Julien?”

I want this to be over,
he thought.

 

 

In a cramped room at the back of his house on Harland Place, Sir Charles Barrett and a guest were standing by a window. It was a small, barred window, and even during the day it offered little in the way of light. Outside was a passageway only a few feet wide, which ran between the Barrett house and the house next door. Although the walkway provided a quick route from the square to the kitchens, the Barrett servants almost never used it, preferring to wend their way through the mews. For one thing, the passage was so narrow that even handcarts could not come through. For another, it was unlit, and secluded enough to frighten any prudent resident of London. The lower floors of both houses had no other windows or doors opening onto the passage.

“Do you suppose there is something wrong?” said the guest, an officer with a large white mustache. “He is normally very punctual.”

Barrett, listening intently, lifted a hand. Over the noise of the rain outside, both men heard quick footsteps and then a soft tap on the outer wall.

“Ah,” said the officer, looking suddenly much more relaxed. “Excellent. I'm right here; I'll get it.” He pressed down on one side of the paneling below the embrasure. With a loud click, the window and the entire section of wall it was set into swung open. A dark-coated figure hoisted himself through the opening and stood dripping for a moment in silence. Then he pulled his hat off, scattering water everywhere, and pulled the panel behind him back into place.

“Good evening, Colonel,” said Nathan Meyer. He nodded towards Sir Charles. “Evening, Barrett.” His hair was no longer gray, and he no longer stooped. If Clermont had seen him now he would have had no trouble recognizing him as James Meyer's father. “I'm afraid I'm soaked. Have you any notion of how much water collects in that passageway when it rains?”

“Come into the study,” said his host. “There's a fire in there, and I've left word that White and I are not to be disturbed.”

“A fire sounds wonderful.” Meyer shrugged out of his coat and hung it up beside the window. Stains on the wood beneath the hook suggested that this was not the first time a wet coat had hung there.

The three men passed through a doorway into a larger room lined with bookcases and cabinets. Piles of papers were on one table; a map was unrolled across another. The massive desk, at the far side of the room, was incongruously clean; it held only three neatly stacked books. They were bound in dark red leather and a small monogram was stamped on the spines.

Sir Charles waved the two other men to a pair of armchairs by the fire and pulled a third chair over for himself. “I haven't seen in you in some days, Meyer,” he said.

“I've been keeping a low profile.” He stretched out his legs and let his damp boots rest at the edge of the hearth.

“Avoiding the outraged Mr. Clermont?” Barrett's tone was amused.

“You and James may find the episode entertaining,” said Meyer. “I do not. The man is either very innocent or very dangerous. Have you heard what happened this afternoon?”

White shook his head, as did Barrett.

“His grandfather came to find him. At the Alfred.”

“The prince?” Barrett looked startled. “Supposedly they haven't spoken in years.”

“They are speaking now,” Meyer said grimly. “Bassington, I know, refuses to believe that a Condé would spy for Napoleon. Has it occurred to you that the Condés might find our negotiations with the Tsar useful on their own account?”

“The Condés are our allies,” said White uneasily. “After Napoleon surrenders, the prince is to escort the king into Paris at the head of an émigré regiment.”

“The Austrians are our allies as well,” Barrett said. He was no longer smiling. “And for the last two months, through Bassington's contacts in the Tsar's entourage, we have been maneuvering to shut them out of the eventual peace treaty. England is committed to returning Louis Bourbon to his throne, flawed though he might be. What do you imagine Austria would do, should she learn of our secret communications with the Tsar? Might she not throw her weight behind a much more respected figure, one with the same royal blood in his veins—the Prince of Condé?” He turned to Meyer. “Is that what you are suggesting?”

Meyer sighed. “I am not sure what I am suggesting. One moment, I am convinced Mr. Clermont is a quixotic fool, and the next moment I think he is a cold-blooded plotter. I tell myself a real spy would not storm over to Whitehall demanding to see me. Nor would he arrange to meet his grandfather in front of a dozen of the shrewdest men in London. And then I remember how he contrived a riding accident to gain access to Boulton Park. How he feigned interest in the butterfly collection. Continues to feign interest in Miss Allen.”

Barrett stirred. “My wife,” he said, “believes the last item to be genuine. She and the countess have formed an alliance to promote the match. And I should warn you that in their own way they are as formidable as the Austrians.”

“Does that explain the invitation I received this morning?” asked White.

“Yes.” Barrett grimaced. “I, er, added you to the invitation list as a precaution. After I discovered that, without consulting me, my wife and Lady Bassington had decided to host a supper party with dancing. Here, in this house. And Mr. Clermont is to be the guest of honor. Needless to say, this room will be locked and I will post a servant in the hallway.” He rose. “Shall we compare notes, gentlemen?” He gestured towards the pile of leather-bound journals on the desk.

“Nothing.” White produced two matching volumes and handed them across.

“Nor in the ones I looked through,” said Meyer. “Just a moment, let me give them back before I forget.” He went into the other room, extracted three notebooks from his coat pocket, and set them on the desk.

“Nothing in my three, either,” said Barrett. “Personally, I find it maddening. Here we are with the most vicious, most detailed account imaginable of every secret, illicit action at the Tsar's court for the past ten years, and we still cannot identify Austria's agent in St. Petersburg.” He collected all six volumes and set them on the table. “I'll keep these here for the moment and take one more look before I give them back. If I do, in fact, give them back. So far Bassington has been reluctant to read them, and I cannot say I blame him. Who would want to face the evidence that a kinsman had made his living ferreting out the Russian aristocracy's nastiest secrets and then demanding money to keep them quiet?”

“Piers died well, at least,” White said after a moment.

“Yes,” Barrett sighed, “he did. Unfortunately, his noble end is not recorded in these diaries. Instead, the last entry describes an evening with two respectable matrons—respectable if this diary is never published, at any rate. Bassington would have nightmares for a week if he saw it. Perhaps I should burn them.”

“I think it is monstrously unfair.” Simon scowled at the froth of gauze and satin draped over Serena's bed. She had just had her last fitting, and the gown needed only a few tucks in the bodice before she wore it tonight. Even she had been impressed with her reflection in the mirror, although not as impressed as her aunt.

“Simon,” she said wearily, “eleven-year-old boys are not invited to supper parties.”

“But I'll have my telescope! Mr. Clermont is bringing it by this afternoon. And the Barretts' roof is flat.” He changed his tone to the “veiled threat” mode. “Do you
want
me to break my neck climbing out on our roof?” The Bassington town house, like the other two residences on the east side of Manchester Square, had a steep slate roof.

Serena laughed. “Even you are not such a fool as to climb out on our roof at night in March, Simon! Besides, the moon will still be nearly full tonight, and the Barrett's house will be lit outside to welcome the guests. You won't be able to see much. Wait ten days or so. Ned and Jamie Barrett will be home for half-holidays then, and I'm sure will be only too happy to go up on their roof with you.”

“Ten days!” She thought he would storm out of her room, as he often did, but after a tense pause he subsided into a chair and hunched over, looking at the floor. “Serena,” he said, his voice muffled in his shirt collar, “haven't you ever looked forward to something, looked forward to it a great deal? And then you have it—it's in your hand—but you can't use it yet, can't enjoy it? And everyone tells you to wait for the right time, but you worry that something might happen, it might break or get lost before you even try it.”

It was one of the most reasonable arguments she had ever heard her cousin make. Disturbingly reasonable, and applicable to more situations than new telescopes. “I'll go out with you this evening,” she said, touching him lightly on the shoulder. “Before the supper party. It will be dark by half past six, and we are not invited until nine. We can go over to the park for a bit.”

“You won't be able to go out,” said her cousin bitterly. “You'll be primping.”

“For
two hours
?”

“I heard my mother. She's engaged a hairdresser, and a seamstress, and all manner of other people to twitter over you.”

Serena's hand went instinctively to her chignon. “A hairdresser?”

“Your hair,” he said with cruel precision, “is ‘too severe and spinsterish.' At least according to Miss Robbins.”

Robbins was her aunt's dresser. She had impeccable taste—had helped select Serena's gown, in fact. Serena peered into the cheval glass, which had been set up in the middle of the room for her fitting. It was true, her hairstyle was old-fashioned, pulled straight back off her face. Everyone else these days had little curls dangling. Even her aunt. Even Mrs. Childe. She wondered how she would look with just a few tendrils loose.

“We'll go out earlier, then,” she said. “Somewhere high, where we can see the city, since it will still be light.”

His face lit; he jumped up. “You will? Serena, you are a trump!”

Half laughing, she pushed him away as he tried to embrace her. “Go on, get out. You've twisted me round your little finger, as usual; now get back to your lessons.”

At the door, he turned, and said impulsively, “You're not severe, you know. Not when you smile.”

After Simon left she went and stood in front of the mirror. She pulled out a strand of hair from her chignon and draped it across the side of her forehead. Then another, on the other side. She tried a smile. It looked ghastly. When she held up the gown and tried again it looked even worse. She hated Robbins. She hated Clermont, with his gold hair and his dark, unreadable eyes. She hated herself. Perhaps she could arrange to break her ankle this afternoon on her expedition with Simon.

 

 

There was a Mr. Hewitt at Hewitt's Bank, Julien discovered, but he himself did not usually meet with clients these days. His firm had prospered in the past ten years—war was not always a bad thing, for an astute financier—and there were bank officers now, men with soothing, well-bred voices, who handled most visitors. Hewitt made an exception for high-ranking peers, of course, and for ministers, and for one or two very lovely actresses. He was making an exception today, as well. Clermont had gone to Royce and obtained a letter of introduction. He had planned to make the request of the earl personally, but his nerve had failed him at the last minute. It was just as well, he decided. A letter from Bassington himself might alarm Hewitt, make him more cautious.

He arrived precisely on time, at ten, and the elderly banker looked up from his desk in astonishment when an assistant ushered him into the room. Four ledgers were open in front of him, and he hastily closed them and piled them to one side.

“Mr. Clermont?”

Julien inclined his head. “Mr. Hewitt. Thank you for agreeing to see me. I understand it is a rare honor, and I am to convey to you Lord Bassington's appreciation for your courtesy to him.” In fact, when Bassington found out, he would be furious. But by then it would be too late.

The assistant withdrew, closing the door behind him.

“Please, have a seat,” Hewitt said, gesturing to a leather chair by his desk. “My apologies; I was not expecting you just yet. Most young men of your class are not very punctual, especially for morning appointments.”

Julien smiled dryly. “Even those who come to borrow?”

“Even those.” Julien sat down, and the banker studied him for a moment. “What can I do for you, sir? I understand the matter is confidential.”

“Yes.” He paused. “Lord Bassington has informed me that you are a man who can keep his own counsel. And that of his clients.” With a little prompting, he had managed to get Royce to word the letter perfectly. “Could you suggest that the matter requires discretion?” he had asked, leaning over Royce's desk. “Perhaps the earl has employed Mr. Hewitt for confidential transactions in the past?” And so the note had gone off, with Royce's compliments, and many expressions of thanks for Mr. Hewitt's past services to the Piers family. Could Mr. Hewitt receive Mr. Clermont and assist him in a transaction of some delicacy?

Julien took a small, folded piece of paper from an inner pocket. He had guarded that paper with fanatical devotion since it had come into his possession six months ago. Had shown it to no one, had concealed it even from Vernon. It normally resided in a hidden compartment in one of his silver hairbrushes, but he had been unwilling to leave it when he went riding off to Clark's Hill, and had sewn it into the cuff of his shirt, where it had fortunately survived a vicious assault by the earl's laundress after his accident.

Now he passed the document across to the banker. “Do you recognize this?”

Hewitt looked at the paper, at Julien, back at the paper. “It is a draft on this bank,” he said. “Signed by me, and addressed to a Mademoiselle DeLis, at the Convent of the Sacred Heart, in Lausanne. It is not a forgery, if that is what you wish to know.”

Julien cleared his throat. “The earl has been very kind to me. He has refused, however, to allow me to repay the monies sent abroad to Miss DeLis. I am a wealthy man, Mr. Hewitt. Even were I not, this touches my honor. Nor, I think, is it truly Lord Bassington's right to deny me. The payments were authorized by the late earl, were they not?”

The older man said nothing, but he shifted slightly in his seat.

His guess had been correct, Julien saw. “I am asking you, as a personal favor, to provide me with the total amount disbursed. I know that this was only one of several such payments.”

Hewitt read the paper once more. “This is all very irregular, Mr. Clermont,” he said, frowning. “I understand that the earl has taken you into his confidence, but I am still reluctant to provide you with information about an account which belongs to another client.”

“My alternative,” said Julien, “is to arbitrarily suppose ten payments, all equal to this one. And to deposit that sum in this bank under Lord Bassington's name.” It was a staggering amount of money, and Julien knew that any banker would be horrified at the waste. He leaned forward. “Do you not believe, Mr. Hewitt, that a debtor has a right to know the extent of his debt?”

“And do you regard it as a debt?” Hewitt looked up and met his eyes. “Those who have been wronged normally regard such payments as justice, not charity.”

So, he knew.

“I do.”

“Very well.” Hewitt rang a small bell on his desk and sent his assistant off to fetch a file. Julien wondered how long it would take to find highly confidential documents nearly thirty years old.

It took half an hour, during which time Julien was invited to wait in a sitting room around the corner from Hewitt's office. At the end of the half hour, Hewitt himself came in and handed him a small slip of paper. “This is the total,” he said.

Two thousand pounds,
thought Julien.
Two thousand pounds for a human life
. It was slowly sinking in that after weeks—months—of work he finally had his proof, could be certain that Bassington was indeed his man. He took a blank draft on his own bank out of his pocket, filled in the amount, signed it. His hands were shaking slightly. It was sheer pride, that gesture. He could easily have promised to send the draft next week, by which time he would be gone. But when he had devised this plan—the only plan he could think of, short of simply asking Bassington for the truth—he had decided that the price for tricking Hewitt into betraying a client was to consider his pledge to the banker binding.

“I will arrange to deposit the funds into the earl's account today, sir,” said the banker, tucking the draft into one of the ledgers on his desk. “Would you like me to send a copy of the transaction to his lordship?”

“That won't be necessary,” said Julien. “I'll tell him myself. I'm calling at his house this afternoon, in fact.”

 

 

Bassington rang for the fourth time. He knew the bell was working; his study was on the ground floor, and he could hear the chime faintly in the basement hallway below. Where the hell was the blasted footman? Or Rowley? He didn't want to leave his office and go in search of anyone. He couldn't leave the letters unguarded in his office—there was enough there to blow Castlereagh's treaty sky-high—and he had promised Barrett that if he could have the file today he would not let anyone so much as glimpse the wrappers. He didn't much fancy going down to the kitchens with a dispatch case full of diplomatic bombshells under his arm, which seemed the only option at this point. Besides, this was his house, damn it. He was entitled to expect someone to appear when he rang the bell. He stomped up and down, fuming, for at least a minute before reluctantly going over to his desk and extracting yet another pinch of snuff from a container he had rigged out of an old ink bottle. Clara was a ruthless exterminator of snuffboxes; he had learned to be clever.

At the footman's knock on the door he whirled and yanked the door open, roaring, “Where the devil have you been?”

Only it wasn't the footman. It was Simon, holding a long wooden tube—presumably the promised telescope. Behind him stood Royce, his niece, and Julien Clermont, with expressions ranging from terrified (Royce) to amused (Serena) to polite surprise (Clermont).

“Papa—I—we—” stammered Simon, backing up into Royce.

“Sorry, sir,” interjected the tutor, red-faced. “We didn't mean to disturb you.”

“No, no,” said Bassington, trying to unobtrusively slip the pinch of snuff into his waistcoat pocket. “My apologies. I thought you were Hubert. I've been ringing for ten minutes and no one has answered the bell.” He looked at his son. “Is that your new instrument?”

“Yes, sir.” Simon handed it to him, and, warned by his possessive grip, the earl took it very carefully. He turned towards the window, eased the yard-long cylinder carefully up to eye level, and sighted. “Very good,” he said absently, and then, a moment later, as the magnified image came into focus, he added, surprised, “By Jove! It really is good!”

Simon hovered next to him. “It has two lenses,” he explained, breathless. “The smaller one, the magnifying one, is mine. The refracting lens is on the bottom. Mr. Clermont contributed that one. There's a carrying case and a tripod as well, but I left those upstairs. Serena and Mr. Clermont and I are going to go try it out now. And Jasper, if you can spare him.”

“Are you? Where?” The earl gave the telescope back, somewhat reluctantly. It was really quite impressive, for a homemade instrument.

Royce said, somewhat apologetically, “Miss Allen and I agreed St. Paul's would be best, sir, but we thought it might be wise to have your permission first. Given, the, er, unfortunate incident last year.”

“Hmmmph. Yes, I can see why.” He eyed his son and heir sternly.

“I'll behave, Papa. Word of honor,” Simon said hastily. “And that verger might not be there today.”

The earl took some coins out of his purse and handed them to Royce. “I profoundly hope the man has retired. But in case anyone recognizes the viscount, you may need this.”

“Can Jasper go, then?” Simon asked.

“Certainly.” Bassington looked at his secretary-cum-tutor. “I'm working with the Russian correspondence this afternoon, in fact. You won't even be allowed into my office.” He shot a hasty look at his desk to make sure the dispatch case was closed up. One blue sheet of paper was sticking out. Fortunately, that side was blank. He stepped into the outer room, closing the door behind himself, and turned back to his son. “Has your mother been consulted about this expedition?”