The Spy's Reward Page 8

  She sucked in her breath. “Where does it hurt?”

  He moved his hand very carefully to the spot.

  “Does it hurt to breathe? To breathe deeply, that is?”

  He nodded.

  “You may have a broken rib.” A servant arrived with brandy, followed by a nearly hysterical innkeeper. She dismissed both of them. “Drink some of this.” She held the brandy to his mouth.

  He drank, coughed slightly, and winced. He kept looking over at the door, and she knew what he was thinking. At any moment Diana might return, and he did not want her to see him like this.

  “Would you like me to help you to your room?” she asked.

  “I am fine.” He took a cautious, shallow breath, and stood up—very shakily. “Thank you. Thank you very much, Mrs. Hart. I am most sincerely sorry that you were—”

  She cut him off, horrified. “Don’t be absurd! I should be apologizing to you! If Diana had behaved more prudently, this would never have happened! They were disgustingly drunk, but I believe they would have left if she had not provoked them so.”

  “I don’t know.” He sighed, and then winced again. “It is my fault as well. My uncle warned me not to advertise our nationality. My poor French betrayed us. I should have sent one of the chambermaids out to question the ostler.” He hobbled over to his room, and Abigail, watching him teeter slightly, hurried to help him into bed.

  “I’ll have them send a servant to you right away to help you undress,” she promised. “And the doctor, to see to your ribs.”

  He shook his head. “No. My uncle can do it.”

  She did not contradict him, but the minute she left, she rang and dispatched one of the inn’s grooms to fetch a doctor, or at least an apothecary. Roth probably didn’t like being bled; most young men didn’t. But she could not imagine that Nathan Meyer, a banker, had much in the way of medical skills.

  Diana was hovering outside the door of the parlor when Abigail finally emerged. “Is he badly hurt?” she asked anxiously. “His face was all over blood. Is his nose broken?” She had been crying, Abigail saw. “It was all my fault, I know it was. Does he hate me? May I go in and see him?”

  “Later,” said Abigail. “And no, he doesn’t hate you. He blames himself.”

  Her daughter gaped. “He does? But why?”

  “Why? Because he is an idiotic young fool, just like you,” she snapped, goaded beyond endurance. “You can think of nothing but yourself and your admirers; Mr. Roth, I have no doubt, is angrier at the servant who rescued him than he is at the brutes who hit him. Neither one of you understands that the incident just now was nothing, less than nothing, compared to what could happen if we are caught between Napoleon and the French army!”

  Diana’s eyes filled with tears again.

  Abigail’s voice softened. “If you would like to be of some help, go to our room and bring me down my small case; it has some medicines in it.”

  Her daughter gave a small, chastened nod and started up the stairs.

  Abigail stood for a moment, shaken by her own loss of control. She had not wanted to frighten Diana or make her blame herself for what had happened, and now she had just done both. With a sigh, she went back into the parlor and sat down to wait for Diana to reappear with the little stock of medicines. She wondered who felt worse: the wounded knight, who had failed to save the princess from the dragon, or the princess’s mother, who knew that there were hundreds more dragons out there, carrying rifles and bayonets.

  Meyer knew something was wrong the moment he returned. Every single servant stopped dead the moment they saw him, then hastily resumed whatever they had been doing, making sure it took them in the opposite direction. He looked around for the innkeeper. Monsieur Busac, less cowardly than his employees, was hurrying out to meet him, gasping out half-finished sentences which veered wildly between apologies, reassurances, and excuses. All Meyer could make out was that the apothecary had been sent for, and the ladies were in the private parlor monsieur had reserved.

  His first thought was that Abigail Hart had been taken ill. She was calm and cheerful with her daughter, but he had seen the strain in her face when she had thought herself unobserved. They had been traveling at a brutal pace, over very rough roads, and the gig had offered little protection from the cold. He shook off the incoherent Busac and strode up the stairs. Perhaps a slight ailment would be to his advantage—nothing serious, something he could use as an additional excuse for delay, if need be. He knew he was being callous, but it had not been his choice to travel with the Harts.

  When he opened the parlor door and saw Abigail slumped in a chair, pale and distraught, with what could only be a bloodstain across the shoulder of her dress, he realized that he was perhaps not as callous as he had supposed. His initial panic subsided, however, as she rose to greet him. The blood was not hers, he saw, and she was steady on her feet. Something had obviously shaken her very badly, however, because she actually gave him a small, tremulous smile.

  “I am very glad to see you. We have been wondering whether you had also come to grief.”

  “What happened?” He looked around the room and saw the telltale signs of a brawl: crooked furniture, a rip in the fire screen, the print of a dirty boot on the side of the baseboard.

  “Some drunken Frenchmen forced their way in here and Mr. Roth was injured when they refused to leave. He is not badly hurt,” she added hastily, seeing the look on Meyer’s face. “And Mr. Santos was able to evict the men.”

  “What of you? And Miss Hart?”

  She assured him that they were unharmed.

  There was a perfunctory tap at the door, and Rodrigo came in. He, too, looked relieved to see his master.

  “I believe Mr. Roth could use your assistance,” Abigail said to the valet. Her cool tone implied that Anthony had been waiting for that assistance for quite some time. “He would not let me help him undress, and I thought it best not to send for any of the inn’s servants.”

  “I am very sorry, señora. I was dealing with the town officials.”

  She nodded grudgingly. “Now that you are here, I will go and change. Please send for me if I am needed.”

  Meyer followed Rodrigo into the bedchamber. He still was not sure exactly what had happened, but he could make a fair guess, and that guess was confirmed the minute he saw his nephew. Anthony was lying on his back, carefully breathing in an odd rhythm. His eyes were open, fixed bleakly on a spot just below the ceiling. There was some sort of poultice lying discarded in a damp lump on the pillow. He did not move or look around when the door opened.

  Meyer tried to think of something heartening to say, and failed. Sighing, he pulled a chair over to the side of the bed and sat down. Anthony didn’t look at him.

  “I didn’t even get one blow in,” his nephew said finally. “Not one. They held me up against the wall like a side of beef on a hook and battered me until I fell over. With—with the ladies watching.” He smiled bitterly. “And then Rodrigo came tearing in and knocked both of them down. Oh, and then I threw up.”

  A fairly comprehensive catalog of humiliations, Meyer thought. So much for his hopes of Anthony’s courtship. “How did it happen?” He kept his voice neutral.

  Anthony gave a disgusted snort. “My fault. Mrs. Hart was looking for you, and we ended up interrogating an ostler out by the stables with five or six yokels as audience. Two of them deduced we were English and after a few glasses in the public room came to tell us we were not welcome.”

  “And Miss Hart threw oil on the fire,” Meyer guessed.

  Anthony sat halfway up. “She is not to blame! They were drunk, spoiling for a fight!”

  Rodrigo seized this opportunity to start undressing Roth, moving very carefully. Meyer looked at the bruises across his shoulders and torso. One enormous spot on the side of his chest had already turned nearly black. “That looks bad.”

  “Mrs. Hart sent for the apothecary. She thinks a rib may be broken.”

  Meyer shot a quick look at
Rodrigo.

  “I intercepted the man and sent him away, señor. And I dissuaded the town guard from detaining the two drunks. I did not think you would wish any more attention called to our party than necessary.”

  “Good,” said Meyer, abstracted. He was pressing gently on Anthony’s side, behind the bruise. A gasp told him that Abigail had been correct in her diagnosis. “Get something to use for a binding,” he said over his shoulder.

  Rodrigo disappeared, and returned a moment later with a long strip of frayed cloth. Meyer wound it around tightly, watching Anthony’s face as he did so. “Breathe,” he ordered.

  Anthony took a shallow breath.

  “Deeper.”

  He grimaced, then obeyed.

  Meyer tightened the bandage a bit more. “Try again.”

  “Better,” Anthony admitted grudgingly. He allowed Rodrigo to finish undressing him in silence, but when Meyer turned to go, he said sharply, “Sir, wait!”

  “What is it?”

  “I—I want you to teach me to fight. To box, and shoot a pistol, and use a knife.” He saw Meyer’s hesitation and read it as contempt. “I know I can never be very good at it—I know James started boxing lessons at twelve—I know I’m clumsy, and small, and even riding a horse for eight hours makes my knees shake. But surely I can learn enough so that I can hit them next time. Just once or twice. Or fire a gun, if need be.”

  “You are in no condition right now—”

  Anthony cut him off. “Will the next time wait until I am healed?”

  He had a point. Meyer surrendered. “Sunday. If you still wish it.” Sunday night would be Rodrigo’s turn to ride back towards the advancing troops—or so he thought until he got up to leave. It turned out that Anthony was not the only one who had been injured. As Rodrigo held the door open for him, Meyer saw that the servant’s right thumb was swollen to twice its normal size. He raised his eyebrows inquiringly at the Spaniard.

  “Dislocated,” Rodrigo said with a sour smile. “I’ve popped it back in, but it may be a day or so before I can use it properly.”

  “Well.” He recalled Rodrigo’s careful movements when undressing Anthony and swore under his breath. “It seems I am to enjoy another moonlight ride tonight.”

  “Señor, I can ride!”

  “Don’t be absurd. I won’t go very far; I know my limits.”

  “You can go tomorrow, during the day, while the ladies are resting.”

  “Now that would be inconspicuous,” Meyer said dryly. “An eight-hour absence.” He looked around the empty parlor, frowning. “Do you think perhaps I should exchange rooms with Mrs. Hart and her daughter? We could have a bed made up for you out here. I would be a bit easier in my mind if they were not sleeping in a room which opened directly onto the hallway.”

  “An excellent notion, señor.” Rodrigo looked considerably more cheerful.

  “Oh,” said Meyer, “I almost forgot. You owe me five francs.”

  8

  Meyer climbed slowly up the stairs of the inn, hoping there was coffee. He had been so exhausted when Rodrigo came out to the stable to help him unsaddle his horse he had not been able to absorb half of what he had been told. As he unlocked the door to the parlor, his nose answered the question: yes. There was a pot, still warm, waiting on the table. He silently blessed his longtime servant and swallowed a cup in three gulps, still standing; he was afraid that if he sat down he would have considerable difficulty in getting up.

  He had found the journey back towards Digne exhausting and uncomfortable, but not otherwise difficult. He was not the only one on the road, however. Riders were still galloping north, some singly, some in groups. Where possible Meyer had withdrawn into the woods at the first sound of another horse. He had regretted that choice when he reached Malijai. There he had learned that one of the men he had avoided was none other than Embry, Napoleon’s physician. Digne’s royalist militia had stopped and searched Embry earlier in the day, and had thrown him into prison when he proved to be carrying messages to Napoleon’s supporters in Grenoble. Unfortunately, Digne’s municipal jailer was not as vigilant as the militia. Embry had escaped, and was now once again on his way north to prepare the way for his master. This was indisputable proof Napoleon had chosen the mountain route; Meyer had judged such a choice piece of news worth a pigeon from his precious little flock and had ridden back to Sisteron without bothering to cast any farther south for more information.

  What time was it? He pulled out his watch. Nearly six. He could manage four or even five hours’ sleep, since they were not traveling today. Perhaps he should plead some slight indisposition, spend the whole day in bed. It was very likely Rodrigo would not be fit to ride tonight either. He rubbed his unshaven jaw, yawned, and opened the door to his room.

  It was not his room. Too late he recalled that he himself had proposed the switch. And although he had been very quiet, he could not simply close the door and leave, because Abigail Hart was sitting by a low fire, very wide awake, looking straight at him. She was wearing a dressing gown over her nightgown, and a shawl over that, and was in every way save one far more modestly covered than she had been yesterday evening in the parlor. The exception was her hair. It fell over her shoulders in a thick braid, glinting here and there as flickers of light from the fireplace ran across it.

  She always wore caps, of course—and they were not token wisps of lace. He had never seen anything more of her hair than a scant half inch at the edge of her temples. Now he stood staring, in a kind of daze, noting that it was in fact many different colors: brown and light brown and dark gold and pale blond, each strand different, like the variegated wood of some exotic tree. It was long—nearly to her waist. She had not even made the token concession to fashion of cutting a few locks short in the front to curl around her face. Instead the brown-gold bands framed her wide forehead, flowing back and down into the braid at the nape of her neck. He knew he was staring but could not look away; she was staring back, puzzled and alarmed.

  God, he thought, please let me move. Let me think of something to say.

  She stood up. That broke the spell, although it also filled him with a vague sense of danger.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said, his voice hoarse with fatigue. “I had forgotten that this was no longer my chamber.” He started to back out and close the door.

  “No, wait,” she said, glancing quickly over at the bed. The huddled form under the covers was presumably Diana. Abigail hesitated, then seemed to make up her mind. “Let us go out into the other room. I must speak with you.”

  He held the door open and followed her back into the parlor.

  It was cold in there; the fire had nearly gone out. He busied himself bringing it back to life, giving himself time to prepare some story to explain his stained, day-old clothing, and, more damningly, the unmistakable smell of horse.

  “I could not sleep,” she said finally.

  Still crouched by the hearth, he looked over. “Nor could I.”

  “I at least went to my room and undressed. You did not.”

  “No.” He rose stiffly, dusting off the knees of his buckskins.

  Her expression was guarded, watchful. She sat down tentatively on the edge of one of the chairs and studied him, frowning.

  He braced himself for the inevitable question: Where have you been? He could concoct something, he supposed. Even half-asleep, he was an excellent liar. He enjoyed lying, in fact, practiced it the way singers practice their scales, telling small but unnecessary falsehoods to everyone he knew, even to his own family, as a way of keeping himself ready for future performances. But for some reason he did not want to lie to Abigail Hart. Since it would be both dangerous and unpleasant to tell her the truth, however, he was at point-non-plus.

  She cleared her throat.

  Here it comes, he thought. But he was wrong.

  “I would like to show you something.” Her expression was an odd mixture of embarrassment and determination.

  He blinked, surprised.


  She got up and went over to a small case full of bottles which lay open on the sofa, returning with a folded sheet of paper. “This reached me just before you arrived in Digne. It is from my late husband’s cousin.”

  It was still too dark to read with the shutters closed; he went over and opened them. The sun was nearly up. As he read, curiosity quickly gave way to disgust. Joshua Hart made Meyer’s brother-in-law look like a master of tact and diplomacy.

  My dear Abigail,

  It is with great regret that I inform you I shall not be coming to meet you in Digne-les-Bains after all. Urgent business affairs have compelled me to return to London at once. I send you in my stead, however, a friend of the family, one who, I trust, will be very acceptable to you, Mr. Nathan Meyer. He is widely traveled and speaks fluent French; indeed, he will likely prove a far more valuable escort than my humble self. When I tell you that he is a widower in the prime of life, a gentleman of means and leisure, received by many notables such as Lord Wellington and Sir Charles Barrett, you will understand that any interest he may display in Diana should be very welcome not only to you but also to

  Your affectionate cousin,

  Joshua Hart

  “A glowing recommendation,” he commented dryly, handing it back to her. “I am amazed you did not flee Digne the moment you received it, so as to put as much distance as possible between yourself and the paragon Mr. Hart describes.”

  She colored slightly. “Joshua can be rather overbearing, and I will confess that my reaction to his letter was very much as you suspect. Circumstances, however, intervened.”

  “I was happy to be of service,” he said, still uneasy. This conversation was safer than the “Where were you?” conversation, but not by much.

  Her eyes narrowed. He had come to know that particular expression of hers quite well in the past few days.