The Spy's Reward Page 4

  “The Cheval Blanc.”

  “That’s it, yes. By tomorrow night we should reach the coast.” He glanced down at his mount. “On a more prepossessing animal, I trust.”

  “And will you send a message to Mr. Roth about Miss Hart?”

  The Roth-Meyer banks maintained an extensive and remarkably fast courier system all over Europe. Meyer had made good use of it during his work for the British army.

  He thought for a moment. “It would be prudent, although I am tempted to let him stew as the rumors begin trickling back to London.”

  “You agreed to come over here and escort her,” Rodrigo reminded him.

  “So I did. And look to have escaped undamaged, for once.”

  “I did not meet the young lady. What is she like?”

  “Fair hair, just out of the schoolroom, and the most accomplished flirt I have seen since Elena Mendez.” He added, after a short pause, “One wonders what my brother-in-law Roth was thinking. She is certainly very pretty, but unless I miss my guess she is a five-foot-tall bundle of willful mischief. I do not envy her future husband. Or, for that matter, her mother, who has charge of her at the moment.”

  The track now became very steep, and for several minutes the two men rode on in silence, shifting their weight carefully in the saddle as the road angled up to the summit. Meyer was looking back, checking on the progress of the empty carriage behind them, when Rodrigo reined in beside him with an exclamation. He pointed up the hill to a level stretch just below the pass. “Would that, by any chance, be Miss Hart’s party?”

  Two carriages were drawn up across the road. At the side of the leading vehicle, whose horses had been unhitched, a stout man in a tricorn was leaning over, talking to another man who was halfway under the body of the carriage. A third man was attempting to hold both the unyoked animals and the pair still poled to the second carriage. Four women stood huddled together a short distance away in one of the few spots not dusted with snow. One, the smallest, had spotted the approaching horsemen. She took two steps towards them, stretched out a tiny, gloved hand in mute appeal, and then crumpled to the ground.

  “That is Miss Hart.” Meyer’s voice was dry. “The one who just fainted.”

  “Is she an invalid, señor?”

  “No. A comedienne.” He spurred his horse forward, but the girl was being helped to her feet already, and by the time he arrived she was being settled in the rear carriage with some rugs.

  He turned to the mother, who was looking more exasperated than concerned. “May I be of some assistance, Mrs. Hart?”

  “Thank you, no. My daughter tripped on a rock.” Out of the corner of his eye, Meyer saw Diana Hart’s eyes flash as her elegant swoon was converted into a stumble. “She is already recovered, as you can see.”

  Miss Hart was duly introduced, and assured her would-be rescuer that she was only a bit shaken.

  “And the carriage?” he asked, looking again to Abigail Hart.

  “A broken strap.” She gestured towards her coachman, who had emerged from underneath the lead vehicle. “Jacques tells me the wheel is sound. We should be under way within half an hour. Excuse me one moment.” She went over to the stout man and said something. He removed his hat with a flourish, bowed, and made a long reply, accompanied by more flourishes, which she eventually cut off with a curt gesture. “We will move our second coach to the side,” she said, returning. “I do apologize for blocking the road.”

  By this time Meyer’s own carriage had come up. “My vehicle is at your disposal,” he said, indicating the shabby barouche drawn up behind him. “It would easily hold you, your daughter, and your maids; there is no reason for you to wait in the snow while repairs are made. They may take longer than your coachman supposes, and this spot is rather exposed.”

  It was a raw day, and the wind was cold. He could see her hesitate, but then she shook her head. “I would not wish to inconvenience you.”

  “Hardly an inconvenience. I am not using it at the moment.”

  He saw her flush in embarrassment as she realized that the carriage had in fact been hired for herself and her daughter. “Some fresh air will do us all good. Please do not let me keep you, Mr. Meyer.”

  That was a dismissal if he had ever heard one. He touched his hat and rode on.

  Rodrigo, who had remained behind to help move the second carriage out of the road, caught up to Meyer about ten minutes later. They were just beyond the summit, and both men reined in for a moment, looking down the steep, winding road that led into the cloud-covered valley.

  “I checked the brakes, señor.”

  “On our carriage?” asked Meyer, surprised. “I thought you did that this morning.”

  “On the ladies’ carriage.”

  “No business of ours.”

  Rodrigo opened his mouth to object and then wisely shut it again.

  “I don’t suppose you also made sure that they had a proper strap to use as a replacement,” Meyer said after a moment.

  “They do. And tools. And even a spare wheel rim.”

  Meyer grunted. “So that French lieutenant, or captain, or whatever he is, is less of a fool than he looks.”

  “Oh no, señor. Your impression was quite accurate. He is a fool. The coachman told me that Mrs. Hart arranges everything.”

  “I see.” He nudged his horse back into motion. “Well, they certainly have no need of us.”

  “As you say, señor.”

  “Mrs. Hart has made that abundantly clear.”

  Rodrigo coughed. “The señora did tell me to thank you again.”

  They rode on in silence for another five minutes.

  “How many rooms are there at the Cheval Blanc?” Meyer asked finally.

  “Five, sir. A parlor and four bedchambers.”

  “Go on ahead. Book those rooms for Miss Hart and her party, and then find us somewhere else to stay.”

  There was only one other decent hostelry in Barrême, a tiny posting station right on the main road. It had mediocre food, no private parlor, and only one bedroom. The wine was good, but Meyer did not get to enjoy much of it, because the host announced at ten o’clock that he was closing up for the night. When Meyer asked for a bottle to take up to his bedchamber the man looked at him as though he had proposed to host an orgy. Barrême, it was clear, was not a place for those who kept late hours. Meyer, a light sleeper, was therefore somewhat surprised to be awakened in the middle of the night by the unmistakable sound of hoofbeats cantering up to the inn. He wrenched open the casement and looked out onto the road. It was still well before dawn, perhaps an hour or more. There was very little light, certainly not enough for ordinary travelers to feel comfortable riding these mountain roads. And yet here were five riders, approaching the inn at a dangerously fast pace. In the next minute three of the riders had flashed by, still heading north on the road, although their horses were laboring. The other two were beneath his own window, pounding on the door and calling the tavern keeper by name. They sounded drunk. They must be drunk. Surely what they were saying was a jest, a prank. Meyer pulled on his breeches and boots and ran down the stairs, just in time to see the half-dressed innkeeper snatch up a lantern and run headlong out the door, leaving it wide open.

  Meyer stood in the doorway for twenty minutes, watching lights gradually go on all over the village, listening to the shouts and catcalls, the anxious female voices, the sound of wagons rumbling onto the street. More riders went by, and one group of men on foot, arguing ferociously with each other as they walked. Rodrigo had come down some time ago with two loaded pistols and was standing next to him. The sky grew lighter and lighter, and still Meyer leaned against the door frame, stunned and horrified. There was another emotion buried beneath the disbelief and the revulsion, but he refused to acknowledge it right then.

  The passing groups became less frequent, and the sun was nearly up. Meyer was hazily thinking that he should move, go inside, finish getting dressed, when a lone rider pulled up his horse suddenly and j
umped off nearly on top of him. Even half-frozen with shock Meyer had his pistol up instantly, but in the next moment he saw who it was: a short young man with strands of sweat-soaked hair plastered to his forehead and the marks of a pince-nez on each side of his nose. He was breathing hard, and he staggered slightly as he stepped away from the horse.

  “Uncle Nathan,” he croaked. “Thank God I spotted you. I’ve been riding all night, hoping to find you. You’ve heard the news?”

  Meyer nodded. He was so numb that he didn’t even think to ask how his nephew Anthony had come to be in France.

  “Is there no ostler?” the younger man asked, looking around impatiently.

  “He ran off.” Meyer gestured to Rodrigo, who took the horse and led it away.

  Anthony limped inside and collapsed into the first chair.

  “Something to drink?”

  His nephew nodded. “No innkeeper either, I take it?”

  Meyer strode over to the low door that led down to the cellar. “He ran off before the ostler did. I’m afraid we’ll have to serve ourselves. Just a moment.” He cocked his pistol and blew the lock off the door.

  Anthony flinched at the noise. “I thought you could pick locks.”

  “I felt like shooting something.” An understatement. He grabbed a lantern and returned a minute later, slightly dusty but triumphant.

  “That’s not wine,” said his nephew, peering at the bottle. “That’s brandy.”

  “Not just any brandy, my boy.” He went behind the bar and found two glasses. “A 1785 Armagnac. It isn’t every day Napoleon escapes from Elba.”

  Anthony took a healthy swig out of the glass Meyer handed him. “What have you heard?”

  “Not much. Most people have been running by shouting, ‘Vive l’Empereur!’ He landed yesterday evening?”

  “Yes. About an hour before sunset. Landed on the beach, not at Antibes.”

  “There’s a royal garrison at Antibes, of course he didn’t land there. Go on. How many men did he have with him?”

  Anthony shook his head. “I’ve heard every number from fifty to five thousand. More every minute, that’s clear enough. That fat Bourbon fool we put on the throne last year is not very popular with his subjects.”

  “Rabble joining up will only slow Napoleon down,” muttered Meyer. “He had his personal troops on Elba, over a thousand men, many of them from the Old Guard—they will be with him.” He paced up and down, unable to stand still. Now that the shock and anger were wearing off he felt almost elated. Some part of him had been asleep since Bonaparte’s abdication last April. It was coming back to life, and it was starved for action. There was an enemy again; there would be troop movements and supply trains and weapons distributions—numbers, names, places. He itched to collect them and pass them on. Supposing, just supposing, Bonaparte chose to come into the mountains? To come this way? It was not impossible. In fact, it was very likely. “Has he sent out any advance parties? Given any indication of where he is headed?”

  Anthony drained his glass and set it carefully on the table. “If he has, they’re still well behind me. Never ridden so fast in my life.” He was looking even paler than usual and Meyer suddenly recalled that Anthony was not one of Wellington’s young intelligence officers, but the pampered, sedentary heir to a banking fortune.

  “When did you last eat?” he demanded.

  His nephew’s smile had an odd sideways tilt. “Yesterday morning.”

  “Go on upstairs and try to get some sleep. I’ll see what I can find in the way of food.”

  Anthony nodded and limped towards the stairs. “Which room upstairs?”

  “There’s only one,” Meyer told him. “Not up to the bank’s usual standards of accommodation, I apologize.”

  “Well, if I owned a cellar full of that brandy, I wouldn’t bother about bedchambers either,” Anthony said sleepily. “That stuff is, what, ten guineas a bottle in London? Perhaps we should buy some to take with us.”

  He frowned as his nephew disappeared. Eli had mentioned something about Anthony coming to England, and that final comment seemed to confirm it. The last thing Meyer wanted at the moment was a traveling companion, but he might have no choice. At least he was not saddled with Miss Hart and her mother.

  4

  The first council of war, as Anthony would later call it, was convened at half-past seven on the second of March 1815, in the best (and only) bedchamber of the Auberge de Barrême. It consisted of Anthony Roth, banker, reclining; Rodrigo Santos, manservant, seated; and Nathan Meyer, retired spy, standing. Or rather, not standing. He was pacing back and forth so quickly the floor vibrated beneath his feet.

  “Would you mind sitting down?” Anthony was propped up in bed, somewhat cleaner than he had been two hours earlier, eating a poached egg that his uncle had managed to produce in the inn’s kitchen. “You’re making me dizzy.”

  “That’s the brandy,” said Meyer callously. “And there is only one chair. Which I have given to Rodrigo, since he has already ridden out twice this morning to see what he could discover.”

  “Is there any more news?” Anthony had been asleep during both of Rodrigo’s expeditions.

  “Yes. No.” His uncle waved towards a piece of paper on the table, which called on all brave Frenchmen to rise against the puppet king installed by the tyrannical British. “A handwritten copy of the proclamation issued last night after Napoleon’s landing. They had it at the bakery. What they did not have was bread, and that is a very bad sign. When the bakers of France are not baking, the entire fabric of the nation has collapsed.” He stalked over to the window again. “Obviously, I should do something. But what? Wellington is in Vienna, should I head east? Or west, to the royalist troops stationed near Avignon? Perhaps I should get down to the coast and sail back to England. I need more information, and all I have is this damned proclamation.”

  “Nearest bank courier is in Nice,” muttered Anthony. “A day’s ride there, and a day’s ride back. What about the French military semaphore stations? Isn’t there one at Toulon?”

  “They cannot use the semaphores at night,” Meyer reminded him. “Or when there is fog.” He nodded towards the gray mizzle outside the window.

  Rodrigo pushed himself up out of the chair. “I will ride south, señor, at least as far as Senez. The news is all coming from the south; the closer we are to events the more likely we are to have an accurate report.”

  “No, I’ll go.” Meyer was shrugging on his coat. “You’ve been out enough. Get yourself something to eat, lie down.”

  “It is much safer for a Spanish servant to make enquiries right now than for an English master,” Rodrigo objected. “The royalists and the Bonapartists are agreed on only one thing: if something bad is happening, it is England’s fault.”

  “Good point.” He took off his coat again, but when Rodrigo started for the door he stopped him. “Sit back down. I don’t need you, I need your clothing.”

  Anthony watched, fascinated, as his uncle exchanged boots, shirts, and jackets with his servant. Meyer was whistling as he left.

  “I’ve known you for years and never noticed: you’re nearly the same height and build as my uncle,” Anthony said, staring at the olive-skinned servant. “Is that why he won’t go anywhere without you?”

  “He just did go somewhere without me,” the Spaniard pointed out. He grimaced. “Did you hear him? Happy as a lark, as you say in English. When he first heard that Napoleon had landed, he was shocked, angry. But now he has a chance to pretend to be a Spanish servant, and he is like a child with a new toy. He will speak French with a Spanish accent, he will use Spanish gestures—even that song he was whistling is an old folk song from Andalusia. And the possibility that some mob of drunken Provençal villagers may beat him to death for asking the wrong question makes him enjoy it all the more.” He stomped over to the door. “What is more, I must now go out in his clothing, and I look perfectly ridiculous.”

  Anthony did not think Rodrigo looked ridiculous,
but Rodrigo did not seem to have his master’s knack of taking on the personality along with the costume. He looked like a Spaniard who had switched jackets with an Englishman. “Why must you go out?”

  “We need to buy food. Barrême is on the verge of full-scale panic, and the first thing a fearful populace hoards is food. Also, there is one little matter I forgot to take care of when I went out earlier.”

  “Can it not wait?” Anthony was (not unreasonably, in his opinion) a trifle uneasy at the thought of remaining alone in a deserted inn while the south of France erupted outside the unlocked door.

  “Perhaps,” was the enigmatic reply. “Perhaps not, however.” Confirming Anthony’s fears, he tossed him a pistol as he left.

  “Do you know how to use it?” he asked, seeing Anthony’s horrified expression.

  “No.”

  “Point it and look grim, then,” Rodrigo advised. “And don’t speak French if you can help it. You have a pronounced English accent.”

  Anthony spent five minutes pointing the pistol, very carefully, and practicing a grim stare. Then he gave up and went back to sleep.

  He woke up to the sound of feet pounding up the stairs and voices in the room below. Sitting up with a jerk, he flailed around under the bedclothes looking in vain for the pistol. Luckily, the feet belonged to Rodrigo.

  “What is it?” Anthony asked, alarmed at the servant’s tense expression.

  “Complications. I’ve told them you will be down immediately. Shall I help you get dressed?”

  “Told whom?” He swung his legs down to the floor and nearly screamed at the pain in his thighs.

  “Two Englishwomen, who were abandoned this morning by their French servants. The maid at least had the courtesy to tell them she was leaving. The others just vanished. Their courier, a retired army captain, had most of their money in his possession.”

  “Captain in which army?”

  “Napoleon’s, of course.”

  “Then he is no longer retired, is he?” Wincing, Anthony staggered across the floor to the basin and rinsed his face and teeth. “Is one of these abandoned ladies by any chance Miss Hart?”