The Spy's Kiss (28 page)

When they pulled up at the Tower, Serena already had the door open. She jumped out before the coach stopped moving, tore past a trio of astonished guards through the inner gate, and then halted in dismay. She was here, but where was she to go? She turned frantically, seeing nothing but stone walls. Then, with a sob of relief, she spotted the man in the green uniform. He was running towards her, pointing towards a doorway in one of the circular keeps built into the inner wall. She dashed through it, and he caught up with her as she emerged into the vast central courtyard.

“Hurry,” he said, leading her at a near trot towards the far end of the quadrangle. There were newer buildings there, red brick instead of stone, pleasant, homely buildings which seemed out of place amid the ancient blocks which rose around them. On one side of the nearest brick building a small crowd was gathered—mostly soldiers, a few civilians. She recognized her uncle, and Sir Charles. Out of a door in the building came two more soldiers, with a familiar figure walking between them. He was in his shirt. His hair shone in the pale March sun; he was tilting his head back, looking up at the sky, where a few birds were circling lazily. Next to him a priest was walking, moving closer occasionally to speak into his ear. She saw Clermont nod, then accept something from the priest. It looked like a rosary. He held it in one hand, clutched to his chest. With the other hand he pushed his hair back from his face. The crowd fell back; the milling soldiers suddenly formed a line. Clermont had disappeared. Then she saw him, still with the priest, his white shirt billowing slightly in the breeze against the windowless brick wall. The priest moved to one side.

“No,” she said. She tried to scream. “No!” Her legs were trembling; she could barely walk, let alone run, but she forced herself to keep moving, to wave her hands and cry out.

Her companion was sprinting forward, shouting someone's name in a high, hard voice. The clock chimes began to ring. Four notes down. Four notes up. The soldiers raised their rifles. They hadn't blindfolded him, or tied his hands. It wasn't noon yet. Four more notes down.

Eight guns fired in near-unison, just before the last ascending peal of the carillon.

“It isn't noon yet,” she said in a faint voice. Royce was beside her now, clutching her arm. “They didn't wait for noon,” she told him, despairing. “I could have reached him if they had waited.” The tall, fair-haired figure was slumped at the base of the wall. Before she turned away, shuddering, she saw the red stain spreading across the ruins of his shirt.

Then the bells began to toll.

LeSueur burst in through the door of White's office a few minutes after noon. Meyer looked up from the list of names he had been scanning. “How did it go?” he asked.

“It was ghastly.” The scar was livid against the pallor of his face. “Count yourself lucky Barrett decided you should not be there.”

“Did James manage to find Miss Allen? And the others?”

“Yes.” The captain grimaced. “The secretary—Royce?—must have driven like a madman. They arrived a few minutes early; we had to bring Clermont out before the clock struck noon. Miss Allen was very shaken, of course, as was the countess, but we didn't need the smelling salts for either one of them. As for the older woman, you were right about her.” Le Sueur shuddered. “She smiled—she actually
smiled
when they fired. Not a nervous smile, either.”

“What of Royce?” Meyer leaned forward. “Did he see it?”

“Yes. He was the one who needed the smelling salts. He fainted.”

Barrett came in, looking exhausted. “What a bloody mess,” he said in disgust. “In all senses of the word. They've brought Clermont inside, but I can't stay here more than a minute. You'll have to go down and see to things without me. Miss Allen has gone off with her aunt, but not, apparently, before leaving word with the Constable that she intends to file a charge of false imprisonment and wrongful death. I must go and intercept that message at once. Meanwhile Bassington is demanding an immediate explanation of our ‘rash and precipitate actions.' I've put him down the hall in Southey's old office. I hope to God we got some results, Meyer.”

“We may have. I'll know more after I talk to Drayton.”

Barrett looked around. “Is there anything to drink in here? Anything fortifying, that is?”

Meyer got up and took a small flask out of a coat hanging in back of the door.

After a quick swallow, Barrett set it down. “Right. I'm off to the Constable. Don't let Bassington talk to anyone before I get back. If he asks to see the body, put him off.”

LeSueur looked at the two older men. “You didn't tell Bassington about this? Didn't warn him in advance?”

Meyer said wearily, “We haven't told him anything for quite some time. If Clermont was innocent, as we now believe, then someone else is guilty. Someone with a very detailed knowledge of the earl's household
and
Sir Charles's household.”

“You cannot possibly think—”

“I don't know what to think.” Barrett went to the door. “I'm not allowed to think. I'm not allowed to do anything until I find that damned letter and the damned spy who took it. I never thought I would see the day I would be praying that Napoleon would
not
surrender. At least not quite yet.” He slammed the door behind him.

The captain looked at the still-quivering doorknob. “Sir Charles seems a bit upset,” he said cautiously.

Meyer, who knew how rarely Barrett lost his temper, said only, “He is in a very delicate position.” He passed the sheet he had been reading over to LeSueur. “Here you are. You will be posted down to Oxfordshire with a detachment of twelve men. All those on this list are to be kept under strict watch at all times.”

LeSueur ran his eye down the column of names. “All of them? Even the women?”

“All of them.” Meyer rose. “The colonel may have further instructions for you this evening, after we have spoken with Major Drayton.” He handed LeSueur the flask. “Take this down to Lord Bassington. He'll need it.”

“Where will you be, sir? When Sir Charles returns?”

“In the cellar. Assisting Major Drayton with his necromantic rites. Send James down as well, when he reappears.”

 

 

Serena didn't remember much about what happened at the Tower after her last glimpse of Clermont. Someone fainted, perhaps more than one someone, and there was a great deal of confusion as the victim or victims were pulled off to the side and revived. Her aunt, however, did not faint. She did not succumb to hysterics or demand her vinaigrette. Instead, she had listened patiently to Serena's half-incoherent request. Within a few minutes she had found a clerk to take Serena's message to the Constable's office. Then she had herded Serena and Mrs. Childe back into the stolen carriage and had found a driver to take them home. Serena had no memory of that trip, no memory of being taken to her room, no memory of Emily helping her undress. She was vaguely aware that her aunt and Mrs. Digby and Mrs. Childe were hovering over her, pressing cups of tea on her. They whispered about “poor Serena”; they seemed to think that she was confused, or shocked, or grieving, that this was only a larger, more terrible version of the night Clermont had come to see her uncle.

She was not confused. She was not shocked, or grieving; that was for later. She was not poor Serena. She was encased in rage; saturated, stiff, choked with it. All she wanted was to confront her uncle. Until he appeared, nothing had any meaning; no one else existed.

Eventually they stopped hovering and left her alone. She didn't lock her door this time. Without noticing that she was wearing a nightgown and wrapper, she paced the upper landing, leaning over the balustrade to survey the entryway below. The servants sidled past her, whispering to each other.

Her uncle came home more than an hour later. She saw him listening to Rowley, who had met him at the door; saw Rowley gesture towards the staircase. The earl walked slowly over to the center of the hall and looked up at her. His face was drawn. As he climbed the steps towards her, leaning on the banister, he looked like an old man, weary and stiff.

When he stopped in front of her, silent, she did not know what to say. She had expected to see pity, or stern resolve, or defensive anger. Perhaps even guilt, although her uncle was normally a man too sure of himself to display remorse. He did not look sure of himself now, and the certainty of her own anger faltered as well. She had planned to accuse him, denounce him.

Instead she asked, her voice trembling slightly, “Did you—were you responsible for that? For what happened? Did you have him arrested?”

She could see in his face that the answer was no, and a terrifying void opened in front of her, a formless future with no purpose and no justice.

“I was very angry with him after I discovered he had been deceiving all of us,” he said heavily. “I won't lie to you, Serena. When he was arrested I felt vindicated, and I accepted his guilt too quickly. But I had good evidence for doing so, at the time.” He took her elbow and led her into the nearest room, which happened to be a small parlor attached to one of the spare bedchambers. “Come here,” he said, sitting down and pulling a chair over for her. “Let me try to explain. You know that there had been some concern about the papers I was working on with Sir Charles. You know that it was decided to keep those papers in Sir Charles's safe here in London.”

She nodded.

“Mr. Clermont was arrested in the act of breaking into the room where that safe is located. I had nothing to do with the arrest; he was apprehended by soldiers who were already watching for him. They were watching for him because on the previous night, someone had broken into that same room and abstracted part of a valuable document. It was hoped that the thief would return for the rest. And he did. Or so everyone thought.”

He sighed. “Now we come to the part where I
am
to blame. Once you had proved to me that he was Charles's son, I realized that he was telling the truth about his motives for staying at Boulton Park. More importantly, I knew now that he did have a reason to break into Barrett's study. Now that he believed my cousin to be his father, he wanted his diaries. He could no longer approach me to ask for them, and somehow he had learned where they were.”

“Simon,” she whispered.

“But I only mentioned this in passing to Colonel White. I should have made sure the tribunal heard my story, but I hung back because I was still angry, angry at his treatment of you. And now I hear that the most damning evidence against him, from the night of the theft, was misleading as well. That he was with you just before he was seen near Sir Charles's house.”

“He was.”

“Where?”

“In my bedchamber.”

“In that case I am not sure his death is to be regretted,” he said with an expression of distaste.

She gripped the arms of her chair. “And am I so precious, Uncle? Am I worth a man's life? Are you so certain you know what happened in my room that night?”

“Isn't it enough that he was there?” But his scowl was fading.

“I will tell you what happened. He came to apologize. I tried to seduce him—” He snorted in disbelief, but she put out her hand. “No, listen to me. I have no reason to lie, not now. He was kneeling at my feet, begging my forgiveness, and I threw myself at him. I kissed him. I even started to take off my clothes. And he stopped me.” She was silent for a moment, then went on: “Do you know what he said? He said, ‘I will not ruin you the way my father ruined my mother.' He said he would never beget a bastard to live as he had. He said I deserved happiness. Do I look happy to you, Uncle? Do I?”

He didn't answer.

“I want him exonerated,” she said fiercely. “I want his name cleared. That is all I ask of you, and I think, under the circumstances, that it is a very modest request. After all, he is a Piers. You should want justice done, however belatedly, for the family's sake.”

He sighed. “I will see to it, once I am back in London. It should not be difficult; the Foreign Office decided that he was not a spy approximately an hour after they had him shot.” He added, after a pause, “We will therefore be returning to Boulton Park immediately. I have been asked to resign my place on the treaty commission.”

For the first time since noon, something besides the murder of Julien Clermont made an impression on her. The treaty commission had been the culmination of her uncle's dream of restoring order to a continent ravaged by twenty years of war. She said, horrified, “You have?”

“Since Mr. Clermont is not the thief,” he said harshly, “someone else is. Most likely, according to Sir Charles, someone residing at Boulton Park. Me, for example. Or your aunt. Or Simon. Or even you. We are all under suspicion. The entire household will be under surveillance, at a safe distance from London.”

“I thought Sir Charles was your friend,” she said numbly.

“He is.” He walked to the door. “I would do the same, in his place.” Then he turned back. “Oh, I had nearly forgot. Mr. Clermont wrote me. He asked me to pass this on to you.” He held out a folded square of cheap paper. “The seal has been broken, but not by me. I believe the warders read all letters written by prisoners in the Tower before they are sent on.”

She unfolded it. “They must be very well-educated warders,” she said, raising her eyebrows. “It is in Latin. A quote from St. Augustine, apparently.” There was nothing else there; just the quotation and the source, above his initials.
sero te amavi. Augustinus.

He hesitated. “Do you need Royce to translate it for you?”

She shook her head. “The Latin is not difficult. I can read it.”

He left her alone, holding the note. It was very, very simple Latin. Even Simon would have no trouble with it.
sero te amavi.
Too late did I love you. Too late have I loved you. Too late did I come to love you.

St. Augustine had been talking to God. It was never too late to love God. Loving men was a chancier proposition.