The Spy's Reward

by Nita Abrams

  She could not precisely recall who had introduced Martha and Diana—it had happened at a concert—but the girls had discovered that they shared the same voice teacher, and then that they had both been pursued by Napoleon’s troops; after that first conversation in Hanover Square their families had nearly been compelled to use force to separate them. Abigail suspected that Martha’s mother, a vicar’s daughter from an old Lincolnshire family, did not entirely approve of the friendship either. And yet when the two women had met they had liked each other nearly as much as their daughters had. Henrietta Woodley was a down-to-earth woman whose years of traveling with the army had given her a brusque manner leavened by a wry sense of humor. She had bluntly told Abigail that Diana was far too pretty and that she would be obliged if Abigail could keep Diana away from Martha’s two unmarried brothers. “For you must know,” she had said, “that one of my boys is in the same regiment as Lord Alcroft’s son, and if a peer’s son—and a major!—could marry Eli Roth’s niece, it will be no use my telling Charles that it is not to be thought of.” Only late that night had Abigail realized who the niece was: Meyer’s daughter, of course. Another black mark against poor Martha.

  “Mama, may I go to Hatchard’s with Martha and Eleanor?” Diana asked as soon as Abigail came in. “A new book by Captain Clarke is out, and they have come express to tell me.”

  “Good morning, Mrs. Hart,” said Martha politely as her cousin offered a quick curtsey. “I hope this is not too early to call, but there is already a queue in front of the shop, and his last book sold out on the first day.”

  “They have their carriage,” Diana added. “And will bring me back.”

  Martha nodded in confirmation.

  “I suppose you may,” Abigail said. “Be sure to be home by three. Your aunt is coming to take you to see your grandmother.”

  The three girls went happily off to help Diana select a bonnet and shawl, abandoning Diana’s latest project—a patchwork needle case—on the sofa.

  “Other young ladies rush to buy Byron’s latest,” Abigail said to Fanny, resigned. “But not Diana. Ever since our adventure in France, my daughter buys every publication about Wellington’s campaigns that she can find.”

  Fanny took another stitch. “I believe Clarke’s writings are said to be quite unexceptionable,” she offered. She blushed a little. “Unlike—that other book.”

  Fanny referred to Leisure Moments in the Camp and in the Guard Room, authored by “A Veteran Officer.” This work had boasted that it revealed the true life of a soldier, and Abigail, finding that the true life of a soldier apparently consisted of drinking, gambling, and flirting, had promptly confiscated the volume. She did not consider killing (presumably the ideal activity for a soldier) much better, but she could hardly forbid Diana to read about events which were published in every newspaper in the country.

  There was a knock at the door, and one of the maids peered in. “Mr. Roth is below, ma’am,” she announced. “Shall I show him up?”

  “Yes, but after that I am not at home,” Abigail said firmly. “Miss Hart is going out, and I have letters to finish.”

  The maid, however, had disappeared the moment she had heard the word yes.

  “I need a butler,” Abigail told Fanny, exasperated.

  “So you keep saying,” her friend answered absently, holding up two different skeins of blue thread to the light from the window. “Although it would be a bit odd to have a butler when there is only one footman.”

  “It would be worth hiring another footman and a butler to be able to have some privacy from unwanted guests in my own home.” She stalked angrily over to the sofa and scooped up the bits of cloth Diana had left there.

  From behind her she heard an embarrassed cough. It was Anthony Roth, standing in the doorway. Yet another reason for a butler. Her maid did not always announce visitors properly.

  “I beg your pardon,” Roth said. “I just stopped by for a moment, to give you this.” He held out a small parcel.

  “Oh dear.” Abigail hastily stuffed the little pieces of cloth into her pocket and accepted the package. “I don’t suppose there is anyway to pretend you did not hear that? I assure you it does not apply to you, Anthony.” She deliberately used his first name. “Please do stay for a little while. Diana is on her way out with friends, but she will wish to greet you first.”

  He glanced nervously at the hallway but consented to sit down. She was not certain what his thoughts were about her daughter these days. In France he had gone from infatuation to disillusionment to bewilderment, and so far as she could tell, he was still mired firmly in the last of the three. When he called, he always looked as though he was not quite sure why he found himself once again in the Harts’s drawing room. He rarely smiled, and the informal banter she had seen between him and her daughter during their journey had completely vanished. Nor could she blame him for his confusion and hesitation. Diana was just as awkward and inconsistent in her treatment of him.

  Now, for example, as she came back into the room, chattering and laughing with Martha, she stopped dead at the sight of Roth. “Oh!” she said, startled, as he rose to greet her. “Mr. Roth. How—how nice to see you.” Then, recollecting her companions, “May I present my friends, Misses Martha and Eleanor Woodley?”

  Stiff nods were exchanged on both sides.

  “We are off to the bookstore,” Diana told him with artificial brightness. “Perhaps you would care to accompany us?”

  This offer was politely declined.

  All four young people stood in uncertain silence for a moment, and then, forgetting to maintain her worldly pose, Diana suddenly frowned. “What have you done to your hand?” she asked in her normal voice. “It looks as though it is bleeding.” Martha, next to her, leaned forward to see better.

  Roth hastily put both hands behind his back, which gave Abigail an excellent view of them. The tips of two fingers on his right hand were indeed bleeding slightly. “It is nothing. A scrape.” He had some small scratches on one side of his face as well, Abigail noticed. Perhaps Roth was one of those young men who somehow attracted illness and injury. Paul, her first husband, had been like that.

  Martha whispered something to Diana, and her daughter reverted to doll mode. “We must be off, I am afraid,” she announced, very grande dame. “The Woodley’s carriage is waiting.” The girls took their leave of Abigail and Fanny but forgot to close the door, so that Martha’s loud “Who was that, Diana? A suitor?” was easily audible.

  Roth flushed and picked up his hat and gloves. “I must go as well.”

  “But your gift,” Abigail objected. “I have not even opened it, or thanked you.” She began to unwrap it, wondering for the first time why Roth had brought something for her rather than for Diana. It was a book: Byron’s latest, in fact, his Hebrew Melodies, a disconcerting choice.

  “It is not from me,” he confessed. “It is from my uncle. There is a note inside.” He saw her expression and sat down again. “He came to find me two days ago. We had a long talk. He feels very badly about . . . everything.”

  “I see.” Abigail’s voice was tight.

  Roth added, “I believe he is no longer working with the army.”

  “So, he is ‘a reformed character,’ as you told me once before.” She was not sure if Roth remembered his ill-fated attempt to explain his uncle’s scars as relics of a career as a seducer. Apparently he did; he flushed.

  “You need not keep the book,” he said. “My uncle thought you would not, in fact. He told me to give it in that case to the library at the Chelsea Hospital.”

  Torn between curiosity and indignation, Abigail hesitated. If she opened the book to read the note, she would have to keep it. She glanced uncertainly at Fanny, hoping for a cue, but her friend was concentrating with implausible dedication on her embroidery and clearly wanted no part of this conversation.

  Curiosity won. She lifted the cover and peered at the flyleaf. To her disappointment the inscription said merely: I saw t
his and thought it might interest you. I hope you will forgive the presumption. It was unsigned.

  What had she expected? A passionate declaration? She told herself that he must have felt constrained to keep his statement impersonal, knowing that the volume was likely to end up in the hands of an elderly pensioner.

  “Thank you for bringing it,” she said. “I am sure I shall enjoy reading it.” That was a suitably ambiguous response.

  But Roth was not willing to leave it there. He twisted his hat in his hands. “If my uncle were to call here, would you be willing to see him?”

  She was not ready for that question, and her face must have shown it.

  “Never mind,” he said, rising hastily. “He said nothing of any plans to visit; I am merely engaging in a long-standing Roth family pastime.”

  “And what is that?” she asked.

  “Meddling.” He gave her a crooked smile. “I am not very good at it, am I?”

  “I don’t know about that,” she muttered as he left. She had accepted the book of poems, hadn’t she? And when Roth had asked his question, she had not said yes, but she had not said no either. A butler would not be much use if she could not make up her mind about whether she wanted to see her visitor or not.

  After two unsuccessful attempts to catch his brother-in-law before he left the house, Eli Roth abandoned his original “casual encounter at breakfast” plan and turned to the other end of the day, instructing the night porter to come and fetch him the minute Meyer returned. He thus had the satisfaction of shocking the normally imperturbable Nathan by appearing in that gentleman’s study at just past one in the morning.

  “My God, what is it?” Meyer exclaimed, rising in alarm from his stool by the fire. “Is it James?”

  Meyer’s son was in Belgium with Wellington. So far as Roth could tell, the Allied army was spending its time attending balls and musicales and quarreling over who would command which sections of the four-nation force. It was no wonder Wellington wanted someone to keep an eye on the Dutch and the Prussians. “Last I heard, James is perfectly well, if a bit bored,” he said. Without being invited, he took a seat across from Meyer in a large armchair beside the desk. “And if you had not abandoned Whitehall in a fit of pique, you would be seeing regular reports from him and would not frighten yourself needlessly because I have paid you a late-night visit.”

  His brother-in-law subsided back onto his stool. “Is this a scolding, then?” he asked in a resigned tone.

  “More of an interrogation.” Roth helped himself to a pear from the tray of food sitting on the desk. “Your colonel came by two days ago,” he said, slicing the pear in half. “He informed me that you did not seem to be yourself and asked me whether I had noticed anything unusual about you since your return from France.”

  Meyer’s face settled into a stony mask. “And what did you say?”

  Roth took a bite of pear, chewed, and swallowed. “I said that you had not been home much, but that you seemed abstracted. As though you were contemplating some difficult question.”

  “I have been contemplating something,” said Meyer. “I have been contemplating the pitfalls of matchmaking. From the bottom of the pit.” His tone was nicely shaded between annoyance and irony. “Miss Hart was not one of your better candidates, Eli.”

  “Yes. Well.” It was Roth’s turn to be on the defensive. He took another bite of pear. “I admit my fault. I have already promised Louisa I will make no further attempts on your celibacy.” Then, at the ironic lift of Meyer’s eyebrows, he corrected himself. “Perhaps celibacy is the wrong word. On your unmarried state, then.” Meyer had kept a mistress in Spain for some years, and lately there had been rumors of someone in the south of France.

  There was an uncomfortable silence, which Roth filled by eating more pear, followed by a bit of bread and cheese. Then, feeling as though he might as well earn the cool stare he was getting, he asked bluntly, “Are you, er, keeping company with anyone at the moment?”

  The stare went from cool to cold. “You know perfectly well I would never do so in London. Louisa would be mortified. I had thought you would be as well, but perhaps, given the tenor of this conversation, I was mistaken.”

  No, he was not mistaken. Roth had always been grateful that his brother-in-law’s illicit activities—both military and amatory—took place under assumed names in far-away places. Feeling more and more as though he was pushing against an immovable wall, Roth nevertheless returned to his inquest. “But in all seriousness, Nathan, is there any particular reason why you do not wish to accept assignments from White any longer?”

  Now the stare was positively arctic. “What possible concern is that of yours?”

  Roth refused to be intimidated. “The natural concern of anyone for a kinsman. Allow me at least the virtue of consistency. I questioned you when you resigned from the bank. I questioned you when you moved to Spain. I actively tried to prevent you from taking Rachel and James there a few years later. If, at a crucial time for the British army, you suddenly withdraw from your unofficial government position, you cannot be surprised that I am curious and even a bit troubled.”

  Meyer shrugged. “There is no great mystery. I felt that I would not be of much use.”

  “Colonel White tells me that he disagrees with your evaluation.”

  “White will say anything that he finds expedient at the time. He needs someone in Brussels at the moment; he therefore assures you—and me—that I am perfectly capable.” There was a bitterness in his voice that Roth did not quite understand.

  “So you think his visit to me was simply motivated by irritation? He finds himself short-staffed, and comes to see me to ask if I can try to persuade you to return? He has worked with you, and with James, for years, and his only thought, when you abruptly resign, is for his own inconvenience? If that is your judgment of the man I can only say that I am astonished you were willing to work with him for as long as you did.”

  The dark eyes fell, and Roth pressed his advantage. “What happened in France, Nathan? Did something there cause this change?”

  “Nothing happened.” Meyer made an impatient gesture. “Compared to most of my visits to France, I assure you that it was very tame.” He rose. “You must excuse me; I have an early appointment tomorrow.”

  “Yes, I have noticed that all your appointments seem to be early these days,” Roth retorted. “Early enough to make certain that you avoid seeing me.”

  Meyer sighed. “If you wish to play the concerned kinsman, you might ask Anthony where he got those blisters on his face.”

  “Anthony is almost as hard to track down as you are,” Roth said irritably. “And just as touchy. It’s a good thing he is going back to Italy soon.”

  “He is?” Meyer looked relieved. Roth still did not know what had caused the rift between uncle and nephew, but in Meyer’s present mood he was clearly not going to get any answers.

  “Yes, his man is leaving tomorrow, and Anthony himself follows at the end of next week.” Roth leaned back in his chair. “You can recall Rodrigo now from whatever artificial exile you concocted for him. That was why you sent him away, was it not? Because of his quarrel with Battista?”

  “No,” Meyer said, “I sent him away because he sometimes answers questions I do not wish to have answered. Questions from overanxious relatives, for example.” The door shut behind him with a gentle click.

  Roth belatedly realized that he was sitting in Meyer’s favorite chair in Meyer’s own study having just eaten most of what must have been his brother-in-law’s supper. With a sigh, he got up, banked the fire, and snuffed the candles. His total profit for the evening was one pear and two ounces of cheese. Louisa was going to have to see if she could do better with Abigail Hart.

  21

  The day after his visit to Abigail Hart, Anthony reluctantly decided that unless he wanted to be just as dishonorable as his uncle, he would have to tell his family—at least the London branch of it—that he was planning to enlist. And although h
e saw his aunt Louisa twice within the hour after this decision, and knew quite well that Eli Roth was in his office at the bank, he was determined that he would tell Meyer first. The prospect was terrifying, but there was no point in signing on to fight the French if he could not even face his own uncle.

  It took him quite some time to track Meyer down. His uncle was not in his study at the back of the Roths’s town house, nor at the desk reserved for his occasional use at the bank. Anthony knew better than to go over to Colonel White’s headquarters at the Tower, but he did try several of the coffeehouses near the Horse Guards. He finally did what he should have done first: he consulted the Roths’s butler, who directed him to the Traveller’s Club, where Anthony found his uncle leafing through the latest newspapers from Brussels. Meyer did not seem very interested in what he was reading, which was understandable, since the papers were all at least three weeks old. He did not seem interested in his surroundings either, however; he did not even look up as Anthony approached.

  Anthony sat down quietly in an adjacent chair. “We have more current reports from Belgium at the bank,” he observed after a moment.

  Meyer put down the papers, startled. “Anthony! How did you get in?”

  Jews were not normally welcome at the Traveller’s, but Castlereagh, who had founded the club, had insisted that all White’s couriers should have access to the place. Meyer’s membership listed his status as international guest and his residence as Frankfurt.

  “I told them I needed to see you on army business. It even happens to be true.”

  Meyer eyed the faint red lines on Anthony’s cheek. “Is this army business by any chance connected to the powder burns on your face? Or your torn fingers? If I did not know better, I would say you had been firing a rifle. Repeatedly. Or perhaps a musket.”

  “Musket.” He slumped back, disgusted. “I might have realized that you would notice.”

  “I take a personal interest in your bruises, these days,” his uncle said. “Having caused so many of them myself during our recent adventure. Why are you training with a musket? Are you joining the militia?”