The Spy's Reward (8 page)

Meyer frowned. “She is not still asleep?”

“No, of course not. You have not seen her?” She turned to Rodrigo, feeling the first tendrils of panic. “You?”

Their appalled faces provided the answer.

She whirled and ran back to the bedchamber. Her daughter's side of the bed was an untidy mound of covers; there was clothing scattered on the floor and draped over one of the chairs. Her hairbrush and rouge pot were still on the dressing table. But her half boots were missing, and her warm bonnet, and her velvet reticule. Could Diana have gone off, leaving her things all over the room? The answer was, unfortunately, yes. In Diana's world someone else always picked up the stockings and screwed the cover on the rouge pot and packed the cloak bag.

As Abigail ran down the stairs she told herself that Diana had not been abducted by angry peasants. She was in the coffee room, she had gone out to the stable, she had taken a walk. Meyer, moving almost as quickly as Abigail, was giving orders in Spanish over his shoulder to Rodrigo as he clattered down behind her.

The coffee room held four parties eating an early dinner, who looked up, astounded, as Abigail burst into the room. The innkeeper's wife hurried over, all solicitude.

“Have you seen my daughter?” Abigail asked, cutting off the woman's flowery greeting. “Or has anyone else seen her? Has she come down this morning?”

“But yes, madame.” The woman beamed. “Just one moment.” She hurried away.

Abigail would have collapsed in grateful relief if Meyer had not steadied her.

“Voilà,” said the woman, returning triumphantly. “My husband is very distracted by the news of the army, madame, so I made sure to put this in a safe place when mademoiselle gave it to him. And he wished me to tell you that it is our most reliable groom, Jean-Pierre, who has accompanied her.”

The note was unsigned, but Diana's rounded handwriting was unmistakable. Abigail read it, sighed, and handed it to Meyer.

His mouth twisted. “It seems to be our morning for notes from runaway children,” he observed. “Do you ride horses as well as mules?”

She nodded.

“Rodrigo can pack our bags and follow in the gig. How soon can you be ready?”

“If you would wait here a moment?”

She ran upstairs, snatched up her bonnet and shawl and gloves, and ran back down. He was still standing at the foot of the staircase. “I am ready now.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Without a coat?”

“Diana took it,” she informed him. “Her pelisse is too tight for riding. And no, her pelisse will not fit me; I am too tall. My righteous anger will keep me warm.”

That provoked a wry, elusive smile. “Anger can cool quickly, especially on a blustery day in March. Rodrigo will find you something while the groom saddles the horses.”

9

Anthony was plodding toward Gap. It was a fairly level road, which was a blessing, since any slope—up or down—strained his taped ribs uncomfortably. He had asked for the laziest, most placid beast in the stables, and was going so slowly that even farmers' carts were passing him. Since the pass beyond Gap was one of the few permitting travelers to reach Grenoble from this region, the road was busy, and he was passed rather frequently. At least half of his fellow travelers turned around in their vehicles or saddles to stare at him, obviously puzzled that a lone rider with very little baggage should be keeping his saddle horse to a pace more natural to an ox. He distracted himself from his misery by guessing at their identities and errands as they went by. Some were obvious: the anxious priest, the peasant family with baskets of root vegetables. Some were intriguing, like the man wearing a military helmet but civilian dress who tore by at a gallop and then tore by again in the opposite direction a few minutes later.

When there was no one else in sight, however, he invariably ended up reliving yesterday's fight in his head. No matter how many times he tried to make it come out differently, it always ended the same way, with the two Frenchmen pummeling him to his knees in front of Diana Hart. His only, tiny victory was that he had managed not to groan out loud. That was one good thing about traveling by himself: he could groan as much as he liked. The way he reckoned it, in fact, he was owed at least twenty-two groans for the twenty-two punches he had taken in silence yesterday, and he sometimes allowed himself an extra one when he was jolted painfully enough to produce an involuntary grunt.

There were also, of course, disadvantages to setting off alone. He had to be very careful where he stopped, because getting on and off the horse was a tricky proposition. Consequently, when he saw an old couple selling candles next to a roadside shrine he drew rein. There was a handy chunk of half-quarried stone to use as a mounting block, and if that was not sufficient, he could ask the man to help him. He was sidling his horse up to the piece of stone when he heard riders come up behind him and stop.

“There he is,” said a female voice in French. The hoofbeats started up again, trotting towards him.

He couldn't turn around—he had already discovered that any twisting movements were agonizingly painful. So he levered his right leg over the cantle and slid awkwardly off the horse, turning his head back towards the new arrivals.

It was Diana, of course. She was wearing a thick cloak, but her cheeks were pink with cold, and little wisps of blond hair were blowing around the brim of her bonnet. She gave him a too-cheerful smile, as though there was nothing at all odd about a sheltered, eighteen-year-old heiress riding out alone to rescue an adult male. Well, not alone. There was someone with her: a groom, probably from the inn. But she clearly believed Anthony was in need of rescuing. Unsurprising, after yesterday.

“Tell my mother I have come up with Monsieur Roth,” she said to the groom, handing him a few coins.

The servant nodded and wheeled smartly back towards Sisteron.

“Well,” said Diana, looking down at Anthony. “You certainly did not get very far. Jean-Pierre told me that you had taken the slowest nag in Sisteron, and it seems he was not exaggerating.”

“Miss Hart.” He touched the brim of his hat. Bowing was not a good option at the moment.

“You are very foolish to attempt to sit a horse today, you know.” She nudged her horse alongside him. “Can you help me down? Oh no, perhaps you should not.” With a quick twist of the reins she brought her horse around the other side of the block and hopped off right next to him.

The old woman, seeing a potential customer, hurried over with an apronful of candles. Diana smiled prettily, and, encouraged, the woman launched into her sales pitch. This was a very ancient shrine, very famous. Many miracles had been reported here. If mademoiselle would light a taper to the blessed virgin of Le Poêt, her prayer would not go unfulfilled.

Diana bought two, handed Anthony her reins, and went over to the miniature building which housed the statue. Incredulous, he realized that she was actually lighting the candles. He had taken a savage beating yesterday after she had boasted of being Jewish, and today she was praying to the Madonna of some decrepit little village in the middle of nowhere.

“Now we can go back,” she announced as she returned.

The thought of retracing his slow, aching steps back to Sisteron was unbearable, but of course he could not leave her here by herself. He groaned. Aloud.

She looked alarmed, but for the first time since he had met her, Anthony did not care what Diana Hart thought.

He beckoned the old man over. “If you could help me?” Between the stone and a few shoves from below he managed to mount again. “And mademoiselle.” He indicated Diana with a jerk of his head. Once she was up, he turned his horse and without a word headed back south.

She pulled up alongside him, holding back her fresher and faster horse with a visible effort. “You are vexed with me.” She sounded surprised.

“Yes, I am vexed. It was a perfectly reasonable decision on my part to leave early, so that I could travel more slowly. Now, because you sent your groom away, I must escort you back to Sisteron. I will now ride double the distance, and will be compelled to keep pace with everyone else tomorrow instead of resting.” He was growing angrier by the minute. “I fail to see why you chose to meddle in my affairs. I do not need assistance from a schoolgirl. I am a grown man. I have traveled all over Europe without any assistance for five years now.”

This was not quite true. Anthony usually traveled with a trusted family servant whose role sometimes was more similar to that of a nursemaid than that of a valet. When the news of Napoleon's escape had reached him in Grasse, however, Anthony had sent Battista galloping back to Naples, with instructions to stop at all the bank's courier stations en route and get the news out as fast as possible.

“But you are injured,” she pointed out. Her chin had a stubborn little jut which was, he had to admit, very attractive.

Why was he arguing with a spoiled flirt? He gave an exasperated sigh and kicked his horse into a trot. His ribs gave an agonized protest. Perhaps a canter would be easier. Without looking to see if Diana was keeping pace, he kicked again.

She pulled in front of him, forcing him to a stop. Her face was white with anger, and her horse, sensing her agitation, danced uneasily beneath her. “You,” she informed him, breathing hard, “are
not
a gentleman. I beg your pardon for feeling some concern for your welfare. How dared I presume to know better than you, with your
vast
experience of the world. Well, I may be a schoolgirl, but after watching you on the journey from Barrême I will tell you this: I can outride you any day of the week, even before you broke your rib. I do not need your escort. It is only twenty minutes back to the inn, and the road is well frequented. Go on, go off by yourself! And I hope your slug of a horse deposits you in the next available ditch!” With that she turned her horse, brought the animal rearing up in an impressive display of equestrian temper, and dug in her heels.

Swearing, Anthony followed as best he could. His horse did not seem to have a gallop; it subsided into a canter and then a trot after a few paces, and neither kicks nor the crop had any lasting effect. But then Anthony heard the scream. There was absolutely no doubt about whose voice that was. He leaned over the neck of the horse and brought his crop down savagely on the animal's flank. He forgot about his ribs, his still-swollen mouth, his aching shoulder. Shouting, plying the crop, he tore down the road and around the corner.

At a crossroads just ahead, Diana was sitting frozen on her horse. Three men surrounded her. One had a rifle cradled in his hand; the other two had pikes. Over to the side two more men were setting up a tent. They were all wearing bits and pieces of old uniforms; the man with the rifle was in fact the helmeted galloper he had noticed earlier. The uniforms looked depressingly familiar, at least to someone who had lived in Italy while Napoleon's troops had occupied it.

At Anthony's approach the helmet-wearer swung the gun up and cocked it. “Halt!” he called. “In the name of the emperor!”

Anthony halted, and one of the tent-peggers, at a gesture from the leader, came up and took the bridle of his horse.

“Your papers,” demanded the leader.

Anthony handed them over.

“You are English,” the man said coldly, scanning the folded sheets. “As is mademoiselle. Are you together?”

“Yes,” he said, just as Diana said scornfully, “No!”

The man looked up at Anthony. “Mademoiselle has no papers. This is a very serious matter. And your papers are not in order. They are signed by an official of the false Bourbon usurpers.”

The leader must have been some sort of regional guardsman under Napoleon, Anthony thought. And now that Napoleon was on the march, the man had reassembled the fragments of his little patrol and was back in business, as officious as ever. More officious: in the old days, he might have taken a bribe. Not today, not from an Englishman.

“I noticed you earlier,” the Frenchman said. “You were heading north, now you are going south.” He sounded very suspicious. “And now mademoiselle, too, goes first one way and then the other. You are messengers, perhaps? Spies?”

“We are not!” said Diana indignantly.

Anthony gave her a glare which promised that if she said one more word he would personally gag her.

“Then perhaps monsieur can explain these odd wanderings to and fro on a road of great strategic importance?”

Inspiration came to him. Inspiration and revenge. “Mademoiselle is my fiancée,” he explained.

Diana swallowed, but said nothing.

He gave the guardsman a wry smile. “We had—a quarrel. I, er, chose to travel on ahead of the rest of our party. She followed.” He shrugged as if to say,
What can a man do
?

“And where are these others?” The man was still suspicious.

Diana pointed. Her voice was shaking slightly. “There.”

 

 

“I hope you are not very angry with your nephew,” said Abigail. They were walking their horses up a gentle hill along the right bank of the river, giving them a rest after a long, fast canter. “It was not so very unreasonable for him to go on ahead; he is right that it will be better for him to travel slowly.”

“It would have been even better for him to rest,” said Meyer curtly. “And to go off without any attendant! Without consulting me first! Without even telling Rodrigo, who would certainly have gone with him if he could not persuade him to stay! No, it was pure melodrama. I have always thought him very level-headed, but he has been behaving like a halfwit since—” He stopped.

“Ever since he met Diana?”

He grimaced. “Yes. Well.”

She pushed back the rolled-up sleeves of the man's coat she had borrowed. “I am sorry to say that the phenomenon is now very familiar to me. In Italy, a young man threw himself into the Arno after she sent back a necklace he gave her. There was an aborted duel in Nice. And last week, in Digne-les-Bains, two elderly gentlemen came to blows over who would pull her chair out at one of the tables on the terrace.”

“Did the young man drown?”

“Oh no,” she said. “He was fished out quite promptly. And it had just the effect he desired; Diana loves to nurse hurt creatures. She flew to his bedside and cried over him. I had to make an excuse to leave Florence early.”

“Forgive me if I offend you,” he said after a minute, “but I find it difficult to believe that someone as calm and sensible as you could have raised a daughter like Diana.”

“I did not raise her.”

He looked at her, astonished.

“Diana lived with her father from the age of eight until his death fifteen months ago. While he was alive, I saw her only twice a year.” She paused, then said, “I do not wish you to think I am excusing myself, or apologizing for Diana. I am well aware of her faults, but she has many excellent qualities as well. She is intelligent and well educated. She is loyal to those she loves, and she can be very gentle and affectionate.”

“Not to my nephew,” he muttered.

“Ah, but he is injured now,” she pointed out.

“He will not take kindly to being nursed, Mrs. Hart. Not even by your daughter. Nothing, in fact, could be more likely to dampen his ardor.”

“Well, that is all to the good then, is it not? It would be awkward to cut out your own nephew.”

“Very awkward,” he said grimly. Then, in a different voice, “What the devil!”

Abigail drew herself up stiffly. “Mr. Meyer, I cannot permit you to use those—those heathen oaths in my presence.”

He paid no attention to her whatsoever. He was staring at something farther down the road. After another moment, she had come far enough over the crest of the small rise to see what he was looking at. Her heart leaped. There was Diana. And young Roth. Then she realized that the men around them were not other travelers. They were wearing uniforms, of sorts. One of them had a sinister-looking helmet with a spike; he carried a rifle. Two others held the bridle of Roth and Diana's horses.

“Who are those men?” she asked, alarmed. She pulled up her gelding, but Meyer flicked its rump with his own crop.

“Keep moving,” he said in a low voice. “Not too fast, not too slow. And do not contradict anything I say. I believe you to be quite intelligent, Mrs. Hart. We will see if I am right.”

“Who are they?” she repeated breathlessly as her horse broke into a jolting trot.