The Spy's Kiss by Nita Abrams

Author:Nita Abrams [Abrams, Nita]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Romance
ISBN: 9781420135664
Google: 7XFGAQAAQBAJ
Amazon: B00FQRO5DU
Barnesnoble: B00FQRO5DU
Goodreads: 1867774
Publisher: Zebra
Published: 2005-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

17

The conquest of the Bassingtons, Julien reflected, was a delicate balancing act, a house of cards constructed from layer upon layer of social innuendo. The Viscount was his pretext—an easy one; he found Simon rather appealing and could include the boy in genuine interests of his own without much difficulty. The lens grinder, in particular, had been a godsend. Julien had called twice now to confer with Simon about the construction of the telescope, and a further visit would be required to present the finished instrument. The layer above Simon, of course, was Serena Allen—the answer to any skeptics who wondered why a wealthy bachelor would act as an unpaid tutor to an eleven-year-old boy. Miss Allen’s reluctance to encourage his attentions was another godsend. Not only could Julien assure his conscience (at least most of the time) that she would be delighted when he eventually disappeared, but her resistance only made her aunt and uncle more eager to welcome him. The countess was constantly inviting him to join her (and her niece) for various engagements and outings. He and Philip were to dine there tonight, in fact, and then escort the countess, Mrs. Childe, and Miss Allen to a concert in Hanover Square.

“More diplomatic maneuvering,” said Philip from behind his newspaper. “Napoleon should have accepted the terms offered him a few weeks ago. Listen to this: ‘We can now confirm that a treaty has been signed at Chaumont, binding the allies to continue their campaign against Bonaparte. The agreement, drafted by Lord Castlereagh, promises to restore sovereignty to Holland and Italy. Spain will be governed by a Bourbon king. It remains only to settle the Austrian and Russian claims to the eastern territories.’ ”

Julien looked up from an essay in Bulletin of the Royal Institution, which was attempting to persuade him that wolves had a form of language. “Oh, is that all that remains? The merest trifle, to be sure.”

They were at the Alfred, a club Julien strongly preferred to the more fashionable establishments on St. James Street. It was quiet, it had an excellent library, and its membership was more diverse than the dandified precincts of White’s and Boodle’s. More intelligent, too. An older man sitting nearby looked up at Julien’s sarcastic comment and snorted in agreement.

“You are a pessimist,” said Derring.

“No, a realist. Austria and Russia are more afraid of each other at this point than they are of Napoleon. If he offers one of them help against the other, Castlereagh’s treaty won’t be worth the paper it’s written on.” Julien went back to his magazine, but a low cough interrupted him again. It was one of the Alfred’s waiters, holding a tray with an engraved card face up in the center. Three steps behind the servant, not bothering to wait for a response to the card, an elderly man with a hooked nose and piercing light-blue eyes was leaning on a gold-headed walking stick. He was wearing silk, although it was barely noon. He always wore silk.

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