The Spy's Kiss (2 page)

Serena was in the still-room, scowling at a jar filled with a pale, viscous liquid, when the maidservant came to fetch her.

“Begging your pardon, miss,” said the girl breathlessly. “Your aunt sent me to tell you that a gentleman is here to see the butterflies, and would you be at liberty to show him upstairs and explain how the trays are labeled.”

“Is Mr. Royce not available?” she asked, looking up briefly.

“He is with Master Simon, miss. And in any case the countess asked for you particularly. Apparently this gentleman will be working with the specimens in the locked cabinets, and Mr. Royce is not familiar with them.”

“No, he isn't.” With a sigh, Serena untied her apron and hung it on a hook. “I might have known one of the scientists would arrive just now,” she muttered, giving the jar a black look. “Five crowns this wretched thing cost me, not to mention the knife I ruined cutting it open, and it
still
hasn't separated.”

The maid peered curiously at the jar on the windowsill and then at the fibrous shards piled on the table. “What is it?”

“Coco-nut oil. Or it would be, if it would only separate.” Serena frowned. “Perhaps I did not dry the meat long enough before I pressed it. Or I should have opened the window sooner when I was chilling it.” She began to ruffle impatiently through the untidy pile of recipe cards on the table, until an embarrassed cough from the maid reminded her that a visitor was waiting.

“It does smell rather nice, miss,” offered the maid timidly as she held open the door.

Serena, after three hours of struggling with her extraction, was heartily sick of the cloying odor. But she knew the maid was offering an apology for interrupting her, so she smiled wryly over her shoulder as she went over to the basin and rinsed her hands. “I hope my aunt agrees with you, since I suspect I will reek of Coco-nut for the rest of the day.” She looked around for a towel, remembered that both of them were now sitting under the disemboweled fruit, and wiped her fingers surreptitiously on her skirts as she ducked into the back hallway. “Could you return this to Mrs. Fletcher?” she asked, locking the door and holding out the key. “I'll go straight up to the library.”

“Certainly, miss.” The maid tucked the key into one of her apron pockets. “But the gentleman is in the drawing room, with your aunt.” She added diffidently, “The countess hoped it would not take you too long to change and join them.”

“The drawing room?” Serena looked at the maid in astonishment. The butterfly-men, as Simon called them, were usually received by Royce and taken to the library, which adjoined the cabinet-rooms. Occasionally the earl would stop in and greet an especially learned visitor. The countess, however, paid little attention to the scientists and certainly had never admitted one to her drawing room. Frowning, Serena considered what might have prompted her aunt to this unusual hospitality. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted two servants hurrying down the kitchen stairs. Something was odd. Breakfast was long over; luncheon two hours away. And now the maid was sidling away, avoiding her gaze.

“Lucy,” said Serena. There was an edge in her voice.

The maid stopped, looking wary.

“This gentleman isn't by any chance a
young
gentleman, is he? An unmarried young gentleman?”

The maid hesitated. “I'm sure I couldn't say, miss.”

Serena raised her eyebrows.

“Whether he might be married, that is,” the maid said hastily, conceding the question of age.

“Well-dressed?”

“Yes, miss.”

“I will wager,” said Serena between her teeth, “that he has no more interest in butterflies than you do.”

“Oh, no,” said the maid earnestly. “I think they are lovely—that is, Mrs. Fletcher permits me to help Hubert dust the trays every so often, only in the first two cabinets, of course, the ones all the visitors can look at. . . .” She turned pink and started again. “It's a very polite young man, and he has a magnifying glass in a case, and a notebook, and a pincushion, and a little ivory rule, just like all the other gentlemen.” The tone of her voice made it clear that in all other ways he was most unlike the usual denizens of the library.

“If he were just like all the others, he would not be in the drawing room,” Serena pointed out. “And no one would have thought I needed to change my gown.” Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Am I presentable?” she asked abruptly, holding out her skirts and pivoting slightly.

“With all due respect, miss, no,” said Lucy, surveying the frayed cuffs of Serena's wool gown and the still-visible patches of damp at the hips.

“Good,” said Serena with a cold smile. And she headed purposefully for the stair which led up to the drawing room.

 

 

The Countess of Bassington surveyed her preparations with satisfaction. Fresh flowers had been brought in from the greenhouse and set on the side table. The Sheraton chairs and the small table were now behind a screen. A chaise and wing chair huddled awkwardly in the corner by the pianoforte. There remained in the center of the room only three pieces of furniture: a low-backed armchair (her own headquarters for this first stage of the campaign); a walnut and ivory tea table, which would soon hold some light refreshments; and her latest acquisition, an elegant scroll-backed sofa covered in Chinese silk. How very fortunate that she had been walking by the library when Pritchett had brought the young man in. How fortunate, as well, that the visitor's damp, untidy clothing had not misled her for an instant. Her trained eye had noted the ruby stickpin hanging slightly askew in his cravat, the fine cut of his jacket, and then, incredulously, the gold signet ring. The startled butler, who had expected to leave the visitor to await Royce's convenience, found himself hurrying off with orders for two of the upstairs maids, a footman, the housekeeper, the earl's valet, and even Bassington himself.

The aforesaid footman, still slightly out of breath from a rapid bout of furniture moving, now reappeared, holding the door for the earl.

“Go away,” said the countess to her husband. “You were not to come up until I sent for you.”

The earl took in the flowers, the little island of furniture, and the hovering servant. “May I be excused from whatever is afoot?” he asked. “I am rather occupied at the moment.”

“You most certainly may not be excused! I need you.”

“What is it today? Comforter of the bereaved Sir Reginald? Patron of Lady Orset's hospital? Surely Serena could assist you? I thought you were not at home today; you told me at breakfast it was too wet for callers.”

She looked at his rumpled jacket and the telltale inkstains on his cuff. “You've been working.” It came out as an accusation.

“My love, it is sometimes necessary,” he said mildly. “There is a war on, you know.”

“I hoped Royce would be able to do more for you,” she muttered. “He certainly isn't a very good tutor; I only kept him on because he seemed as though he could be useful as a secretary.” She had had other reasons for encouraging Jasper Royce to remain at Boulton Park, but she had kept them to herself.

“He is useful. But he is also, my dear, a bit of an ass—if you will excuse my blunt language. I daren't trust him with this. And if Sir Reginald and Lady Orset and the Derrings and all our other neighbors will be offended to find me shut up in my study when they call, I shall have to go back to London.”

She doubted he would execute this threat; he did not like London at this time of year. But she knew that any sign of irritation in her husband required careful management. Normally she would have sent him back to his reports with her blessing. He was already turning to go, believing he had won the battle.

“George!” she said, pleading.

He looked exasperated.

“I know what you are thinking, but it is
not
Sir Reginald,” she added hastily. Their elderly neighbor, a wealthy and childless widower, required frequent consolation for the perfidy of his younger relations, who unfailingly proved to have no sense of duty or affection but merely to be waiting for his demise. His visits usually lasted far longer than the conventional morning call and involved detailed explanations of the latest changes in his will.

“That young man who wrote to inquire about the butterfly collection. Mr. Clermont. He has just arrived. And,” she said with unusual emphasis, “he is wearing a very remarkable signet ring.”

“What's his ring to do with anything? Clara, I wish you would not talk in riddles. If you insist, of course I shall come up. Briefly.” He grimaced. “He did have a letter of introduction from young Derring; they were at school together. I suppose I should make an appearance.”

“He's in one of the spare bedrooms at the moment; the storm caught him and I sent Tuckett up to help him with his wet things. He will be down at any moment.” She glanced at her husband's stained cuff and debated asking him to change his shirt, then thought better of it and waved him away. “Off with you; I don't want you here yet. But be sure to come up the minute I send for you.”

The earl was used to his wife's stage-managed social events; he bowed ironically and moved to the door.

“Oh,” said the countess, as though remembering. “Bates says we had an intruder in the park. Mr. Clermont tried to pursue him and was shot at for his pains.”

“The devil you say!” Shocked, the earl swung around. “I beg your pardon, Clara. But why did Bates not tell me at once?”

No need to worry now that her husband would not come up when she sent for him in half an hour, she thought, very pleased with herself. He might not care, as she did, about presentable young men, but he would certainly want to hear about a stranger prowling through the park. Two days ago he had become so obsessed with the notion that robbers were in the neighborhood that he had even hired guards to patrol the gardens at night.

“You told Pritchett you were not to be disturbed,” she reminded him. She herself, of course, routinely ignored these orders.

Snorting in disgust, Bassington stalked through the door, which the impassive footman was still holding open.

“Good morning, Uncle.” At the sound of Serena's voice in the hall the countess gave a silent sigh. There was a crisp bite to the consonants which was all too familiar. And indeed, here was her niece, striding into the room in a manner very reminiscent of the earl's irritated departure a moment earlier. She was not precisely frowning, but her expression was wary and hostile, and, of course, she had not changed her gown.

The countess surveyed Serena cautiously. Her hair was still in its braided coronet, and the smooth brown surface gave off little glints of red as the light struck it. Her dress was wrinkled, true, but the color—a deep green—was flattering. Serena's gray eyes tended to take on the hues of her clothing, so that just now they held a faint hint of emerald at the edges. And her posture, which was sometimes lamentable, was always at its best when she was angry. All in all, the countess decided, it could have been worse, and she surprised her niece by greeting her with a warm smile.

“You sent for me, Aunt Clara?” the girl asked. Her voice was softer than it had been in the hall. She had expected a scolding for her appearance, the countess realized, and was flustered by the omission.

“Yes, dear. It seems we have a very distinguished visitor who would like to look at the butterflies, and after I receive him I would like you to take him up to the library yourself. I hope you do not mind.”

“Would—would you wish me to change? I was in the still-room,” she added, flushing slightly.

A peace offering, thought the countess. Ever since her sister's only surviving child had come to live with them eight years earlier, she had taken innumerable vows to be more patient with the girl, to respect her preferences, and to refrain from giving her advice. She made another silent pledge now. “No, no,” she said airily. “I had thought of it, but perhaps it is just as well; I understand Mr. Clermont wishes to work with the late earl's diaries, and some of the volumes are in a sad state.”

“You mean that they smear flecks of red leather on everything they touch,” said Serena with a trace of a smile. She started to say something else, but the door opened again.

The footman reappeared, flanked by Pritchett, who announced impressively, “Mr. Clermont, milady.” He stepped aside and made way for her guest, whose appearance, unlike that of her niece, was now quite acceptable. His neckcloth and jacket had been pressed, his boots had been cleaned, and his hair, which had been falling over his forehead earlier, was now neatly combed. For the first time she got a good look at his face, and especially his eyes. They were very dark, with dark lashes, in curious contrast to the fair hair, which was growing lighter as it dried.

“Ah, Mr. Clermont,” she said, holding out her hand. “I do hope Tuckett has made you more comfortable.” Her eye searched automatically for the fascinating ring. It was now gone. A thin indentation across the base of his finger reassured her that she had not been hallucinating. Why had he removed it?

“Less disreputable, at any rate,” he said smiling and bending over her hand with practiced grace. “I had not meant to put you to so much trouble, Lady Bassington. I should have postponed my call until the weather was less threatening.”

“Nonsense,” said the countess briskly. “At this time of year in Oxfordshire, you might spend weeks waiting for a fair morning.” She gestured Serena forward. “Mr. Clermont, allow me to present my niece, Miss Allen.”