The Spy's Kiss (3 page)

Serena's eyes widened slightly, but she nodded gravely as the visitor bowed. Clermont, the countess noted with satisfaction, did not seem at all surprised by the wording of her introduction. And, as she had suspected, he was distinctly taller than Serena, something few men could claim.

“A pleasure,” said Clermont formally. “I understand that you are the guardian of the Bassington cabinets, Miss Allen. I hope it will not be inconvenient for you to assist me for a few moments this morning. Once I have seen the labeling system I usually do quite well on my own, so you need not fear I shall plague you further.”

“And what is your particular interest in butterflies, Mr. Clermont?” Serena asked, in a tone of voice which the countess could not help but label “skeptical.”

“I am, in fact, more interested in moths. Particularly the new lunar moths described by Hübner.” He gave a slight shrug. “But those are primarily Asian, and your collection is more noted for its African and South American specimens, if I am not mistaken.”

Now what has he said to make her frown so?
thought the countess in exasperation. There was a light knock at the door, and she turned in relief, expecting to see the maidservant bringing in the tea tray.

It was Pritchett, however. He was frowning as well. “Mr. Googe is with his lordship, my lady,” he announced lugubriously. “And he would like to speak to Mr. Clermont at his earliest convenience.”

“The constable is here?” Lady Bassington was aghast. “Whatever for? And what would he want with Mr. Clermont?” Then she recollected the intruder in the park. “Oh,” she said, turning to Clermont in relief. “It is only about the man who fired at you. It is very tiresome, but I suppose you will have to go and be interviewed.”

 

 

Serena found herself studying Clermont surreptitiously while the constable went through the laborious process of recording five pages of notes on the incident in the park. She had surprised herself by volunteering to escort him to her uncle, and surprised herself even more by remaining, seating herself inconspicuously at one side of the room in case Googe should notice her and decide that she had no business there. Which, in truth, she did not. But she was curious. Her aunt's reception of the visitor suggested strongly that he was yet another suitor, attempting to court her under the guise of examining butterfly specimens. And if he was indeed intending to woo her among the trays in the cabinet-room, she wanted to know why.

Her circle of admirers, up until now, had not included handsome young men. It had consisted almost entirely of middle-aged widowers who were prepared to overlook her small dowry and her chequered past. Was Clermont under the hatches, as Simon would say? Would even her modest portion do? Was he a Cit who had decided to marry into the peerage? Or an ambitious young politician, hoping for her uncle's patronage? True, he had responded promptly and knowledgeably to her question about his researches. That had surprised her but had not changed her initial impression that his interest in Boulton Park had nothing to do with butterflies.

His appearance, she had to admit, was unexceptionable. Quiet, expensive, well-cut jacket. Boots which must have cost even more than the jacket—and whose polish could never have been restored so quickly after his muddy ride unless they had been meticulously maintained by an experienced manservant. Fine, narrow hands. No inkstains on the fingers. She looked again at his face. Narrow, like his hands. Reserved. In the half-shadows of the study the high forehead and finely cut features took on an otherworldly purity, especially when a stray beam of light from the tiny window caught the gold highlights in his hair. She recalled his graceful bow over her aunt's hand in the drawing room. No, this was no Cit.

She had stared too long. He raised his head suddenly as Googe's rumbling voice paused—she realized that she had been unaware of who was speaking or what was being said for several minutes—and she was caught, pinned, frozen, by those unexpectedly dark eyes. Embarrassed, she glared, refusing to look away. He regarded her gravely for an instant, then turned back to the constable.

“If we might conclude our business, then, Mr. Clermont?” asked Googe, with an anxious eye on the increasingly impatient Bassington. “I'll just be asking you to confirm the following items.” He cleared his throat importantly. “One young gentleman, by name Clermont, normally residing in London, presently lodging at Burford Arms, Josiah Budge, innkeeper. Riding on saddle horse hired from said inn was adjacent to forest gate of park land belonging to the earl of Bassington and observed burly man in frieze coat prying open said gate. Pursued individual, but lost sight of him in trees. Individual then fired at gentleman—what sort of gun did you say it was, sir?”

“Blunderbuss, I thought,” said Clermont.

Serena, who had heard the shot clearly through the open window of the still-room, frowned but said nothing.

“Blunderbuss, yes,” said Googe, looking back at his notes. “Gentleman cannot give more detailed description of intruder.” He stopped, looking pleased with himself, and waited for Clermont to nod assent. Then he said in his normal voice, “I'll be off then, my lord? I fancy I'll pay a visit to Purvis and his son. They've been grumbling about your gamekeeper since last winter, claiming he took up traps from their side of the hedge. I reckon they mistook Mr. Clermont here for Jackson and decided to give him a scare.”

Bassington rose and acknowledged Googe's bow as he left the room. But he did not immediately dismiss his guest. “So, you are a friend of young Derring?” he inquired casually.

“We were at school together, yes.”

“Do you mean to call on Mrs. Derring while you are here?” The earl's gaze narrowed slightly; he was watching Clermont's face.

“Not unless I stay longer than I have planned. I saw Philip in London, and he told me his mother was presently with his sister in Lincolnshire. I gather Maria is to be confined any day now.”

Bassington relaxed and nodded genially. “Just so; I had forgot.”

“It may be just as well,” said Clermont. “Were she and Mr. Derring in residence they would be pressing me to stay with them, and I would eventually have to yield and would find myself arriving at your library every day at half past two.”

Serena smiled to herself. The Derring household was notorious for keeping London hours even in the country. Mrs. Derring often stayed abed until noon, and breakfast was not even served until ten.

There was a tap on the door and Pritchett came in, with a martyred air. “Mr. Googe's compliments, and could the gentleman assist him in identifying the place where the shot was fired, Bates being unable to recall precisely.”

Clermont gave an oddly rueful half smile but then rose obediently and followed the butler.

“Pritchett will bring you straight up to the library when you return,” Bassington called after him. “And Serena,” he said, turning to her as she rose, “you should go at once and get the keys to the cabinets. The poor young man! Soaked, fired upon, and now prosed at by the worthy Googe. He has been here for nearly an hour and has yet to see a single specimen.”

She waited until she was certain the servants were out of earshot. “Uncle, I know perfectly well you did not forget about Maria's confinement. You went across to say good-bye to Mrs. Derring with Aunt Clara just last week. And I heard you say yesterday that it was lucky the babe had not decided to arrive during the snowstorms last month.”

The earl grunted, picked up a small pile of papers, and began to hunt through them.

“You were
testing
Mr. Clermont,” she persisted.

“Nonsense.”

She folded her arms. “He's a suitor, isn't he? You were trying to find out how well he knows the Derrings.”

“Serena, I would not agree to receive any young man, no matter how well-connected, who proposed to woo you underhandedly by pretending an interest in the collection. You know that perfectly well.”

“What if he didn't propose it? What if my aunt did?”

“I cannot imagine that she would do anything of the sort.” His tone was not as firm as she would have liked. He set down the papers and cleared his throat. “It is true, however, that your aunt was hoping to greet our guest more formally.”

“That is to say, I should be prepared for an elaborate luncheon now that her plan to display me in the drawing room was foiled.” She pictured herself next to Clermont on the Chinese sofa in her still-damp gown, giving off Coco-nut vapors, and offered a prayer of thanks to whatever god had brought Googe so quickly from the village. But she had no illusions: the ordeal was only postponed. Her aunt was probably rearranging the small dining room at this very moment. At least now they would be at table, and she would have food to pretend to eat, and her own chair. She sighed. “I suppose I should change my gown.”

He gave her a grateful smile. “Your aunt would be very pleased.”

“And I suppose
you
will be forced to join us for luncheon.”

The smile disappeared. “By damn, you're right,” he muttered. “So much for my memorandum.”

In one wall of the anteroom which led to her uncle's study was a small door, set into the paneled wall. It led to a back hall, and thence to the kitchen stairs and the domain of Mrs. Fletcher. Usually Serena enjoyed ducking into the servant's passages, where she could walk quickly without being reproved for unladylike deportment (“ladies must appear to glide serenely,” Mrs. Childe had reminded her on numerous occasions). Now, however, she was moving in a slow, hesitant fashion very unlike her normal brisk stride. The unusual interest shown in Clermont by her aunt and uncle was suspicious, and Clermont's own story even more suspicious. She would wager everything she owned that Simon had fired that shot, and she could not see why Clermont would protect her cousin unless he wished to ingratiate himself with the family.

She paused for the third time at the head of the stairs. It would be very embarrassing to be caught. But if she went right now—if they had stopped to put on their coats, which they would surely do in this weather . . . She turned around and hurried to the conservatory. There was no one there, to her relief. She would have to hope that Lucy had already been in to water the plants. Otherwise the maid would find her lurking behind an orange tree and spying (to give the thing its true, ugly name) on her uncle's guest. It was a choice location for spying, at least. From her position at this end of the glass-enclosed terrace she had an excellent view of the gardens, and, more importantly, of the side door in the opposite wing.

A minute went by; two minutes; three. She was beginning to wonder if she had missed them, but then two figures emerged. Googe was trying hard to keep up with Clermont's long strides, and she smiled slightly, watching the short, round body bobbing in Clermont's wake. A third figure appeared now, hurrying after them. Bates? No, it was Pritchett, holding an umbrella and walking very, very fast. In fact, if she had not known Pritchett for eight years she would have said that he was nearly jogging. She leaned forward, as though the three men would be easier to see through the wet glass from an inch closer. In the fogged tableau, Clermont turned back and waved the umbrella away.

“What on earth?” she muttered. Her aunt maintained decorum in her household. A footman seen running in any Bassington home would be sacked instantly. And until now, she would have sworn that Pritchett would slit his wrists sooner than trot after a guest. Especially with an umbrella. Pritchett held by the customs of his youth, which decreed that umbrellas were for females.

“Well, well.” She stared out the window a moment longer, then walked quickly out the other end of the gallery and made her way downstairs to the housekeeper's office to requisition the keys. Since an unfortunate incident with Simon, these were kept on Mrs. Fletcher's person at all times and released only to Serena or the earl.

Mrs. Fletcher was waiting for her impatiently. “High time you were here, Miss Serena,” she said, unhooking the tiny silver keys from a ring at her waist. “I sent Hubert to find you; I'm needed upstairs.”

“Luncheon?” guessed Serena as she slipped them into her pocket.

The housekeeper sniffed. “More like a royal banquet, if you ask me.” Her sour gaze swept the kitchen, where the cook and two helpers were frantically assembling dishes. “And I'll wager that greedy Googe will have the effrontery to come right back in and smear mud all over the floor and hang his wet jacket in front of my kitchen hearth and demand another tankard of ale.”

Since Googe had been pursuing the housekeeper since the day she had put off mourning for her husband six years ago, this seemed a safe wager.

Pritchett, looking strained, tapped perfunctorily at the half-open door.

“Yes, in a moment,” snapped Mrs. Fletcher, seizing another, larger ring of keys from the top of her desk. She eyed Serena up and down, and Serena, knowing what was coming next, fled.

“You're to change your gown!” bellowed the housekeeper after her, so loudly that Serena was sure Clermont could hear it at the other end of the park.

“I will, I will,” she promised under her breath as she ran up the stairs and dodged through another service corridor into the library. “I'll open the cabinets, and show him how to find everything, and then I'll have time while he is looking through the trays. But right now I want to see what's in his satchel.” The moralists were right: one crime led to another. Spying begat more spying. After Pritchett's obsequious pursuit with the umbrella, she was more determined than ever to find out whether Mr. Clermont was in fact interested in butterflies, or whether his main interest was
Serena Alleniana.

When she had surveyed the contents of his bag, however, she was forced to admit that Lucy had been correct. He had brought all the usual paraphernalia of the serious naturalist. Pincushion, in case any specimens were dislodged, with three sizes of pin. Rule. Magnifying glass—a very fine one, mounted in silver and ebony. Two pens, and several colors of ink. Notebook, mostly blank. That, at least, was evidence against him. Normally collectors brought extensive notes about their own specimens with them, to compare against Boulton Park's holdings. Still, the abbreviated list which filled the first three pages told her Clermont was familiar with the rarer items in the cabinets. And some did use a fresh book for each collection. The last item was a small sketchbook. This, too, was blank, but tucked into the back, folded carefully in half, was an exquisite watercolor of a deep purple butterfly. She recognized it after a minute as a blue diadem. There were two in the Bassington collection.

“I see you have started unpacking my things.” The mild voice came from right over her shoulder.

She hadn't heard any footsteps; it was much too soon for him to have returned from the park. Yet there he was, looking gravely courteous rather than outraged.

As always, when put on the defensive Serena's instinct was to attack first. “Did you do this?” she demanded, holding up the watercolor.

“It's very fine, isn't it? No, alas.”

“Your sketchbook is empty,” she said pointedly. “Save for the blue diadem here.” She gave it to him.

“It's usually empty.” He folded the painting back up and tucked it away. “My intentions are good. But the execution falls so far short of the intention that I give up and razor the pages out.” He showed her the inside cover of the book, and now she could see a little line of page stubs. “If ever I produce anything one-tenth as good as this”—he tapped the folded watercolor—“I shall engage to keep it in the book.”

“Who did paint it, then?”

He smiled. It was a perfectly polite smile, but something in his eyes suggested that he was well aware of her hostility and found it amusing. “A lady of my acquaintance.” After a pause just long enough to be suggestive, he added, “A granddaughter of Mendes daCosta.”

“Oh,” she said in a small voice. DaCosta had been one of the founding members of the Aurelians, and a Fellow of the Royal Society. Then she rallied. “I had thought perhaps your wife might be assisting you in your researches.”

Now he was definitely amused. “I am not married, Miss Allen.”

It was her turn to smile, a smile which showed all her teeth. “I had a narrow escape once myself,” she said sweetly. “As I'm sure you will agree, it is not always easy to preserve one's independence in the face of well-meaning relatives.”
Don't think me ready to fall in with my aunt's schemes, you coxcomb.

He was not dull-witted; she had to give him that. He took her point at once. But instead of changing the subject, as she had expected, he guided it into less dangerous territory. “Surely even unmarried folk have duties and responsibilities. Are you, for example, a dedicated student of butterflies, or is your guardianship of this collection more in the nature of a filial obligation to your uncle?”

“I am an amateur,” she admitted. His dark eyes were studying her face carefully, and, flustered, she busied herself with the keys, turning them in her hands as though deciding which was which. “But in comparison to anyone else here at Boulton Park, I suppose I must be reckoned the nearest thing to a naturalist we possess.” She picked up the volumes she had laid out on the table and moved over to the door of the cabinet-room. “Well,” she corrected herself, “there is Simon. My cousin. He will suddenly decide that he must learn all there is to know about, say, black beetles, and poor Mr. Royce will be compelled to read through everything in the library about insects for weeks, and send to London for pamphlets, and go on expeditions to the cellars hunting for live ones. It usually is something rather revolting, like black beetles,” she added reflectively. “Sometimes I fancy Simon does it solely to annoy my aunt.”

He held open the door to the smaller room for her, and as she walked through ahead of him, she suddenly remembered something else Simon might have done to annoy his mother.

“Did Simon fire that shot?” she asked, wheeling around to face him. “It didn't sound like a blunderbuss.”

For the first time since she had met him he looked unsure of himself. Before answering, he hesitated.

“Will you keep what I tell you in confidence?”

“I knew it,” she muttered. “Drat the boy. That means yes, I take it.”

He shook his head. The slightly amused smile was back. “I fired it.”

“
You
did?”

“Your instincts were correct, however. Simon had, er, borrowed one of your uncle's dueling pistols. I managed to remove it from him for a moment and decided to discharge it before he could point it at me again.”

“I see.” She did see. She shuddered at the picture of Simon with a loaded dueling pistol and wondered briefly how on earth Clermont had persuaded her cousin to hand it over. “Where is it now?”

“I gave it to the groom—Bates, is it?—to be discreetly restored to its place.”

“Why?”

He shrugged, an odd, careless gesture which seemed to belong to another person. “Might I ask you a question in return?” he said after a moment. “What does this man Purvis look like? The one the constable mentioned?”

Serena frowned. “Stout, square-faced, dark hair.”

“I would be very grateful, then, if you could let me know how Mr. Googe's investigations are proceeding. Unfortunately I described the fellow as burly, since that is the usual description of villains in the penny papers. I was hoping Purvis might prove to be thin and weasel-faced.”

She smiled at that, a real smile this time. “Very well,” she promised. “I shall keep you informed.” She turned back towards the cabinets. “How long will you be in the neighborhood?” she asked over her shoulder.

“Three or four days,” he replied absently. He was looking around, now that they were fully inside the octagon which held the Bassington collection. Against each of the eight walls stood tall mahogany cabinets—wide ones against the six side walls; narrow ones on each side of the window, which faced north, and the door, which led back into the library.

“All the cabinets but two are unlocked,” Serena explained, moving to the other side of the room. “These two, by the windows.” She unlocked them, then pocketed the keys. “I'm afraid I will need to lock them again before you go down to luncheon; they can never be left open.”

“They contain the specimens purchased from the Drury estate?”

“Yes.” She moved briskly around the room, pointing at the numbers etched in brass on the top corners of the other cabinets. “The other cabinets are numbered, and the trays inside are lettered. This register”—she held up the smaller of the two volumes she had carried in—“lists specimens by cabinet and tray number; the other is by date of acquisition. Unfortunately the late earl fell ill before he could catalogue the specimens in the Drury cabinets; they were his last purchase.”

“Might I also see his journals, perhaps?”

She had forgotten that he had written to request access to the diaries as well. Stepping out into the library, she rang for a footman. “They don't mention the items in the locked cabinets,” she warned him while they waited for the servant to appear.

“So I was told. But Lord Bassington did know Drury personally, and I hope to find some reminiscences.” He looked intently at the door, as if willing a footman to appear. Even after the man had been dispatched on his errand, Clermont lingered in the outer room for a moment, staring after him. Then he turned to her, urbane as ever. “I am very grateful for your assistance, Miss Allen.”

It was a dismissal, unmistakably. He was already moving towards the cabinet-room.

“Please ring if you need anything,” she said, trying to match his cool tone. “I am afraid my aunt is planning a formal luncheon, but you should have a few hours to work before it is ready.” With the barest of nods, she withdrew, uncertain whether his obvious lack of interest in her was a ruse, an insult, or a relief.

 

 

By the end of the day, her uncertainties had only multiplied. If Julien Clermont was pursuing her, he was concealing it admirably. When she had returned with the keys nearly two hours later, he was totally absorbed in the diaries and only rose to greet her several seconds after she had come into the room. A tray was out on the table, with the ruler set down next to a particularly fine South American skipper; a quick glance showed that his notebook had several new pages of scribbles in what looked like Latin. He made no excuses to detain her when she unlocked the Drury shelves again after luncheon, and he took his leave politely at five after refusing an invitation from her aunt to stay for dinner.

Nor did he seem to be cultivating her uncle. His table manners were impeccable, and while the party consumed the countess's elaborate midday meal he conversed amiably, but he did not display any special interest in politics. In fact, when Sir Charles Barrett—another last minute guest, who had stopped on his way north from Bath to consult her uncle—made some caustic observations about the current disarray in Parliament and solicited Clermont's views, Clermont shook his head and expressed an utter inability to understand the workings of government. “Insects are much more straightforward,” he had said, smiling.