The Spy's Reward (7 page)

When he opened the parlor door and saw Abigail slumped in a chair, pale and distraught, with what could only be a bloodstain across the shoulder of her dress, he realized that he was perhaps not as callous as he had supposed. His initial panic subsided, however, as she rose to greet him. The blood was not hers, he saw, and she was steady on her feet. Something had obviously shaken her very badly, however, because she actually gave him a small, tremulous smile.

“I am very glad to see you. We have been wondering whether you had also come to grief.”

“What happened?” He looked around the room and saw the telltale signs of a brawl: crooked furniture, a rip in the fire screen, the print of a dirty boot on the side of the baseboard.

“Some drunken Frenchmen forced their way in here and Mr. Roth was injured when they refused to leave. He is not badly hurt,” she added hastily, seeing the look on Meyer's face. “And Mr. Santos was able to evict the men.”

“What of you? And Miss Hart?”

She assured him that they were unharmed.

There was a perfunctory tap at the door, and Rodrigo came in. He, too, looked relieved to see his master.

“I believe Mr. Roth could use your assistance,” Abigail said to the valet. Her cool tone implied that Anthony had been waiting for that assistance for quite some time. “He would not let me help him undress, and I thought it best not to send for any of the inn's servants.”

“I am very sorry, señora. I was dealing with the town officials.”

She nodded grudgingly. “Now that you are here, I will go and change. Please send for me if I am needed.”

Meyer followed Rodrigo into the bedchamber. He still was not sure exactly what had happened, but he could make a fair guess, and that guess was confirmed the minute he saw his nephew. Anthony was lying on his back, carefully breathing in an odd rhythm. His eyes were open, fixed bleakly on a spot just below the ceiling. There was some sort of poultice lying discarded in a damp lump on the pillow. He did not move or look around when the door opened.

Meyer tried to think of something heartening to say, and failed. Sighing, he pulled a chair over to the side of the bed and sat down. Anthony didn't look at him.

“I didn't even get one blow in,” his nephew said finally. “Not one. They held me up against the wall like a side of beef on a hook and battered me until I fell over. With—with the ladies watching.” He smiled bitterly. “And then Rodrigo came tearing in and knocked both of them down. Oh, and then I threw up.”

A fairly comprehensive catalog of humiliations, Meyer thought. So much for his hopes of Anthony's courtship. “How did it happen?” He kept his voice neutral.

Anthony gave a disgusted snort. “My fault. Mrs. Hart was looking for you, and we ended up interrogating an ostler out by the stables with five or six yokels as audience. Two of them deduced we were English and after a few glasses in the public room came to tell us we were not welcome.”

“And Miss Hart threw oil on the fire,” Meyer guessed.

Anthony sat halfway up. “She is not to blame! They were drunk, spoiling for a fight!”

Rodrigo seized this opportunity to start undressing Roth, moving very carefully. Meyer looked at the bruises across his shoulders and torso. One enormous spot on the side of his chest had already turned nearly black. “That looks bad.”

“Mrs. Hart sent for the apothecary. She thinks a rib may be broken.”

Meyer shot a quick look at Rodrigo.

“I intercepted the man and sent him away, señor. And I dissuaded the town guard from detaining the two drunks. I did not think you would wish any more attention called to our party than necessary.”

“Good,” said Meyer, abstracted. He was pressing gently on Anthony's side, behind the bruise. A gasp told him that Abigail had been correct in her diagnosis. “Get something to use for a binding,” he said over his shoulder.

Rodrigo disappeared, and returned a moment later with a long strip of frayed cloth. Meyer wound it around tightly, watching Anthony's face as he did so. “Breathe,” he ordered.

Anthony took a shallow breath.

“Deeper.”

He grimaced, then obeyed.

Meyer tightened the bandage a bit more. “Try again.”

“Better,” Anthony admitted grudgingly. He allowed Rodrigo to finish undressing him in silence, but when Meyer turned to go, he said sharply, “Sir, wait!”

“What is it?”

“I—I want you to teach me to fight. To box, and shoot a pistol, and use a knife.” He saw Meyer's hesitation and read it as contempt. “I know I can never be very good at it—I know James started boxing lessons at twelve—I know I'm clumsy, and small, and even riding a horse for eight hours makes my knees shake. But surely I can learn enough so that I can hit them next time. Just once or twice. Or fire a gun, if need be.”

“You are in no condition right now—”

Anthony cut him off. “Will the next time wait until I am healed?”

He had a point. Meyer surrendered. “Sunday. If you still wish it.” Sunday night would be Rodrigo's turn to ride back towards the advancing troops—or so he thought until he got up to leave. It turned out that Anthony was not the only one who had been injured. As Rodrigo held the door open for him, Meyer saw that the servant's right thumb was swollen to twice its normal size. He raised his eyebrows inquiringly at the Spaniard.

“Dislocated,” Rodrigo said with a sour smile. “I've popped it back in, but it may be a day or so before I can use it properly.”

“Well.” He recalled Rodrigo's careful movements when undressing Anthony and swore under his breath. “It seems I am to enjoy another moonlight ride tonight.”

“Señor, I can ride!”

“Don't be absurd. I won't go very far; I know my limits.”

“You can go tomorrow, during the day, while the ladies are resting.”

“Now that would be inconspicuous,” Meyer said dryly. “An eight-hour absence.” He looked around the empty parlor, frowning. “Do you think perhaps I should exchange rooms with Mrs. Hart and her daughter? We could have a bed made up for you out here. I would be a bit easier in my mind if they were not sleeping in a room which opened directly onto the hallway.”

“An excellent notion, señor.” Rodrigo looked considerably more cheerful.

“Oh,” said Meyer, “I almost forgot. You owe me five francs.”

8

Meyer climbed slowly up the stairs of the inn, hoping there was coffee. He had been so exhausted when Rodrigo came out to the stable to help him unsaddle his horse he had not been able to absorb half of what he had been told. As he unlocked the door to the parlor, his nose answered the question: yes. There was a pot, still warm, waiting on the table. He silently blessed his longtime servant and swallowed a cup in three gulps, still standing; he was afraid that if he sat down he would have considerable difficulty in getting up.

He had found the journey back towards Digne exhausting and uncomfortable, but not otherwise difficult. He was not the only one on the road, however. Riders were still galloping north, some singly, some in groups. Where possible Meyer had withdrawn into the woods at the first sound of another horse. He had regretted that choice when he reached Malijai. There he had learned that one of the men he had avoided was none other than Embry, Napoleon's physician. Digne's royalist militia had stopped and searched Embry earlier in the day, and had thrown him into prison when he proved to be carrying messages to Napoleon's supporters in Grenoble. Unfortunately, Digne's municipal jailer was not as vigilant as the militia. Embry had escaped, and was now once again on his way north to prepare the way for his master. This was indisputable proof Napoleon had chosen the mountain route; Meyer had judged such a choice piece of news worth a pigeon from his precious little flock and had ridden back to Sisteron without bothering to cast any farther south for more information.

What time was it? He pulled out his watch. Nearly six. He could manage four or even five hours' sleep, since they were not traveling today. Perhaps he should plead some slight indisposition, spend the whole day in bed. It was very likely Rodrigo would not be fit to ride tonight either. He rubbed his unshaven jaw, yawned, and opened the door to his room.

It was not his room. Too late he recalled that he himself had proposed the switch. And although he had been very quiet, he could not simply close the door and leave, because Abigail Hart was sitting by a low fire, very wide awake, looking straight at him. She was wearing a dressing gown over her nightgown, and a shawl over that, and was in every way save one far more modestly covered than she had been yesterday evening in the parlor. The exception was her hair. It fell over her shoulders in a thick braid, glinting here and there as flickers of light from the fireplace ran across it.

She always wore caps, of course—and they were not token wisps of lace. He had never seen anything more of her hair than a scant half inch at the edge of her temples. Now he stood staring, in a kind of daze, noting that it was in fact many different colors: brown and light brown and dark gold and pale blond, each strand different, like the variegated wood of some exotic tree. It was long—nearly to her waist. She had not even made the token concession to fashion of cutting a few locks short in the front to curl around her face. Instead the brown-gold bands framed her wide forehead, flowing back and down into the braid at the nape of her neck. He knew he was staring but could not look away; she was staring back, puzzled and alarmed.

God
, he thought,
please let me move. Let me think of something to say
.

She stood up. That broke the spell, although it also filled him with a vague sense of danger.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, his voice hoarse with fatigue. “I had forgotten that this was no longer my chamber.” He started to back out and close the door.

“No, wait,” she said, glancing quickly over at the bed. The huddled form under the covers was presumably Diana. Abigail hesitated, then seemed to make up her mind. “Let us go out into the other room. I must speak with you.”

He held the door open and followed her back into the parlor.

It was cold in there; the fire had nearly gone out. He busied himself bringing it back to life, giving himself time to prepare some story to explain his stained, day-old clothing, and, more damningly, the unmistakable smell of horse.

“I could not sleep,” she said finally.

Still crouched by the hearth, he looked over. “Nor could I.”

“I at least went to my room and undressed. You did not.”

“No.” He rose stiffly, dusting off the knees of his buckskins.

Her expression was guarded, watchful. She sat down tentatively on the edge of one of the chairs and studied him, frowning.

He braced himself for the inevitable question:
Where have you been?
He could concoct something, he supposed. Even half-asleep, he was an excellent liar. He enjoyed lying, in fact, practiced it the way singers practice their scales, telling small but unnecessary falsehoods to everyone he knew, even to his own family, as a way of keeping himself ready for future performances. But for some reason he did not want to lie to Abigail Hart. Since it would be both dangerous and unpleasant to tell her the truth, however, he was at point-non-plus.

She cleared her throat.

Here it comes
, he thought. But he was wrong.

“I would like to show you something.” Her expression was an odd mixture of embarrassment and determination.

He blinked, surprised.

She got up and went over to a small case full of bottles which lay open on the sofa, returning with a folded sheet of paper. “This reached me just before you arrived in Digne. It is from my late husband's cousin.”

It was still too dark to read with the shutters closed; he went over and opened them. The sun was nearly up. As he read, curiosity quickly gave way to disgust. Joshua Hart made Meyer's brother-in-law look like a master of tact and diplomacy.

“A glowing recommendation,” he commented dryly, handing it back to her. “I am amazed you did not flee Digne the moment you received it, so as to put as much distance as possible between yourself and the paragon Mr. Hart describes.”

She colored slightly. “Joshua can be rather overbearing, and I will confess that my reaction to his letter was very much as you suspect. Circumstances, however, intervened.”

“I was happy to be of service,” he said, still uneasy. This conversation was safer than the “Where were you?” conversation, but not by much.

Her eyes narrowed. He had come to know that particular expression of hers quite well in the past few days.

“Were you?”

For a moment he thought, with a hollow feeling in his stomach, that she had somehow learned the truth.

But her next question proved that her fears were of a different nature. She held up the letter and asked bluntly, “Did you know of this? Was this your idea?”

“No to both questions, although I suspected something when my brother-in-law proposed that I meet your party and escort you back to England. My friends and family have been attempting to find me a new wife for many years.” He added, with a dry smile, “I was led to believe that Miss Hart was an invalid, traveling with a paid companion.”

A small, matching smile appeared. “You must have been rather surprised.”

He bowed. “Let us say that both the invalid and her companion proved far more agreeable than I had expected.”

Flattery did not sit well with Abigail Hart, that was clear. Her smile vanished. “And are you, in fact, intending to pay court to her?” she asked, raising her chin belligerently.

“Am I intending to pursue Miss Hart?” His voice grew very cold. “To take advantage of a terrified young woman who has been thrown into my company because civil war has broken out in France? I see that your opinion of me is very low, madam.”

“I would not say that.” She looked uncomfortable. After a moment, she added, “I apologize if my concern for Diana led me to imply that you have been guilty of an attempt to turn our situation to your own profit.”

The hollow feeling in his stomach became a gaping pit. If she asked him now where he had been all night, he knew he would lie, and hate himself for lying.

She went over to the fireplace and threw the letter into the blaze. It sat for a moment atop a log, still folded, and then caught fire and uncurled. She watched the paper burn, and said, without turning around, “If, after we have returned to London, and a suitable interval has elapsed, you should wish to address my daughter, I would not object.”

Wonderful. He pictured her and Eli and Joshua Hart herding him like a reluctant sheep into a sitting room where Diana Hart sat demurely waiting, while Anthony glowered on the sidelines. Perhaps he should take back his offer to teach Anthony to handle a pistol.

With a sigh, she stood up. “We should both try to get some sleep. Good night, Mr. Meyer.”

“Good night.” He made the phrase less absurd by closing the shutters to block out the brightening sky. In the newly darkened room, Abigail was only a shadow, moving slowly away and then vanishing into the even-darker bedchamber. He stood staring at the closed door for a long moment before going off, equally slowly, to find his own bed.

 

 

It was almost noon when Abigail finally managed to get out of bed. She had come half-awake several times since her awkward conversation with Meyer, but had dropped back off again before she could force herself to get up. When she saw the time on her silver traveling clock, she gave a gasp of dismay before remembering that today was Saturday. A day of rest.

Diana was nowhere to be seen. Presumably she was out in the parlor, or perhaps downstairs in the coffee room. Abigail hoped that she was tending poor Anthony Roth, but she rather doubted that Diana would offer; and even if she did, Roth would probably jump out the window the moment she came into his room.

When she rang, a maidservant appeared so promptly that Abigail was startled. The girl's nervous curtseys and stammered apologies made it clear that the innkeeper was trying to make amends for yesterday's incident. Abigail allowed herself to be mollified, especially when two large cans of hot water and a pot of chocolate appeared. As the maid helped her to dress and put up her hair, she found herself relaxing, savoring the thought that today there would be no freezing, bone-jolting carriage ride. She gave the girl a very large tip and sallied forth, feeling remarkably well for someone who had spent all night fretting first about her daughter and then about Napoleon. Her conversation with Meyer had reassured her somewhat about the former. The latter problem was less personal but more intractable. At least now, in the daylight, she was able to tell herself firmly that from all accounts there had been remarkably little violence so far.

Her cautious optimism lasted only as long as it took her to step out into the parlor. In the other bedchamber, whose door was open, Meyer and his servant were having a low-voiced but furious argument in Spanish. She did not speak the language, but when she heard words like
catástrofe
and
imper-donable
and
desastroso
it was not difficult for a woman who knew French and Italian to understand that something was wrong. Then the servant saw her, and made an urgent gesture to Meyer, who immediately fell silent. That, too, was frightening.

“What is it?” she asked nervously, going over to the doorway of Roth's room. The bed, she saw, was empty.

Meyer ran his hand through his hair. He was shaved and dressed, but he looked haggard. “My nephew decided that his injuries required him to travel more slowly than the rest of the party, so he left early. I would have told him he was not fit to ride unaccompanied, but I was unfortunately asleep upstairs, and Rodrigo was up at the city hall hoping for fresh news from the south.”

“But we are not traveling today,” she said. There was a quick exchange of glances between the two men. “Are we?”

“Anthony did not suppose we were, at the time that he left. In his note he wavered between portraying himself as an invalid who would hamper our progress and as our advance party in Gap. It is all an excuse, of course. He blames himself for what happened yesterday.”

She could well imagine Roth deciding to flee from the witnesses to yesterday's affair. “Someone must go after him,” she said, worried. “It will be very painful, riding with his broken rib.”

“We will all go. I regret the necessity of traveling today, but Anthony is not the only advance party who has proceeded farther north than I anticipated. Rodrigo tells me that General Cambronne is already here in Sisteron, and Napoleon will be here late tonight or tomorrow morning. He must be marching his men on three hours' sleep; it is madness.”

“You are a fine one to talk,” the Spaniard muttered.

Ignoring this comment, Meyer asked her, “Have you breakfasted?”

The news that Bonaparte and his troops would be here, in this very town, perhaps in this very hostelry, before twenty-four hours had passed, made her dizzy. “It is no matter. I would prefer to leave as soon as possible.” She looked around the parlor. “Where is Diana? Is she already outside? Have you told her our plans have changed?”