The Spy's Kiss (4 page)

“Especially dead ones,” Barrett had retorted.

Clermont had laughed.

And yet her aunt, for some reason, clearly believed this visitor was very important. She had seated him at her right. This was not only a flagrant violation of protocol, once Sir Charles had appeared, but a poor tactical choice if her aim was to interest him in Serena, who was necessarily relegated to her uncle's end of the table. The countess had hovered over Clermont, urging him to try every dish and solicitously changing the topic of conversation if it did not seem to engage him. When the invitation to dinner was declined, she had then asked if perhaps the following evening might be convenient. Pressed so hard, Clermont could not refuse, but even Serena could see that the impetus was all her aunt's and none of his.

Most curious of all was Sir Charles's behavior. Before continuing on towards London he had come to find her in the still-room, where she was struggling once again with her extraction. He was an old family friend—the Barretts' town house in London adjoined the Bassingtons', and Sir Charles and the earl often worked together on projects for the Foreign Office—but she had been surprised to see him.

“I beg your pardon,” he had said. “Lady Barrett asked me most particularly to see if you might have a recipe for elderberry syrup.”

She stared incredulously. Elderberry syrup was so simple that a child could make it. But she went over to her recipe box, pulled out the card, and began to copy it. It took less than one minute, since the recipe said: “Boil one pt. fresh elderberries, crushed and strained, for 1 hr. Add 1/4 cup honey, ginger, and juice of one lemon. Strain twice; top with three fingers brandy and seal.”

Without comment she handed the card to Sir Charles.

He sighed. “Miss Allen, you do not make things easy, do you?”

“I prefer honesty,” she said shortly.

“Very well, I shall honor your preference. What can you tell me of Mr. Clermont?”

“Almost nothing. He arrived today, and is working with the Drury collection.”

“Your uncle mentioned that he is a friend of young Derring.”

“Yes, he seems to know the family well.” It was disturbing, in fact, that her uncle and now Barrett would question a personal reference from Philip. After a mercifully brief period when he had fancied himself in love with her, Philip had become one of her most trusted friends.

“Do you think he is, in truth, interested in butterflies?”

She hedged. “He is certainly knowledgeable.” How could she put her suspicions into words? She had no evidence, none, only a vague feeling that Clermont was somehow alien to the world of the lepidopterists.

To her surprise, Barrett seemed to understand. “It looks right and feels wrong,” he suggested.

“Yes.” After a minute, she added reluctantly, “My aunt might have arranged for him to visit here to—to make my acquaintance.”

“I had not thought of that possibility,” he had admitted. “Still . . . if anything suspicious occurs, I would urge you most strongly to tell your uncle immediately. I shall make some inquiries of my own in London.”

She had promised, and he had taken his leave, pocketing the recipe card as scrupulously as if Sara Barrett had really requested it.

All in all, it had made for an unsettling and confusing day, and in a moment of panic she had made it even worse by excusing herself from dinner, pleading a headache.

Now she was sitting up in bed with a book, but she had not read more than a few pages. She was furious with herself. She hated deceiving her aunt and uncle; she hated females who conjured up headaches to escape obligations; she hated cowardice. And it was all for nothing, because her aunt would of course stop by to check on her, and the interrogation about Clermont which she had been dreading would be conducted in private—where it would be direct and thorough—instead of via arch innuendoes at the dinner table. She was hungry, as well.

There was a tap at the door, and she braced herself to confront the countess, but it was Lucy, with a tray.

“Would you be feeling well enough to eat something now, miss?” the maid asked. “Your aunt will be up shortly; they have just left the table.” She set the tray down; there were rolls, cold chicken, a fruit custard, and some port, as well as a cup of bouillon. As a form of penance, Serena sent back everything but the broth. She sipped it slowly, deriving a morbid enjoyment from her stomach's protests at being fobbed off with flavored hot water.

“How are you, my dear?” The countess came in, drew up a chair, and sat down by the bed, peering anxiously at Serena. “Do you think it is something catching? Simon is not feeling well, either, poor boy.”

Serena had momentarily forgotten her aunt's obsession with Simon's health. His illness, she was certain, was no more real than her own. Simon was lying low to avoid questions about the shooting incident in the park. Perhaps she could blame her current moral lapse on him: Simon was certainly a proficient liar, and feigning illness was one of his specialties. But it was unfair to blame an eleven-year-old boy for her own misbehavior, especially since his shams would have been discovered long ago if Serena had not been his willing coconspirator.

“It is nothing,” she reassured her aunt. “I am already much better.”

The countess eyed her anxiously. “Are you quite sure? You are so seldom ill, you know. And certain diseases can be very deceptive. Tertian fever, for example, recedes quickly after the first attack but then returns two days later with devastating force.”

“Aunt Clara,” said Serena, exasperated, “how on earth would I have contracted a tertian fever? I have never been out of England, and it is a disease of the tropics!”

“One of the butterflies, perhaps?” her aunt suggested doubtfully.

“Nonsense,” said Serena firmly. “Those butterflies have been dead for years. Decades, in most cases. And have been fumigated with sulfur, to boot.”

Her aunt brightened; she was a great believer in the sanitary properties of fumigation. “That's so; I had forgot.” She rose as if to leave, then hesitated. “Perhaps as a precaution, though, you should keep to your bed tomorrow?”

For a moment Serena was tempted. She had succeeded beyond her wildest dreams in distracting her aunt from Clermont. If she wished, she could stay in bed for the next three days and never see the man again. Then she gave herself a mental shake. “Certainly not. I should be bored to distraction. And what of poor Mr. Clermont?”

The countess sat back down. “Ah, yes, Mr. Clermont. Tell me, Serena—”

A sudden loud noise from overhead silenced her. Both women looked up, startled.

“That was from Simon's room,” said Serena, trying to conceal her relief at the interruption. He had probably slipped climbing up the passage behind the chimney, but the countess would go up and find him weary and chilled—a plausible invalid.

“He must have had one of his nightmares.” The countess was on her feet again, headed for the door. “I'm sure the disturbance in the park this morning has upset him; he is such a sensitive child.” And she hurried off—but not, Serena knew, fast enough to catch Simon before he could get back into his nightclothes.

She picked up her broth again. It was cold. And then, thinking idly about Simon and his mischief and the events of the day, something suddenly struck her. If there had been no intruder breaking in through the west gate—if Clermont (as he had all but admitted) had concocted him to protect Simon—
then why had Clermont slipped into the back side of the park through a private, locked entrance?

Clermont did not return immediately to the inn when he left Boulton Park. Tension and anxiety had taken their toll, especially combined with a day spent sitting deciphering the late earl's handwriting and fetching out new butterfly trays every so often to allay suspicion. It was dusk, it was still drizzling, and the road was not familiar, but his first impulse was to set his horse to a brisk canter and take a long loop back to the inn. He was desperate for physical activity. The chestnut, however, was not. Even the encouraging words
dinner
and
stable
failed to produce more than a shambling trot.

When all his attempts to spur the horse to a reasonable pace (or, from the equine point of view, an unreasonable one, given the poor light and the half-frozen road) were unsuccessful, Clermont determined on a different solution to his frustration. He would set himself a concrete, practical task and carry it out. This would furnish the illusion that he had accomplished something in the last three days. And what more urgent, more practical task could he imagine than to find himself a decent mount? He rode on past the inn, therefore, and headed south for several miles until he reached the Bath road, where there was a substantial posting house. Here he acquired a bay mare with the ominous name of Tempest, who proved her suitability for his purposes by tossing her head furiously, shying at his hat, and attempting to bite him. There was a very satisfactory wrestling match most of the way back to the inn, and he arrived at the Burford Arms bruised, disheveled, and feeling much better.

“Well, I'll be, it's Tempest!” Jeb, the innkeeper's grandson and part-time ostler, stared open-mouthed at the mare as Clermont and he rode up. “Where's my granda's horse, then? Sir,” he added belatedly.

“He'll be sent back tomorrow from the Queen's Rest. I fancied a bit of a challenge.” Clermont swung down from the saddle and attempted to hand the boy Tempest's reins.

Jeb backed away instinctively. “She bites, sir,” he offered by way of apology.

Sighing, Clermont fished a coin out of his pocket and handed it over.

“And she kicks, as well,” Jeb added hopefully.

A
douceur
was one thing, extortion was another. Clermont tried the same cold stare he had given the viscount in the woods when demanding the pistol. It worked. Jeb grudgingly took the reins and led the horse away, muttering under his breath about fools who would exchange a well-behaved horse like Satin for a she-devil infamous in three counties.

Inside the inn, Clermont got a cheerful welcome from Budge, who promised to send a bottle of wine up straightway. Upstairs, however, his welcome was less cordial. Vernon was waiting with folded arms in the parlor of their small suite.

“Well?” he demanded as soon as the door closed behind his master. Recollecting his duties, he took Clermont's coat and hat and hung them up.

“Well, what?” Clermont dropped into a chair by the hearth with an exhausted sigh and stretched his legs out. “I'm afraid my Hessians will require all your skill; they've been soaked three times today.”

The valet came over and tugged off the boots. Then, standing up again: “Was he in residence? Did you see him?”

Moodily, Clermont stared down at his stockinged feet. “Yes.”

“And?”

“And what?” snapped Clermont. “Do you imagine I declared myself immediately? I am not such a fool.”

“What of the girl?”

“The niece? She suspects something, I think. A bit of a shrew.” He thought for a moment, remembering her tall, slender figure, the gleaming coil of hair, the gray-green eyes. “A very personable shrew,” he amended.

“Then you intend to continue your visits.”

There was a long silence. “Yes. Yes, I suppose so. I've gone too far to turn back now.”

“I still don't like this scheme,” grumbled the servant, picking up the boots and examining them. His sour face might have been due to the sad state of their tops, or it might have betokened general moral disapproval.

“Your suggestion, as I recall, was that I should write the earl a polite letter demanding that he reveal confidential and very delicate matters to a man he had never met.” Clermont's tone was decidedly sarcastic.

“That would have been the course a gentleman would have followed,” said Vernon stiffly.

“There is some question as to my claim to that title.”

Vernon raised his eyebrows. “
I
am a gentleman's gentleman. I have been with you for more than ten years. Therefore, sir,
you
are a gentleman.” And with great dignity he bowed and withdrew, holding a mud-spattered boot in each hand.

“I don't think Aristotle would have approved of that syllogism,” Julien muttered.

Clermont set out well before nine the next morning for Boulton Park and discovered that Jeb's description of Tempest was all too accurate. This second battle was much more difficult than their first. The horse was fresh; he, on the other hand, was sore from their contest yesterday. Moreover, he was impatient to reach Boulton Park and the animal sensed it. She tried to scrape him off against a stone wall, came to several sudden stops calculated to pitch him over her head, and reared at the sight of a hedgehog uncurling. This last episode, unfortunately, proved to have a witness. He was inside the park, following his route of the previous morning, and when he finally forced the mare back onto all four feet, he discovered Serena Allen standing about ten yards away.

“Good morning, Mr. Clermont,” she said politely. There was a hint of amusement in her tone. “I did not expect you so early. Nor did I expect to see Tempest with you.”

He dismounted and led the horse up to her. Unlike Jeb, she did not back away, but she did step neatly to one side, keeping Clermont between her and the mare. He lifted his hat slowly, keeping a firm hand on the horse's bridle. “Good morning. I take it you and my new mount are acquainted?”

“Oh, most folk hereabouts know Tempest. Our neighbor, Sir Reginald, fancies himself a judge of horses and bought her several years ago. When he realized his mistake, he searched desperately for a buyer. He even proposed that my uncle should purchase her for me—a quiet lady's saddle horse, he called her. Luckily Bates had already heard the gossip. In the end, the Queen's Rest took her and now they hire her out to obstreperous London sprigs who ask for a ‘lively one.'”

“An apt description of me, I collect.”

She studied him carefully, and he saw a faint smile. “I would not call you a sprig. You are too tall, and your clothing too sober. But I presume you did ask for a lively one.”

“To my sorrow, yes,” said Clermont dryly. “Still, my folly has provided you with some morning entertainment.” He thought ruefully of the ridiculous picture he and Tempest must have made, attacking a hedgehog with the
levade
.

“Not at all. You handled her quite well.”

Was that condescension? Clermont was not vain, but he knew himself to be a fair horseman, and he bristled.

“I would say, rather,” she continued, “that you have provided me with the answer to the question which guided my walk today.”

“Oh? And what question was that?”

“Whether the west gate had been locked again. My uncle meant to ask Bates to see to it, but he must not have done so yet.” Her gray eyes met his, and there was an unmistakable challenge there.

He cursed his thoughtless decision to use his shortcut again. He had been eager to make up the time he had lost arguing with the mare. “It is still unlocked,” he said calmly. “I'm afraid I took advantage of that fact to shorten my route. I hope you—and your uncle—will pardon the liberty.”

She gave some vague reassurance, but he could see that she was still suspicious, as well she might be. Not, he thought, someone who took much trouble to conceal what she was thinking. Her face was an open book: wary, scornful.

“Do attractive young ladies walk unescorted in the wilds of Oxfordshire frequently?” he drawled, hoping that gallantry would fluster her. Or at least distract her. “Perhaps I should spend more time here.”

She did not seem flustered, but she did not seem gratified, either. “My aunt would prefer that I have someone with me,” she said coldly. “Since I try to go out most mornings and did not wish to keep a servant from other chores—or waste my breath trying to persuade Simon to come out for some fresh air—she agreed that I might walk alone so long as I remain within the park.
Ordinarily
it is quite safe here.”

He ignored the provocative emphasis on “ordinarily.” “If I should come this way tomorrow, would I have the pleasure of meeting you again?”

“Tomorrow,” she pointed out, “the gate will be locked.” There was the faint smile again. It was not a friendly smile.

 

 

He was forced to curtail his work with the diaries early that afternoon. No matter how often Lady Bassington assured him dinner would be a small family affair and there was no need for an eight-mile round trip back to the village, he knew it was safest to return to the inn and change. Having prevailed at least on this point, he let the countess persuade him to accept an offer of transportation in the Bassington carriage and found himself, at the sophisticated hour of eight, being shown into an imposing salon by Pritchett.

“An intimate family meal, ha!” he muttered, taking in the men's knee breeches, the women's jewels, and the squadron of hovering footmen in powdered wigs. In addition to the earl and the countess there were at least a dozen strange faces turning expectantly towards him. But he had been bred to this, and he murmured suitable courtesies as various guests were presented. The Reverend Bertram Asquey with his sister, spouse, and freckle-faced son; an elderly couple whom he vaguely remembered meeting long ago at the Derrings; Lord and Lady Orset and their two older daughters; and a pair of nearly identical-looking young dandies who seemed to be connections of Lady Orset. The numbers were completed by a distant cousin of the countess, a widow named Mrs. Childe.

The last two diners to make an appearance were Serena and Royce. They had evidently been quarreling, for he heard her hiss, “Enough; I will speak with Simon later,” just as she came in the door, and her color was high. Anger certainly became her—a fortunate circumstance, he thought, seeing how often she seemed to be angry. Her eyes sparkled, her mouth was set in that enigmatic half smile, and there was a defiant tilt to her head. She measured him with her gaze, and he felt her animosity transfer itself effortlessly from Royce to himself.

“Excellent, we are all here now,” said Lady Bassington briskly. She nodded to a footman, who disappeared, and in a few minutes the doors to the dining room were thrown open. “Mr. Clermont?” she said, looking up at him. He realized that he was meant to take her in to dinner.

When Lady Bassington had introduced Serena to him yesterday, he had not really noticed the manner of it. Now, however, it was becoming unmistakably clear that the countess must somehow have surmised his rank. She had presented Lord Orset to him, rather than the reverse. He was seated at her right again and offered every dish first. The other guests were obviously well aware of the apparent irregularity and stared at him covertly all through the meal. In his head the interminable debate began: what should he do if someone addressed him by his title? Ignore it? Explain? It had taken him two months to teach Vernon not to use it, something he forced himself to recall when he was annoyed with the valet. Servants were naturally inclined to snobbery on behalf of their masters. It might well take him twice that long to train Vernon's replacement.

It was more comfortable during the brief interval allowed the gentlemen for port and cigars. With fewer guests and more general conversation, Clermont was able to sort his male companions into three groups: those who had been told something (Bassington and Orset), those who were mildly curious (the rector and the elderly neighbor), and those who were oblivious (the younger men). The women, however, were more aware of social nuances, and when the men entered the drawing room Clermont felt nine pairs of female eyes boring into him. It was almost a relief to see that the countess had contrived to leave a place empty next to her niece. Better the hawk than the vultures, he thought, and made his way over to the sofa. The elderly cousin was seated in an adjacent chair, and to his dismay she rose and made a deep curtsey as he approached.

“My lord,” she murmured. The jet beads on the brooch pinned to her turban nearly touched her skirts, she had dipped so low.