The Spy's Kiss (19 page)

“We couldn't find her,” said Royce. “We couldn't find anyone, in fact.”

Bassington heard footsteps. The footman, after a mere twenty minutes, had finally arrived.

“Could you give permission, sir?
Please
?” His son's voice was urgent.

“I suppose so,” said the earl, just as his wife's voice behind him said, “Permission for what?”

“To climb the dome at St. Paul's with Serena and Jasper and Mr. Clermont so that I can try my telescope.” Simon opened his blue eyes wide. “We'll be very careful.”

His wife was looking horrified.

Bassington stepped over to her side. “I already gave Simon permission, my dear,” he said in a low voice.

“Oh, Simon may go, of course,” she said. “Mr. Royce will be there, will he not? And perhaps Mr. Clermont, although he has been far too generous already. But Serena cannot possibly go.”

He saw his niece and Clermont exchange a quick glance.

“I would be back in plenty of time to get dressed, Aunt Clara,” Serena said.

“That might be so,” she said, “although your ideas about how much time is required may not coincide with mine. But no young woman in my charge is going to climb five hundred steps a few hours before a dance. Your uncle took me up to the Stone Gallery when we were courting, and I couldn't walk for three days afterwards.”

The earl prepared himself for a battle royal between aunt and niece. He had seen many of them over the years. But, to his surprise, Serena turned to Clermont. “Are there really five hundred steps?”

He nodded. “Five hundred thirty-four, to be precise.”

“Then I'm afraid my aunt is right. I'm sorry, Simon. Do you mind?”

Simon looked at Clermont. “Will you still come, sir?”

Another of those silent, almost instinctive exchanges between Serena and the young Frenchman.

“Of course,” said Clermont. “If Mr. Royce will not be bored to death listening to us talk about focal length and eyepiece rims.”

“Not at all.” Royce gave a thin smile. “It will certainly be useful to have another pair of hands to carry the instrument and tripod. And there don't appear to be any footmen available.”

That reminded Bassington of his grievance. He turned to his wife. “Yes, where are the servants, Clara? I rang the confounded bell four times, and no one has responded yet!”

“You'll simply have to make do, all of you,” she said. “I've lent all the maids and footmen to Sara Barrett for the afternoon and evening; her staff here in town is not sufficient for an event of this size.”

“I thought this was a small, informal supper with some dancing afterwards,” he said.

“It—grew a bit. Now there will be dancing first and then a supper.”

Suddenly suspicious, he demanded, “How many guests will there be?”

She waved her hand airily. “Oh, perhaps a hundred. It seems there were more of our friends in town than I had originally thought.”

A hundred people. He had thought there would be two dozen; mostly people he knew well. He had planned to excuse himself after supper, get some more work done. Instead, he and Barrett were apparently cohosting a preseason ball.

“Well then,” he said, trying to sound genial. “I will look forward to seeing all of you this evening. Mr. Clermont, many thanks for your kindness to Simon.” He stepped back into the study and sat back down with a sigh. His evening was ruined now, and the deadline was fast approaching on the reply to the Tsar. He was hoping for some uninterrupted time to write. But he wasn't really surprised, after those telling glances back and forth between Clermont and his niece, to answer a knock at his door a few minutes later and find the Frenchman there.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Clermont. “I meant to write you and request an appointment tomorrow evening, but it occurred to me that my note might not reach you today if the servants are all at Sir Charles's home.”

“Quite right.” He started to add, “Do come in,” but a hasty glance revealed telltale blue pages all over his desk. Once again he found himself in the anteroom leaning against a closed door. “So, you wish to speak with me tomorrow? A personal matter?”

Clermont nodded.

“Would you care to dine with us first?”

Clermont swallowed. “That is very kind, but I—believe I am engaged tomorrow until eight or so.”

Bassington remembered how nervous he had been just before he approached Lord Bell to request Clara's hand. “No matter. Shall we say half past eight, then?”

The younger man bowed. He looked pale.

Bassington went back into his office smiling a bit. He hadn't thought much could shake Clermont's poise, but obviously his niece had managed to do so. Clara would be overjoyed. Should he tell her? His hand was on the bellrope when he remembered that no one would answer. That if he wanted to find her he would have to pack everything up and march through the house with the dispatch case. No, better to have his own secrets for a change.

Serena stood waiting for the other couples to take their places in the set with a sense that some evil destiny had brought her to this moment. A series of small, seemingly insignificant decisions had taken on a life of their own and propelled her into a scene from her worst London nightmares. If she looked back now, of course, she could identify all the wrong turns, but retrospection could not alter the color of her dress, or change her partner, or remove one hundred people from the Barrett's ballroom.

Her first mistake had been yielding to Simon's plea and coming to London. Or rather, to be honest, yielding to her own fascination with the enigmatic Mr. Clermont, which her cousin had ruthlessly exploited. Then her aunt had asked if Serena would be willing to attend a small dinner. That was her second mistake. She had watched with horror as the “small dinner” became, in the space of ten days, something quite different. Perhaps a dance or two, after the dinner, the countess had next proposed, if someone could be induced to play for the young people. Before they had even left for London, it had become a slightly larger dinner with a trio of musicians engaged afterwards. Finally it had blossomed into a full-fledged ball, with an orchestra and midnight supper, and, as a result, the event had been moved to the Barrett's house, which possessed an actual ballroom instead of merely two large drawing rooms with connecting doors. Her aunt bombarded her with well-meant suggestions. Did Serena not think she needed new gloves? New slippers? Could Robbins and the hairdresser try something a bit different with her hair? Would she not like a new gown?

Like a dutiful niece, she had said yes and yes and yes. She had even admired her ball dress, had flushed slightly with pleasure at her appearance in the mirror as she saw how the silver threaded through her new curls echoed the silver trim of the gauze as it floated over a blue silk slip. The gown, of course, was her third mistake. Because here she was, at the top of the set in the Barrett's very large and very crowded ballroom, with Clermont opposite her. Julien Clermont, the plague of her existence, the most beautiful man in the room. Who was wearing, in addition to his very correct black knee breeches and coat, a blue waistcoat trimmed with silver, which matched her gown nearly exactly.

She had tried to avoid standing anywhere near him. When he had approached to request this dance, she had manufactured an excuse to move away after agreeing. Now, however, she would be standing with him for at least fifteen minutes—more, if the line of couples grew any longer. And everyone in the room could see for themselves the blazing declaration, in blue trimmed with silver: Mr. Julien Clermont and Miss Serena Allen were a pair.

Clermont, damn him, was amused. He had recognized the sartorial gauntlet thrown down by her aunt the minute he arrived and had raised those dark eyebrows in acknowledgment. Now he said, in the most courteous, bland tones imaginable, “I have been admiring your gown, Miss Allen. Is it new?”

“Of the same vintage as your waistcoat, I imagine,” she snapped, refusing to look at him.

“Oh, so I am to blame?”

She hissed fiercely, “You don't suppose I had anything to say about it, do you? If you must know, I am absolutely mortified.”

“Softly, sweet. Everyone is looking at you. And if you keep glaring at my waistcoat and then at your flounce, they will take more interest in those two items than they might otherwise.”

“It doesn't matter what I do, or where I look,” she said bitterly. “Every female in the room can see at once that we are wearing matching clothing.”

The orchestra, after a pause to retune an errant cello, struck up the first bars of the dance. He bowed; she curtseyed; and they began to weave down the floor, separating to perform the first figure.

“If you must glare,” he said in a low voice as they came together again, “be sure to glare at Philip Derring and Jasper Royce as well.”

“I haven't seen them yet. And why should I glare at them?” Another partner whirled her away.

“Philip just got here; he is leaning against the wall, far end of the room,” he informed her as he reclaimed her. “I don't see Royce. Ah, no, there he is, talking to Countess Lieven's escort. A few yards away from Philip.” She twisted her neck, but she was facing the wrong way. Not until they had reached the bottom of the line did she catch sight of Derring. He was indeed leaning against the wall. He was looking very unhappy, but she didn't pay much attention to his expression, because her eye was drawn at once to his waistcoat. It was silver, trimmed with blue. Royce was moving towards the dance floor, chatting easily with the young Russian at-taché. His waistcoat was white and silver, with blue piping at the edges.

“You see,” he said mildly, “I became suspicious when a garment I had never purchased appeared in my wardrobe a few days before this dance. A garment obviously meant for formal evening wear. And when I asked my valet about it he told me three different, contradictory stories about what it was doing there. He is normally a very honest man, but I believe dreams of romance may have triumphed where bribery would have failed. In any case, once I forced a confession out of him he promised to do his best to limit the damage.”

“But then I ruined your good work by glaring.” She sighed. “I believe I owe you another apology.”

Another couple arrived and claimed the bottom position in the set. As they moved up towards the front of the room, he said lightly, “No need to apologize. But I would be very grateful if you could contrive to dance with one or both of them and scowl at their chests with equal intensity. Or—”

The figure of the dance separated them for a moment.

“Or what?”

“You could smile at me,” he suggested, “although I must confess you have one of the most glorious scowls I have ever seen.”

She favored him with a particularly ferocious example.

They did not speak as the next couple went by, but then she said abruptly as they moved up once again, “Why did you wear it? If you knew?”

He shrugged. “I'm not certain.”

She didn't believe him. He didn't have the look of an uncertain man.

He maintained a flow of polite trivialities for the remainder of the dance, but as the last couple twirled down towards the far end of the room he said, “I must speak with you later tonight. Would you have another dance free? One where we may talk without so many interruptions?”

“That would be a waltz,” she informed him. “I am already engaged for the waltz.” In point of fact she was not, but if Julien Clermont thought she would waltz with him, he was dreaming. The idea made her dizzy right now.

“May I take you in to supper, then?”

She glanced over to the doorway, where her aunt was watching the result of her plotting with unmistakable delight. “I suppose if I tried to go in with someone else my aunt would poison them in any case. Very well.”

“Go scowl at Derring,” was his parting shot as the dance finally ended.

Philip, had, in fact, worked his way through the room so that he could approach her once the music stopped. He still looked unhappy.

She went over and linked her arm through his. “Why the long face?”

He attempted a smile. It was a poor attempt. “It's nothing.” They walked in silence towards the edge of the room, where the crowd was thinner.

“Your waistcoat seems to be all the crack,” she said lightly, trying to tease him out of his bad mood. “I've seen at least two others very like it.”

His expression did not change; if anything, he seemed even more upset. He drew her over beneath a large painting of a hunting scene. Just at her eye level—and Philip's—was a dying stag, an arrow fixed in its bloody flank. “Are you in love with Julien Clermont?” he said in a low voice.

“What?” She drew away, instinctively, and stared at him. She wondered if she had misheard him. But then he repeated it. Fortunately the room was noisy, and there was no one nearby.

“Are you in love with Julien Clermont?”

“Certainly not!” She followed Clermont's advice and scowled at Philip. “And what concern is it of yours? You have been a good friend to me, but that gives you no right—”

He interrupted. “Has he made you an offer of marriage? Hinted at one?”

More and more bewildered, she said, “No. But what—”

“Listen to me,” he said urgently. “I know Julien is my friend, but I felt I had to warn you. Don't trust him. There's something—he's—” He bit his lip. “Don't make too much of his attentions towards you. That's all I am at liberty to say.”

“Philip, are you
jealous
?”

He flushed. “Of course not. Merely concerned. For both of you. Will you remember my warning?”

She looked at his tense, guilty, expression and wondered whether his “of course not” had been a lie. “I have never trusted Mr. Clermont,” she said, “from the first moment I met him. Does that relieve your mind?”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, it does.”

 

 

He had danced with four young women whose names he could not remember three seconds after he was introduced. He had conversed—or, more accurately, fenced—with Countess Lieven, who was holding court on a gold settee in an anteroom. Her arch comments about blue and silver butterflies gave him a good idea of the sort of gossip that was already circulating in the overheated ballroom. He had made sure to visit briefly with both of his hostesses and even with Mrs. Childe, who was playing whist with three fantastically turbaned dowagers in the card room. He had fulfilled all his obligations, in other words, and now, as the musicians set down their instruments and the dancers began drifting out to go downstairs for supper, he could turn his attention to his meeting with Serena Allen.

It was not hard to spot her. She was taller than most women in the room. She was talking with Royce, and although her head was turned away, he recognized the silver band in her hair. He made his way over to her just as Royce, clearly angry about something, made a stiff bow and stalked away.

“Oh, dear,” said Serena, following the tutor's departing figure with her eyes. She was smiling in amusement, though. The little curls around her face were actually very attractive, he decided. They made her look softer, less remote. “Does it count if Jasper scowls at me? Because he just did. And scolded me, as well.”

He made a very educated guess. “Simon?”

“He has disappeared, apparently. Probably to the attics; he likes the ones in the London house because you have to go up ladders to get into them. At any rate, for some reason Nurse Digby fretted herself into a state, as though this doesn't happen every third night, and Rowley sent a message over here to Jasper. Why on earth he should leave the party to chase after Simon I cannot imagine, but he decided it was his duty, and when I disagreed he informed me that Simon is shockingly spoilt, largely thanks to me.”

“Well, he is shockingly spoilt,” he said, drawing her arm through his and leading her towards the stairway. “But I think your aunt and Mrs. Digby and Mr. Royce himself must take most of the blame. You, in fact, are the only one of all of them who does not have any official responsibility for the boy.”

“But I am also the only one he listens to,” she pointed out.

“The two facts are not unconnected.” He paused in dismay as they came out into the stairwell and he saw the throngs milling around the tables in the hallway below.

“What is it?” she asked. Then she saw the clusters of people crowding the hall. “Are you hungry?” she asked, looking up at him. “Would you mind missing supper? I don't think we will be able to talk there.”

“I do not need supper, no. Where would you suggest?”

She turned and led him back into the now-empty ballroom, down to the far end, and then into a little side room where footmen had been stationed earlier, loading trays of drinks. “Here,” she said.

There was no one in there now; the servants were all downstairs serving supper. She pushed open a door he had not even noticed, set into the back wall. It was completely dark on the other side. “More secret passages?” he asked.

“It's just a servant's corridor; Simon knows all of them in every house he's ever been in. It will only be dark for a minute. Mind your head; the ceiling is a bit low.” She ducked into the corridor, and he followed, keeping his distance lest he tread on her skirts accidentally. He could hear them rustling in front of him. Suddenly there was light—not lamplight or candlelight, but moonlight, accompanied by a rush of cold air. He stepped out through the door she was holding open and emerged onto a tiny balcony.

They were at the back of the house, looking out over the small terrace and garden to the right and the mews and kitchen courtyard to the left. A few other couples had obviously decided not to wait in line for supper either; there were figures on the terrace below and even a few hardy souls in the garden. It was chilly out; he tugged off his jacket and draped it around Serena's shoulders.

“What an odd place for a balcony,” he said.

“It isn't a balcony. It's the top of a stair.”

Looking more closely, he saw that the railing on the left side was in fact a gate. Narrow iron steps descended along the wall of the house; there was another small landing on the floor below, with, presumably, another door.

“It's for the servants, to carry food back and forth to the kitchen when there are large parties,” she explained. As she spoke he saw someone come out onto the landing below with a tray and start down the lower flight of steps.