The Spy's Kiss (6 page)

“Are you sure he isn't dead?” Simon asked doubtfully as she knelt again by her patient. “That's quite a bit of blood.”

“Dr. Wall says head wounds always bleed a lot,” she replied absently. She took out her handkerchief and dabbed at the cut on Clermont's cheek.

Bates appeared at the top of the path and, taking the situation in at a glance, dismounted in one leap and tethered both horses to a small tree.

“What's this, then?” he asked, looking from the unconscious man to Simon and then to Serena.

“I would say that Mr. Clermont finally lost a round against Tempest,” answered Serena, brushing off her skirt and standing up.

Simon was staring over her head. He tugged at her sleeve, pointing. “It wasn't Tempest,” he whispered. “Look.” A thin length of brown rope about ten inches long was dangling from a branch of the tree, almost invisible against the trunk. A matching fragment, considerably longer, hung from a smaller tree on the other side of the path. Bates swung into the saddle of the nearer horse, his face grim, and rode up to the second tree, retrieving the rope end and holding it straight out from the branch over the path.

“Rider's shoulder height,” he said succinctly. “Clear the horse's head. Knock off the man on his back. An old horse-thieves' trick. After we get this gentleman down the hill I'd best send for Googe again, Miss Allen.”

“And Dr. Wall,” she said, looking down at Clermont. “At once.”

 

 

“Well, he's a bit battered, but I don't think it's anything serious. Crack in the wrist bone, or perhaps a severe sprain, a few cuts, and a nasty blow to the head. Should recover, with proper care. Unless, of course, he develops a fever.” Doctor Wall tugged at a frayed pocket and extracted his pipe, then, recollecting where he was, hastily replaced it. Serena saw the habitual gesture and hid a smile. She and the doctor were old friends. Lately, in fact, there had been an unspoken conspiracy between them to wean the countess from her fixation on Simon's constitution. Dr. Wall had been recommending more and more exercise, and his tonics now tasted suspiciously like ginger water, with an occasional decoction of lovage—equally harmless—for variety. If they had been up in the old nursery, where they had spent many hours together when Simon really had been ill, several years ago, she would have let him light the pipe. But here in one of the guest rooms, it was impossible.

The physician tapped his fingers on the bedpost. Clermont was asleep now, thanks to a stiff tot of laudanum, but his color was poor, and he tossed a bit even under the restraint of the drug. “Fits of shivering, abdomen cold to the touch,” Dr. Wall mused. “Consistent with chill, especially in this weather. Enlarged pupils, bruises on head and neck, confusion, dizziness—consistent with a blow to the head. A rather serious one, I am afraid. And his pulse, Miss Allen! His pulse!” He took up the unbandaged hand lying on the counterpane and held it out to her, as though it had been detached from the sleeping body. “Feel that,” he commanded.

Puzzled, Serena leaned over and laid two fingers gently on the inside of the wrist. At first she felt nothing unusual, but when she made as though to withdraw her hand, the doctor gestured at her to wait. After a few moments she realized that the beat, though reasonably strong, was very slow. She compared it to her own, and even allowing for her present state of agitation, the difference was marked. “Most interesting,” she said feebly. She had no idea what such a disorder of the vessels might mean. But she did have a vague impression that patients who were chilled, and those who had been given laudanum, had slower pulses. Was a slow pulse in itself dangerous?

“Exactly,” said the doctor triumphantly, as though he had read her thoughts. “The cerebral bruising, the effect of the cold, and above all, the sedative—a mistake, a most lamentable mistake, but of course you were not present, my dear Miss Allen, you would never have allowed it!—so that now we are at some risk for congestion of the lungs.”

“Mrs. Digby did not know,” Serena objected, forgetting about medical reasoning in her need to defend the old nurse who had dosed their visitor. “He was trying to get up, insisting he was perfectly fine. She thought it was for his own good.”

“It would be for Simon's good if the earl pensioned off Mrs. Digby,” grumbled the doctor. “Boy should be at school, not malingering at home with a nursemaid and a tutor. No wonder he looks peaked, hounded by a pack of old women every time he gets mud on his breeches or brings in a frog from the pond.” His attention went back to the young man. “He seems otherwise quite healthy,” he said, frowning down at his patient. Lifting a corner of the counterpane, he pulled aside Pritchett's old flannel dressing gown (the only warm garment which came near to fitting their guest) and poked gently at the bruises on the torso, completely unconcerned with Serena's potential embarrassment. Before she looked hastily away she saw a slender chain around his neck with a gold ring at the end of it. “You say someone rigged a trap at the top of Clark's Hill?”

“Yes, they strung a rope; it caught him on the neck, evidently. Bates has sent a message to my uncle and gone into the village for the constable. He thinks it is some poachers, trying to frighten old Mr. Jackson.”

“Frighten! Kill, more likely. This gentleman would be dead now had Simon not found him.”

“Well—” Serena floundered for a moment. “If it
had
been Jackson—he is rather short—I think it would only have knocked his hat off. But,” nodding down towards the bed, “he is quite tall—perhaps you did not notice—he was already in bed when you arrived.” To her chagrin, she could feel her face grow pink.

“Taller than you, hey?” The doctor looked up at her with a smile. “Well, your uncle's gamekeeper is certainly not a large man.” Jackson was, in fact, so short and round that he was nearly spherical. “Perhaps you are right, and they merely meant to give Jackson a scare. But I hope that they can convince a magistrate of their intentions. Because it looks to me like a case of attempted murder, and this young man appears to be of a station in life where such matters will not be brushed aside easily.”

“You may be right about that,” she said slowly. “He is a friend of the Derrings who was here looking at the collection, and my aunt seems to know his family. She has gone into a frenzy making arrangements to nurse him; you would think he was a prince of the blood. When he told her he could easily be cared for at the Burford Arms she snapped that no one of his lineage would be tended by tavern wenches while she was mistress of Boulton Park.”

“That is just as well,” said Dr. Wall dryly, picking up his bag and moving towards the door. “He should not be moved for at least three days and must not be allowed to walk more than a dozen yards at a time for several days after that.”

“Oh.” Serena digested this for a minute. Her aunt had believed that they would only need to keep him here for a day or so. But Dr. Wall was not an over-cautious physician. If he prescribed rest, there must be a good reason. With a sigh she followed the doctor towards the anteroom. His hand was on his pocket flap again, and Serena knew he was itching to be out of the house. “I'll ring for Pritchett and have him show you out. My aunt is conferring with Mrs. Fletcher and it is probably best if you do not take your leave of her. She will trust me to pass on your instructions.”

“No need,” he said gruffly. “I can show myself out, been here often enough.” He was headed towards the foyer before she could even reach the bellpull but paused momentarily. “Ah, Miss Allen, one more thing.” He handed her a small paper twist. “If he develops a fever, give him some of this powder dissolved in hot water or tea and feel free to send for me again.” The pipe was out of his pocket already, and he tamped it absentmindedly on his boot, leaving a small pile of tarry ash just inside the anteroom doors.

An elderly manservant on his way in paused and discreetly swept up the pile into his own handkerchief. He looked harassed.

“Bates has returned from the village, Miss Allen. Constable was gone out to the weir, but they've sent a boy to notify him. And the boy stopped at the inn, as you requested, to see if they could send on the sick gentleman's effects, and to summon his servant.”

“Well?” she said impatiently.

“Mr. Clermont's man packed up his gear and left this morning; said his master was following him to town.”

“Drat,” said Serena under her breath. She had hoped that most of the nursing could be done by Clermont's own valet. According to Bates, the manservant had been regaling everyone at the inn with tales of his heroic devotion to his master in the wilds of Canada. Here, in her opinion, was an ideal opportunity for devotion. She had tended Simon after a blow to the head once, and it had involved quite a bit of holding basins while he retched. Now it would have to be Mrs. Digby and herself. She looked down at the pale, aristocratic face. His brows were drawn together slightly. Probably even in his drugged sleep he was dimly aware of what she was sure must be a ferocious headache.

In the anteroom, Simon was waiting, nearly bouncing in his excitement. “May I see him?” her cousin said, trying to look around her as she emerged. “Will he recover?”

“No, you may not, and yes, he will recover.
If
you do not plague him. I thought you were meant to be in bed yourself. You were soaked by the time we got back.”

There was a timid knock at the outer door.

“If that's Nurse, I'm not here,” said Simon, retreating to a shadowed corner and preparing to slip behind a tall chair.

The door inched open, and Mrs. Childe peered around it, then tiptoed into the room. “I came as soon as I heard the dreadful news,” she said in a whisper. “I will take the first turn to watch at his bedside. Poor dear Serena, you must be quite worn out with everything.” She patted Serena's arm. “Go and rest; Mrs. Digby and I will be here.”

Serena repressed the urge to ask the older woman where she had been on all the nights years ago, when Serena and the nurse and the countess between them could barely keep Simon quiet and dosed. She knew perfectly well that the widow had no skills in the sickroom. And while something about Clermont made Serena uneasy, it seemed excessively cruel to subject him to an incompetent harpy when he was injured and helpless. She glanced over at Simon in an instinctive appeal.

“Oh, no,” he said, coming forward. “I believe it will be just you and Serena. Nurse has just been telling me that she cannot tend Mr. Clermont, because she has never been exposed to it. Nor can we have any of the servants in, because of the danger of infection. It is very fortunate that you and Serena are immune.”

“Infection?” Mrs. Childe looked at the three of them in alarm. “Exposed to what, pray? I thought he had fallen from his horse? Has he some sort of
disease
?”

“Oh, if you have already had it, you cannot catch it again,” Simon assured her. “But it is a common complication of head injuries, you know.”

“It is?”

“Yes, Nurse said that the blotches are already appearing.” He turned to Serena. “He has blue marks on his chest, does he not?”

As always when Simon embarked on one of his elaborate schemes, she was feeling a bit stunned. She managed to nod, though, and, remembering the bruises beneath the wide, smooth neck, reflected that her answer was not technically a lie.

The other woman gave a faint shriek and backed away. “There seems to have been a misunderstanding,” she said, breathless. “I—I don't believe I have been exposed. Perhaps I can be of assistance when he has recovered a bit.”

“Say nothing to the servants,” Simon warned her as she sidled towards the door. “It would cause a dreadful panic.”

“Of course not,” said Mrs. Childe as she backed out of the room and disappeared.

Simon leaned against the door and grinned.

“And what would you have done,” Serena demanded, “if she had asked you what the name of this illness was?”

“Oh, I would have thought of something. ‘Occipital fever,' perhaps, or ‘Cerebellan ague.' Better yet, a Latin name.
Pestis equicadensis. Pox Childeae.
”

“You are horrid,” she said. But she was laughing.

“Are you sure I cannot just peek in? Just for a moment? You're in my debt, you know, for saving you from Mrs. Childe.”

She was in his debt. Sometimes she felt guilty about how much she enjoyed watching Simon make fools of adults she disliked. Putting her finger to her lips, she opened the inner door and beckoned. They stood for a moment, side by side in the doorway, looking at the unconscious man.

“Isn't it exciting?” Simon whispered to her. “Who do you suppose tried to kill him?”

George Oliver Clement Piers, fifth Earl of Bassington, believed in
noblesse oblige
. After a short but spectacular career as a rake in his twenties, he had come round to the idealistic notion that peers had a duty to serve their country, and for many years now he had been fulfilling not only his own obligations but also those of at least a dozen other men. A cautious and intelligent politician, he wielded considerable influence in Parliament, in spite of occasional displays of obstinacy more suitable to a Whig than a Tory. His appearance contributed to his reputation: he was squarely built, with a high forehead and a mantle of salt-and-pepper hair which flew about his head when he gestured during speeches in a most satisfyingly philosophical fashion. He was a member of several learned societies, as his father had been before him, and corresponded with scholars in five countries. All in all, he was someone whose judgment and discretion were highly regarded. The urgent summons from his wife had not shaken him; the news which greeted him, upon his arrival home, that a mantrap on his lands had nearly killed an innocent visitor, surprised and dismayed him, but did not fluster him.

Now, however, he was on the verge of losing his temper, and his secretary was desperately trying to placate him. Once angered, the earl was a difficult man to appease.

“My lord, perhaps you are mistaken. I sifted through every paper on both desks, and found nothing, and there is no record in my logbook of any such letter.”

“Of course there is no record!” The earl's face was beginning to flush. “A messenger delivered it to me personally, and I took good care to secrete it in a safe place yesterday. At least, I thought I did. The instructions from the ministry were quite explicit; no one else was authorized to read it, not even you.” Misinterpreting the look of apprehension on his secretary's face, he added, “Royce, you must know that there is no question of any fault on your part. It is clear what must have happened: I did not lock it away, and the staff once again ignored my instructions and tidied my study.”

The younger man grimaced; six days earlier, a confidential memo had disappeared from the earl's desk and after a frantic search had been located in the nursery grate, on the verge of being used as fuel for toasted cheese by Nurse Digby and Simon. Then, shortly afterwards, a letter written by the earl which he could have sworn he had sealed and handed over to a courier had also gone missing. It, too, had surfaced—unsealed, in a pile of the countess's correspondence awaiting her husband's frank. That was when the earl had hired the guards.

“Should I question the maids, my lord? Or would you prefer me to look about quietly first?”

Bassington rubbed his left temple wearily. “Hunt through these rooms yourself before we involve Mrs. Fletcher. It has the same wrapper as the other. Start here in my desk; perhaps I have misremembered where I put it.” He took a small key from his waistcoat and unlocked the two drawers tucked under the surface of the cherry writing table. “Try my father's bookshelves next; I was looking through them yesterday and it is possible that I might have absentmindedly set the packet down while hunting through his journals.”

“If I have no luck here or in the cabinets, how should I proceed, sir?”

“Call in Mrs. Fletcher, I suppose.” The earl frowned. “I should have taken your advice and purchased one of those new strongboxes, Royce. Although frankly I thought they would simply be an irresistible challenge to Simon, and he has already broken the locks on two of his mother's jewel cases. Nor did I wish to call attention to these papers by suddenly ordering special furnishings for my study.”

Royce carefully avoided looking at his employer. “And the nursery? Would it be worth searching in there before consulting Mrs. Fletcher?”

“I'll look myself,” growled the earl. “And if I find the least hint that Simon has been sneaking in here, I'll cane him black and blue, weak chest or no.” He started to leave, then checked. “Did you say anything to Googe about the missing letters when he was here a few days ago?”

“Certainly not!” Royce looked horrified. Then, more doubtfully, “Should I have?”

Bassington shook his head. “No, your judgment was quite right, my boy. This is no matter for a parish constable. He wished to come out at once, of course, when he heard of this morning's news, but I put him off for a bit. Don't mention this business to him unless I give express instructions.” He picked up a sealed packet from the desk. “Get this off to Barrett right away. It should have gone first thing this morning, but her ladyship wanted to put in a note of her own for Barrett's wife.”

“Very good, my lord.” The packet was carefully set aside.

“Mind that you check the seal personally and
watch
the man put it in his confounded bag.”

“I will do so, my lord.”

“And Royce—”

The blond head, already bent over the drawers, looked up.

“Try to restrain your longing to reorganize my desk,” said the earl mildly. “I realize that it appears disorderly to someone of your fastidious temperament, but I am the one who needs to be able to find my personal papers, not you.”

Royce's apprehensive frown relaxed slightly as the earl's footsteps faded away towards the main staircase, but he looked more thoughtful than relieved. The storm, he suspected, was not averted—merely postponed. When he was sure Bassington was out of earshot, he gave a sharp tug on the bellrope and waited impatiently for someone to appear. His expression softened further when he saw the familiar figure of Coughlin in the doorway.

“Thank God it's you,” he said, dragging the ancient servant all the way into the office and closing the door. “Is his lordship with the countess?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is he likely to be engaged for some time?”

Coughlin observed cautiously that the countess was very concerned about the mishap which had befallen Mr. Clermont.

“Do you think you can find Simon and help him straighten up his workshop before his father comes up there?”

“His lordship is planning to visit the nursery?” gasped Coughlin, appalled.

“He is,” said Royce. “And he said that if he saw any evidence that Simon had been in this suite, he would beat him.” There was a moment's silence as both men visualized the normal state of Simon's kingdom, strewn with clock gears, padlocks, necklace clasps, and innumerable other dismembered items. The chaos alone would enrage the earl, who, like many untidy parents, detested his own habits when they appeared in his son. And amongst the dozens of half-assembled contraptions on the nursery table, there would surely be something that had originally been located in the earl's study.

“I'll find him at once,” promised the old servant. “And if I come across any papers, I'll bring them straight to you.”

Well, thought Royce, Coughlin had not missed the implication of the unlocked drawers and the earl's threats. Not surprising, since most of the upper servants had been involved in the earlier searches for the missing memoranda. “Yes, that would be best,” he said quietly. He stood staring down at the cluttered drawers for several minutes after the servant had left. Then, with a sigh, he began sorting letters into piles atop the gleaming rose-colored lid of the writing table.

 

 

Mrs. Digby was snoring lightly in a chair next to the four-poster when Serena peeked in late that afternoon, accompanied by a maid carrying a small pot of chamomile tea. The patient was apparently asleep as well. But after Serena had gently shaken the nurse awake and sent her off to get some supper, she saw that the dark eyes were open, looking at her blankly, as though he were trying to remember who she was.

Then he frowned. “Miss Allen,” he said slowly, as if responding to a difficult question from a schoolmaster.

He was speaking more to himself than to her, but she answered him. “Yes?”

“Where am I? And what happened?”

“You do not remember being knocked off your horse? We found you at the top of Clark's Hill. You are at Boulton Park.”

Another frown, a moment of puzzlement, and then suddenly he closed his eyes and fell back onto the pillow with a soft groan. His mouth tightened and he pushed himself up again, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

“Where is my shirt?” he said, wobbling a bit as he sat up and then staring in dismay as his unclad legs emerged from the bedclothes. Serena hastily averted her eyes as he took in the patched dressing gown, the splint on his wrist, and the poultice strapped to his ankle. “Where are my clothes?” He propped himself up against the bedpost, looking around as though expecting to find garments hanging down from the tester.

“Your clothes were filthy; we had to remove them. And you must lie back down. The doctor said that you are not even to get up for three days and will need nursing for some time beyond that—perhaps a week. We sent over to the Burford Arms for your luggage, but there has been some misunderstanding.” She judged that he was still too disoriented to be asked about his servant's departure at the moment.

“A week?” he repeated in a daze, ignoring the rest of her speech. “No, no, impossible.” He turned to her, steadying himself with his good hand. “If you please, Miss Allen, I must get dressed. What time is it? Could you fetch me my shirt and breeches? I can have them cleaned at the inn.”

“Dr. Wall's orders were most explicit. It is out of the question for you to return to the inn. Now, or in the morning.” His eyes went to the leafless trees visible through the window, as though he were contemplating climbing out, and she tried a more persuasive tone of voice. “Consider the situation for a moment from my uncle's point of view. You have been injured on our land, and the villain who set the trap is most likely one of our tenants. Should you insist on leaving, my uncle will be held responsible if you fail to recover properly.”

He nodded wearily and allowed her to pull the covers back up over his legs.

“How are you feeling? Any fever?”

“No, I don't believe so.”

She reached out and felt his forehead. It was not burning hot, but far warmer than her hand. Judging from her long experience with Simon, the fever was just settling in and would come into its own the following day.

“I must contradict you; you do have a slight fever, and I suspect it will grow worse. Dr. Wall left some medicine for you.” She poured out a half cup of tea.

He ignored her. “Perhaps one of the grooms could go to the inn and inquire if my servant could come here to fetch me? He is very conscientious; you could relinquish me to his care, surely?” He saw that she was about to object and added in an exasperated tone, “If you insist, I will take the medicine with me. And summon Dr. Wall to the inn tomorrow.”

“Your servant,” said Serena, “appears to believe that you are headed to London and has gone off to Town with all your luggage. I am afraid you are obliged to remain here for the present.” She was hunting in her petticoat pocket for the little packet Dr. Wall had given her and did not see his expression at this piece of news, but she did hear him sigh again. After a brief struggle with the side seam of her dress, she pulled the paper out and poured a small portion of it into the tea. “And I am also afraid that you will have to drink all of this now that I have added the powder to it.”

“What kind of powder?” he demanded, wary.

“It isn't a sedative, if that is what you are thinking.” She stirred the mixture vigorously. “Although it does have a very strong taste; I believe it has horehound in it.” To her relief, he did not object further and drank the concoction down.

“We will, of course, send for your servant if that would make you more comfortable. I suppose he could be here by the day after next.”

“It won't make me more comfortable,” he said gloomily. “But it will make him more comfortable. Even if you send no message at all, he will return here on his own. The moment I fail to arrive in London he will be certain I have been kidnapped or murdered or lured into some gaming hell.”

“Gaming hell?” Serena raised her eyebrows. “In rural Oxfordshire?”

That brought a brief smile, but almost immediately the gloomy scowl returned. “Vernon is a pessimist, especially where I am concerned.”

“Well,” she pointed out, “you
are
injured. Think how gratified he will be to have his fears confirmed for once.”

 

 

Clermont spent the next twenty-four hours in a state of dull misery. His head was throbbing viciously, with his wrist offering a counterpoint in a minor key. One ankle was swaddled in bandages and occasionally sent little stabs of pain up his leg. Overlaying all of it was a haze of nausea and dizziness, which made it impossible to fall asleep properly; most of the first evening the best he could do was to doze off for ten minutes at a time. He hated feeling queasy, hated it with a passion. He would rather slice open his face than suffer an hour's indigestion. At present, of course, he had both a gashed face and nausea.

In addition to his physical tribulations, a constant series of disquieting images presented themselves to him as he lay, half awake. Vernon in London, realizing what had likely happened. Vernon spending the entire journey back down to Burford composing a scathing lecture on his imprudent folly. Vernon delivering the lecture—that part was not so bad—but then fussing over him and treating him, as he always did in the presence of strangers, with a deference which bordered on idolatry. Clermont strongly preferred Serena Allen's brand of nursing, unsympathetic and brusque though it might be. His hostess, on the other hand, who came in several times and fluttered over him—literally fluttered, waving her hands like a distressed bird—had obviously seen his signet ring before he had remembered to take it off, and she looked likely to rival Vernon in deferential display. And the most disquieting image of all, the memory of the brown rope across the trail, the memory of the terrifying realization that there was nothing he could do to avoid it.