The Spy's Reward

by Nita Abrams

  “You got more value for your four gold pieces than I did,” Meyer told her as they climbed back up to her rooms. On the way up the hill he had told her the story of the looters. “Your hireling helped me down and fetched a carriage for us.”

  “Also, he did not shoot us,” she reminded him.

  She opened the door.

  “Mother!” Diana jumped up. “I did not go out, even though you were gone a very long time, and the doctor is here, and Anthony has just woken up this minute!”

  The doctor was there. He looked at the mountain of bandages on Meyer’s arm and raised his eyebrows.

  Meyer went over to the bed. Anthony was looking up at him. “Did we win?” he croaked.

  Meyer nodded.

  “Good.” Anthony closed his eyes. “You can buy me out now,” he said.

  EPILOGUE

  London, July 1815

  The Harts were lined up in Abigail’s drawing room like a panel of judges facing a prisoner. The women were on the left: Danielle Hart and Abigail’s sister, Leah, who was an honorary member of the family—a replacement for Abigail, who had been demoted. The men were on the right: Joshua and Stephen. They sat stiffly, with a look of sorrow on their faces. They would do their duty, but they did not have to enjoy it.

  Danielle, as usual, was the spokeswoman. “We have come to see you, Abigail, because Leah has heard a rather disturbing rumor. It is being said that you are planning to remarry.”

  “I am,” said Abigail.

  “We do not approve.” Stephen crossed his arms. “This was not part of our bargain when we agreed to allow Diana to reside with you.”

  She had expected this, but that did not make it any easier. “I made no promise not to remarry. Surely there is nothing improper about marriage? And Diana will benefit from some male guidance.”

  “We do not object to marriage per se,” Danielle said. Joshua muttered something, clearly in disagreement, and she glared at him. “We object to your choice of husband.”

  “And why is that? ‘He is a gentleman of means and leisure, received by notables such as the Duke of Wellington.’” It was childish, but she couldn’t help herself.

  Joshua winced as she recited the words of his own letter. “I was deceived,” he said. “I admit it freely. I did not know that his daughter had abandoned her faith to further her worldly interests. We cannot permit you to bring someone of such unsteady principles into the family as Diana’s half sister.”

  “His daughter is grown,” said Abigail. “She is married, with a household of her own.” It infuriated her that they were using Rachel Drayton as a weapon against her father. Only distantly did she remember that at one time she had condemned him for the same reason.

  Stephen cleared his throat. “There is another difficulty.” He looked at Joshua, who nodded. “It pains me to speak of this, but apparently Mr. Meyer’s son committed perjury. With his father’s full endorsement.”

  “You are forgetting the duels,” said a voice from the doorway. “Let us by all means be complete in our indictment. James has fought at least a dozen. Everyone of them illegal, under English law.”

  She had not seen him in a week. How had he known to come today, right now? She wondered if he had been having her house watched. The thought should have horrified her. It didn’t. She was profoundly thankful that he was here.

  Meyer was duly presented to her sister and the three Harts. They barely acknowledged the introduction and sat staring at him as though he were a poisonous snake.

  “You were saying, before I came in?” Meyer prompted, taking a seat near Abigail.

  “We were having a family council,” Joshua said. “About private matters.”

  “As I shall soon be joining the family, I would be delighted to assist you in your deliberations.”

  Danielle at least had the courage of her convictions. She glared at him. “If you must know, we were telling Abigail that if she marries you, we will feel obliged to remove Diana from her care.”

  “Because I am a bad influence.”

  “Yes,” she said defiantly.

  “My son, for example. Serving as an officer under a false name.” His eyelids were drooping; he looked half-asleep. “Patriotism carried too far, you would say.”

  “He is infamous,” Danielle snapped.

  “Oh, hardly infamous. Notorious, perhaps. Since his marriage he has renounced all ambitions towards infamy.” He narrowed his gaze, focusing on Joshua. “You did hear that he married last year, did you not? His wife has been a remarkably steadying influence on his character. Perhaps you should reconsider your judgment of James. Samuel Bernal might take offense at the notion that his son-in-law is unacceptable to one of his principal business partners.”

  Stephen turned in alarm to Joshua. “Is this true? Is Meyer’s son married to Bernal’s daughter?”

  Joshua muttered that perhaps he had heard something of the sort.

  “It was a quiet wedding,” Meyer said. “Illness in the bride’s family. You could hardly be blamed for failing to note the event.”

  Abigail watched Joshua squirm. It was one thing for Joshua to insult the Roth-Meyer family, who had no connection with the Harts’s cargo brokerage. It was quite another to insult Samuel Bernal, who controlled half the shipping in England. Her stomach felt hollow. She knew she should intervene; should reassure Joshua that of course Meyer would not ruin his brokerage in retaliation for a dispute about Diana, that she would never permit anything of the sort.

  She said nothing.

  Five minutes later, the four visitors were being ushered out by Abigail’s new butler.

  Meyer stood leaning against the door of the drawing room, studying her with a faintly anxious look on his face. “That was extortion,” he pointed out, as though she would not have noticed. “I believe it is illegal.” He added scrupulously, “I feel obliged to tell you that I enjoyed every minute of it.”

  “I didn’t,” she admitted. “But I wanted to.” She crossed her arms over her chest and shivered. “Sometimes I feel as though I have forgotten how to laugh.”

  “Perhaps you should strive to break the rules more, and I should strive to break them less.”

  “Perhaps.” She looked down.

  He had a terrifying ability to move very quickly without making any noise. Somehow he was now right next to her.

  “These caps, for example.” He tugged hers off. “If you are going to look down every time I mention anything dangerous, I would prefer to look at your hair.”

  “Only when we are alone,” she said, feeling suddenly as though there was no air to breathe.

  “We are alone.” He added, after a moment. “You are not required to look down.”

  Some minutes later, Diana opened the drawing room door without knocking and burst in. “Mother, Anthony is back from Edinburgh,” she said happily. “He sent me a note. May I go to a concert with him?” Then she gasped, turned bright scarlet, and backed out, forgetting to close the door behind her.

  Meyer sighed, crossed the room, and latched the door. “While I was waiting to make my grand entrance I believe I heard you say that Diana would benefit from some male guidance. Knocking on doors will be the first lesson.”

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  Many novelists, including authors of historical romance, have written about Waterloo. Although that epic battle does figure in the conclusion of this story, I wanted to concentrate instead on the beginning of the story of Waterloo—on Napoleon’s return from Elba. The former emperor landed near what is now Cannes on the evening of March 1, 1815, accompanied by some fifteen hundred troops of his personal guard, a courtesy force assigned to him for his residence in exile on Elba. That small army marched on foot over two hundred miles—through some of the most mountainous terrain in France—in seven days, reaching Grenoble in triumph on the evening of March 7. This feat is memorialized by the modern French highway called the Route Napoléon (N85), which follows the emperor’s march and commemorates with historic markers everyth
ing from the dramatic confrontation at Laffrey, narrated in this book, to little inns where Napoleon ate an omelet. I have tried to be as accurate as possible in depicting travel conditions and landscapes as my hero and heroine precede Napoleon over the mountains, but true Napoleon buffs may find a few slips.

  Readers are invited to find photos of my own trip from Cannes to Grenoble, as well as further information about Wellington’s intelligence service and the Jewish community of Regency London, at my web site (www.nitaabrams.com). There is also a mail link; I always enjoy hearing from readers.

  Many thanks to my research assistants on the N85, Rachel and MK, and to my many wonderful readers, who write me about everything from Jewish marriage law to Regency architecture.

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  ISBN: 978-0-8217-7854-8