The Spy's Reward

by Nita Abrams

  5

  “We have been traveling for two days and we are back where we began,” Diana said, tossing her bonnet onto the bed. “In tedious, tedious Digne-les-Bains. Only now we have a horrid little room in a horrid little inn instead of our lovely rooms at the Auberge des Cygnes.”

  The Auberge had been full—or rather, Abigail suspected, reluctant to house English guests. It had taken Rodrigo several hours to find them accommodation for the night, and she shuddered to think what they were probably paying for the two grudgingly conceded bedchambers at Le Mercure. She did not know precisely what the charges were, because Meyer had refused to let her pay them. Or to pay for the horses, or the carriage, or the hamper of food Rodrigo had somehow procured before they left Barrême, or even for her lodging at the Cheval Blanc. He had pointed out this morning that thanks to Hervé’s treachery she had very little ready coin and her letter of credit was unlikely to be honored in the small mountain towns on their route. She had conceded this and had proposed—quite reasonably, she thought—to keep an account and repay him when they reached London. But in a typical display of high-handed male arrogance, he had informed her that he had better things to do with his time than collect receipts for every coin they spent. Then he had stalked off before she could reply.

  That was the first argument. The second argument was about their papers. Meyer had asked for them before setting off from Barrême and had then, without so much as a by-your-leave, taken them away.

  “What have you done with our papers?” Abigail had asked when he had returned empty-handed.

  “Put them somewhere safe.” He was tightening the girth on his horse, not looking at her.

  “Where? What if I need them?”

  “I will fetch them out.”

  “Mr. Meyer.” She spoke softly, slowly. Now he did look up. For some reason he seemed almost amused, and that enraged her further. “Those are my papers, mine and my daughter’s.”

  “I do not dispute that.”

  “Then why have you stolen them?”

  “I have not ‘stolen’ them. But I do not wish you to show those papers to any Frenchman with a sash on his coat who asks to see them. I am charged with your safety; in the interests of that safety I must reserve the right to decide when to show our papers and to whom.”

  She forgot to be angry for a moment; she was too shocked. “But—we cannot refuse to show our papers!”

  “There will be many travelers without papers on the roads of France this week, I assure you. A few coins will be just as welcome in most cases, and far safer.” He gave one last, savage jerk on the strap and walked away, adding, over his shoulder, “And unfortunately for your accounts, I am afraid that it is not customary to give receipts for bribes.”

  She was not going to let him march off like that twice in a row. Abandoning dignity, she ran after him.

  “Mr. Meyer!”

  He turned.

  “You do understand that without those papers Diana and I cannot go anywhere on our own? That we are virtually your prisoners?”

  “It is at the very least a mutual bondage, madam.” His mouth was set in a grim line. “I cannot leave you; I have pledged my word to protect you. We travel at your pace, along a route you have chosen, to your destination. You will forgive me if I attempt to ensure that we reach that destination without attracting the attention of Bonapartist mobs.”

  That time she had been the one to walk away, resolving not to speak to the insufferable Mr. Meyer for the rest of the day. Perhaps he had read her mind; perhaps he had made a similar resolve. It was now nearly ten hours later, and she had caught no more than a glimpse of him in that entire time. He had ridden outside the carriage throughout the journey back to Digne, even though it was a cold, dreary day. At every halt he had vanished, reappearing only as they were about to get under way again. When they reached the little spa town he had vanished again. He was making it quite clear that he wanted nothing to do with the Harts.

  Unfortunately, one of the Harts was behaving equally badly. While the uncle had been pointedly absent, the nephew had been gracious and attentive. It was young Roth who had chatted with determined cheerfulness in the carriage, Roth who had handed them in and out of the vehicle, Roth who had procured hot drinks, Roth who had remained with them at Digne’s posting station while the servant hunted for lodging, Roth who had escorted them, a few minutes ago, to this room and tipped the servant who carried their meager luggage. And every overture by Anthony Roth had been met with the coldest, most contemptuous response imaginable on Diana’s part.

  “Have you visited this part of France before, Miss Hart?” Roth would ask.

  “No, I have not.” In a tone that might have been acceptable if Diana were traveling on a stage coach and some stranger had leered at her. Or perhaps not even then.

  At this point Abigail would hastily break in. “It has been so difficult to travel, of course, while the war was on. Although I understand that you have been doing business in Italy for some time now. In Naples? We very much enjoyed our brief stay in Italy. Diana, did you not say only the other day how charming you found Florence?” And so on. Abigail did not have a talent for babbling; her efforts had likely only rubbed salt in Roth’s wounds.

  Abigail took off her bonnet and put it down next to Diana’s. Part of her knew that ten hours of rough roads, combined with her irritation at Meyer, might make this a poor moment to speak calmly and firmly to her daughter about her rude behavior. But she felt obliged to make the attempt.

  “Diana, if today was a sample of how you mean to treat Mr. Roth I warn you right now that I will not tolerate it,” she said. “How could you be so uncivil?”

  At Abigail’s indignant question, Diana lifted her chin. “I did not wish to encourage his attentions.”

  “You cannot tell me that you do not know how to discourage a young man’s attentions in a less brutal manner. I have been watching you encourage and discourage would-be gallants all over France for many weeks now.”

  “Do you think me a flirt, Mama?” She lifted one eyebrow in a manner calculated to remind her mother of just how flirtatious she could be.

  They had had this conversation before, including the eyebrow. With an effort, Abigail repressed an impulse to stalk across the room and shake her daughter until her teeth rattled. For someone who had seen her mother only twice a year from the age of eight to the age of seventeen, Diana had an uncanny instinct for the precise phrase and gesture that would irritate Abigail the most.

  “We are not discussing flirtation. We are discussing common courtesy.”

  Diana raised both eyebrows this time. “Oh? It seemed to me that you were not very courteous to Mr. Meyer earlier today.”

  Abigail thought of several responses: “Two wrongs do not make a right.” Or, more to the point, “Mr. Meyer is the most provoking man I have ever met.” Instead, she took a deep breath and said quietly, “I did not behave well, I admit it. But I was hoping that you would make up for my lapse. Instead you outdid me.”

  That spiked Diana’s guns; she had expected Abigail to defend herself. She looked down, uncertain how to respond, then capitulated—not without a small grimace of distaste. “I will try to be more polite, Mama, but he is very tedious.”

  Everything was tedious today, according to Diana. The carriage, the weather, the meager luncheon at the mountain tavern, the book Abigail had offered to lend her.

  “I found him a very pleasant and well-informed young man.”

  “That is not what I meant, Mama. It is his manner. You know what I am talking about: the way he turns red when I look at him, and stumbles when he helps me out of the carriage, and stares at me when I pretend to be asleep so as to escape his attention.”

  Abigail did indeed know what Diana was talking about. Roth was clearly smitten, and he was not the type to interest Diana. He was short, with a pale complexion and fair hair. He had nice eyes—at least Abigail thought them attractive—but they were blue. And at the moment, he could barel
y walk properly; evidently he had ridden hard the day before and was still recovering. Diana preferred tall, dark, athletic men. Like Nathan Meyer.

  On cue, her daughter strolled over to the window and said pensively, “Mr. Roth does not look much like his uncle, does he?” A pause. “By the way, will Mr. Meyer be joining us for supper?”

  “We will be eating in our room.”

  “What?” Diana spun around.

  Abigail held up the note the inn’s servant had brought up with their bags. “Mr. Meyer sends his compliments, but there are no private parlors available. He will arrange for a meal to be brought up to the room, since we are fatigued and will wish to retire early.” She did not bother to conceal the irritation in her voice.

  “Well!”

  And before Abigail could stop her, Diana had marched to the door and was headed downstairs, with Abigail hurrying after her. She could not prevent Diana from making a scene—she had tried twice before on this trip, and failed both times—but she might be able to contain the damage. Although if Diana was planning to light into Nathan Meyer, Abigail was not sure she wanted to stop her.

  There was no scene. Diana, and Abigail behind her, took one look at the boisterous crowd in the public room of the Mercure and retreated precipitately back upstairs. Diana even locked the door. They looked at each other sheepishly.

  “Our room seems very clean for—for this sort of place,” Diana said tentatively. Then she started to giggle. “Mother, did you see what the fat woman in pink was wearing on her head? It looked like a dead rabbit!”

  Meyer was getting ready to leave again. He opened the shutters and peered out at the sky. “Still cloudy. I hope the moon comes out; that road will be nearly impassible in the dark.” It would not be an easy trip even if the moon did appear. He had been on horseback all day, and now he was facing an additional forty-mile roundtrip over two passes.

  “You should know that road quite well by now,” Rodrigo said dryly. “I believe this will be your fourth encounter with the Col de Chaudon in two days.”

  Nathan slung a battered dispatch case over his shoulder. “Get some sleep. If they do not turn west at Castellane, it will be your turn tomorrow night.”

  “They will not turn west,” the servant said gloomily. “You are never wrong about this sort of thing.”

  No, they would come north. Nathan was sure of it.

  Rodrigo handed him two pistols. “What shall I say if you are not back by the time Mrs. Hart is dressed tomorrow morning?”

  “Tell her I have ridden out to get more news of the invasion. It is the truth, after all.”

  “And Master Anthony?”

  Meyer looked nervously at the bed. “For God’s sake, don’t call him that when he is awake. He already thinks we are patronizing him.” His nephew had fallen asleep the minute he had pulled off his boots and lain down. “Best to tell him as little as possible. He might conceive that I was endangering Miss Hart with my plan.”

  “You are,” Rodrigo said. “As you are well aware.”

  “It is a very small risk. As you are well aware. Anthony, on the other hand, may prove more of a challenge as far as safety is concerned.”

  “I was surprised when he continued on with us today,” Rodrigo said. “I had thought he would be returning to Italy.”

  Meyer shook his head. “He was on his way to London. But in any case he would have followed Miss Hart.”

  “Ah, yes. That.”

  “That, indeed. Precisely what I meant when I said that his safety will be more difficult to guarantee.” Meyer sighed. “Five francs says that he is injured ‘protecting’ Miss Hart within three days.”

  “Too easy. Make it one day.”

  “Done.”

  They clasped hands.

  “I have won the last three,” Meyer reminded his valet.

  Rodrigo shrugged. “I am due for some luck.”

  “Do you suppose there are other men who make wagers with their servants?” Meyer asked as he wrapped a muffler around his neck.

  “Most men stay in one place long enough to make some friends.”

  “You would be utterly wretched if I were to marry again and settle down,” Meyer informed him. “You know that perfectly well.” He picked up his hat and headed for the door. Then he turned. “Oh—and make sure the women don’t go downstairs. It’s a bit rough down there.”

  It was nearly dawn by the time Meyer rode into the yard behind the Mercure, so tired that it took him several tries to open the stable door. Rodrigo must have been listening for him, though, because he had not even finished unsaddling his horse when the Spaniard materialized at his elbow.

  “Buckle is stiff,” Meyer muttered, fumbling at the bridle.

  Rodrigo pushed him aside. “Go on in, there’s coffee.”

  “Anyone else awake?”

  “Two servants in the kitchen.”

  The haze of fatigue turned black for a moment, and he leaned against the stall door, blinking to clear his vision. He cursed under his breath.

  “Don’t look to me for sympathy.” Rodrigo threw a blanket over the horse. “You know my opinion of this scheme. Riding that road, in the dark, in your condition, is madness—and the roads will only get worse as we proceed.”

  “I’m out of practice,” he admitted. “It used to require several days of this sort of thing before I wilted.” He looked at his servant. “You will go tonight?”

  “So, they are coming north.”

  “Yes.”

  Rodrigo looked as though he was not sure whether to be grateful or dismayed at this news. “I will go. But if we continue at this pace, we will soon be too far ahead of them to double back at night. Have you thought of that?”

  Meyer shrugged. “We can always contrive something. A broken wheel, a lame horse. But we do not need to manufacture any delays right away; we will not be traveling at all tomorrow.”

  Rodrigo frowned. “Why not?”

  “The Sabbath,” Meyer reminded him. “At sundown tonight.”

  His servant shot him an incredulous look. “You—worrying about the Sabbath? While Napoleon is forty miles away? Master Anthony—” He hastily corrected himself. “Señor Roth, I mean, will call your bluff if you attempt to use that as an excuse to delay us. He knows quite well that you travel on the Sabbath.”

  “I will not be the one making the request. Have you noticed how careful Mrs. Hart has been about what she eats? She is far more observant than I am. She will not wish to ride on a Saturday, and I will, of course, respect her wishes.”

  “I see.” Rodrigo opened the stall door, then paused. “Someday,” he predicted, “someday very soon, I think, you will regret making Señora Hart one of your pawns.” He stomped out of the stall and scooped up an armful of hay from the nearby bin, radiating righteous disapproval.

  Meyer followed him out and nearly tripped over the baskets. He had forgotten all about them. A startled flapping and cooing erupted.

  “Madre de Dios,” said Rodrigo, turning and dropping the hay. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “Yes, I’ve brought us a little present. I sent down to Grasse for them yesterday and prayed they would be delivered in time. Amazingly, they survived the trip.” He hastily picked up a small metal tin from behind the baskets and stashed it away before Rodrigo could ask him about it. Sending messages was one thing. It was a bit dangerous, and scouting every other night would tax both of them severely, but Rodrigo would go along with it—after a certain amount of grumbling. If he found the jar of sulphur inside that tin, however, there would be open rebellion. And if he found the map and the notes tucked into the lid of the tin, he would probably turn Meyer over to the nearest insane asylum.

  Rodrigo lifted the baskets and peered inside at the disgruntled birds. “How are you going to explain the sudden presence of two sets of carrier pigeons to Mrs. Hart?”

  A very good question. Abigail Hart was an intelligent woman, that was already clear. And she didn’t trust him at all. He wished he could h
ave seen the letter she had received from Joshua Hart. He barely knew the man, but his impression was that Hart was a pompous boor. A recommendation from Hart would probably incline the widow to despise Meyer before she had even met him. He remembered her narrow, assessing stare during the delicate negotiations this morning—no, yesterday morning. If she suspected what those pigeons meant, his careful balancing act would come crashing down. He would have to think of some plausible tale to account for the birds—once his brain was working again.

  “I’m going to get a few hours’ sleep,” he said. “If the others wake early, tell them I have been taken ill.”

  “You have been taken ill,” muttered the servant. “Napoleon fever. Incurable disease. Likely fatal.”

  Meyer pretended not to hear that remark.

  6

  Three hours’ sleep proved insufficient to inspire an explanation for the pigeons. They could not possibly be concealed, however; the throaty cooing was far too distinctive. He concluded that the best approach was to act as though there was nothing at all odd about them. Perhaps his talent for prevarication would miraculously return before someone thought to question their presence.

  When the women emerged from breakfast, therefore, Rodrigo was in the process of strapping the cages beneath the coachman’s bench of today’s carriage. Considerably smaller than yesterday’s barouche, this small, two-wheeled vehicle might well have been described as a farmer’s gig had it not possessed a stained canvas cover and a small perch for a driver. Meyer saw Diana pause, shocked, her brows drawing down as she took in the open sides and the single horse standing in the traces.

  “What is that?” she hissed to her mother, pointing at the carriage.

  Abigail Hart, more tactful, greeted Meyer with a wary, “Good morning.”

  He raised his hat. “Good morning, Mrs. Hart. Miss Hart.” He was glad to see that both of them were warmly dressed. “I trust you slept well?”

  “Quite well, thank you.” Only now did Abigail permit her gaze to settle on the carriage. “Is this ours?”