The Spy's Reward Page 9

“Were you?”

  For a moment he thought, with a hollow feeling in his stomach, that she had somehow learned the truth.

  But her next question proved that her fears were of a different nature. She held up the letter and asked bluntly, “Did you know of this? Was this your idea?”

  “No to both questions, although I suspected something when my brother-in-law proposed that I meet your party and escort you back to England. My friends and family have been attempting to find me a new wife for many years.” He added, with a dry smile, “I was led to believe that Miss Hart was an invalid, traveling with a paid companion.”

  A small, matching smile appeared. “You must have been rather surprised.”

  He bowed. “Let us say that both the invalid and her companion proved far more agreeable than I had expected.”

  Flattery did not sit well with Abigail Hart, that was clear. Her smile vanished. “And are you, in fact, intending to pay court to her?” she asked, raising her chin belligerently.

  “Am I intending to pursue Miss Hart?” His voice grew very cold. “To take advantage of a terrified young woman who has been thrown into my company because civil war has broken out in France? I see that your opinion of me is very low, madam.”

  “I would not say that.” She looked uncomfortable. After a moment, she added, “I apologize if my concern for Diana led me to imply that you have been guilty of an attempt to turn our situation to your own profit.”

  The hollow feeling in his stomach became a gaping pit. If she asked him now where he had been all night, he knew he would lie, and hate himself for lying.

  She went over to the fireplace and threw the letter into the blaze. It sat for a moment atop a log, still folded, and then caught fire and uncurled. She watched the paper burn, and said, without turning around, “If, after we have returned to London, and a suitable interval has elapsed, you should wish to address my daughter, I would not object.”

  Wonderful. He pictured her and Eli and Joshua Hart herding him like a reluctant sheep into a sitting room where Diana Hart sat demurely waiting, while Anthony glowered on the sidelines. Perhaps he should take back his offer to teach Anthony to handle a pistol.

  With a sigh, she stood up. “We should both try to get some sleep. Good night, Mr. Meyer.”

  “Good night.” He made the phrase less absurd by closing the shutters to block out the brightening sky. In the newly darkened room, Abigail was only a shadow, moving slowly away and then vanishing into the even-darker bedchamber. He stood staring at the closed door for a long moment before going off, equally slowly, to find his own bed.

  It was almost noon when Abigail finally managed to get out of bed. She had come half-awake several times since her awkward conversation with Meyer, but had dropped back off again before she could force herself to get up. When she saw the time on her silver traveling clock, she gave a gasp of dismay before remembering that today was Saturday. A day of rest.

  Diana was nowhere to be seen. Presumably she was out in the parlor, or perhaps downstairs in the coffee room. Abigail hoped that she was tending poor Anthony Roth, but she rather doubted that Diana would offer; and even if she did, Roth would probably jump out the window the moment she came into his room.

  When she rang, a maidservant appeared so promptly that Abigail was startled. The girl’s nervous curtseys and stammered apologies made it clear that the innkeeper was trying to make amends for yesterday’s incident. Abigail allowed herself to be mollified, especially when two large cans of hot water and a pot of chocolate appeared. As the maid helped her to dress and put up her hair, she found herself relaxing, savoring the thought that today there would be no freezing, bone-jolting carriage ride. She gave the girl a very large tip and sallied forth, feeling remarkably well for someone who had spent all night fretting first about her daughter and then about Napoleon. Her conversation with Meyer had reassured her somewhat about the former. The latter problem was less personal but more intractable. At least now, in the daylight, she was able to tell herself firmly that from all accounts there had been remarkably little violence so far.

  Her cautious optimism lasted only as long as it took her to step out into the parlor. In the other bedchamber, whose door was open, Meyer and his servant were having a low-voiced but furious argument in Spanish. She did not speak the language, but when she heard words like catástrofe and imper-donable and desastroso it was not difficult for a woman who knew French and Italian to understand that something was wrong. Then the servant saw her, and made an urgent gesture to Meyer, who immediately fell silent. That, too, was frightening.

  “What is it?” she asked nervously, going over to the doorway of Roth’s room. The bed, she saw, was empty.

  Meyer ran his hand through his hair. He was shaved and dressed, but he looked haggard. “My nephew decided that his injuries required him to travel more slowly than the rest of the party, so he left early. I would have told him he was not fit to ride unaccompanied, but I was unfortunately asleep upstairs, and Rodrigo was up at the city hall hoping for fresh news from the south.”

  “But we are not traveling today,” she said. There was a quick exchange of glances between the two men. “Are we?”

  “Anthony did not suppose we were, at the time that he left. In his note he wavered between portraying himself as an invalid who would hamper our progress and as our advance party in Gap. It is all an excuse, of course. He blames himself for what happened yesterday.”

  She could well imagine Roth deciding to flee from the witnesses to yesterday’s affair. “Someone must go after him,” she said, worried. “It will be very painful, riding with his broken rib.”

  “We will all go. I regret the necessity of traveling today, but Anthony is not the only advance party who has proceeded farther north than I anticipated. Rodrigo tells me that General Cambronne is already here in Sisteron, and Napoleon will be here late tonight or tomorrow morning. He must be marching his men on three hours’ sleep; it is madness.”

  “You are a fine one to talk,” the Spaniard muttered.

  Ignoring this comment, Meyer asked her, “Have you breakfasted?”

  The news that Bonaparte and his troops would be here, in this very town, perhaps in this very hostelry, before twenty-four hours had passed, made her dizzy. “It is no matter. I would prefer to leave as soon as possible.” She looked around the parlor. “Where is Diana? Is she already outside? Have you told her our plans have changed?”

  Meyer frowned. “She is not still asleep?”

  “No, of course not. You have not seen her?” She turned to Rodrigo, feeling the first tendrils of panic. “You?”

  Their appalled faces provided the answer.

  She whirled and ran back to the bedchamber. Her daughter’s side of the bed was an untidy mound of covers; there was clothing scattered on the floor and draped over one of the chairs. Her hairbrush and rouge pot were still on the dressing table. But her half boots were missing, and her warm bonnet, and her velvet reticule. Could Diana have gone off, leaving her things all over the room? The answer was, unfortunately, yes. In Diana’s world someone else always picked up the stockings and screwed the cover on the rouge pot and packed the cloak bag.

  As Abigail ran down the stairs she told herself that Diana had not been abducted by angry peasants. She was in the coffee room, she had gone out to the stable, she had taken a walk. Meyer, moving almost as quickly as Abigail, was giving orders in Spanish over his shoulder to Rodrigo as he clattered down behind her.

  The coffee room held four parties eating an early dinner, who looked up, astounded, as Abigail burst into the room. The innkeeper’s wife hurried over, all solicitude.

  “Have you seen my daughter?” Abigail asked, cutting off the woman’s flowery greeting. “Or has anyone else seen her? Has she come down this morning?”

  “But yes, madame.” The woman beamed. “Just one moment.” She hurried away.

  Abigail would have collapsed in grateful relief if Meyer had not steadied her.

  “V
oilà,” said the woman, returning triumphantly. “My husband is very distracted by the news of the army, madame, so I made sure to put this in a safe place when mademoiselle gave it to him. And he wished me to tell you that it is our most reliable groom, Jean-Pierre, who has accompanied her.”

  The note was unsigned, but Diana’s rounded handwriting was unmistakable. Abigail read it, sighed, and handed it to Meyer.

  Dearest Mama,

  I know it was very wrong of me, but as Mr. Roth’s note had no superscription I opened it to see what it was and then I could not help but read it. I have gone to persuade him to return, as I am sure he should not ride yet. I am wearing the wool cape and my gloves with the fur edges and have a groom with me, so you are not to worry.

  His mouth twisted. “It seems to be our morning for notes from runaway children,” he observed. “Do you ride horses as well as mules?”

  She nodded.

  “Rodrigo can pack our bags and follow in the gig. How soon can you be ready?”

  “If you would wait here a moment?”

  She ran upstairs, snatched up her bonnet and shawl and gloves, and ran back down. He was still standing at the foot of the staircase. “I am ready now.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Without a coat?”

  “Diana took it,” she informed him. “Her pelisse is too tight for riding. And no, her pelisse will not fit me; I am too tall. My righteous anger will keep me warm.”

  That provoked a wry, elusive smile. “Anger can cool quickly, especially on a blustery day in March. Rodrigo will find you something while the groom saddles the horses.”

  9

  Anthony was plodding toward Gap. It was a fairly level road, which was a blessing, since any slope—up or down—strained his taped ribs uncomfortably. He had asked for the laziest, most placid beast in the stables, and was going so slowly that even farmers’ carts were passing him. Since the pass beyond Gap was one of the few permitting travelers to reach Grenoble from this region, the road was busy, and he was passed rather frequently. At least half of his fellow travelers turned around in their vehicles or saddles to stare at him, obviously puzzled that a lone rider with very little baggage should be keeping his saddle horse to a pace more natural to an ox. He distracted himself from his misery by guessing at their identities and errands as they went by. Some were obvious: the anxious priest, the peasant family with baskets of root vegetables. Some were intriguing, like the man wearing a military helmet but civilian dress who tore by at a gallop and then tore by again in the opposite direction a few minutes later.

  When there was no one else in sight, however, he invariably ended up reliving yesterday’s fight in his head. No matter how many times he tried to make it come out differently, it always ended the same way, with the two Frenchmen pummeling him to his knees in front of Diana Hart. His only, tiny victory was that he had managed not to groan out loud. That was one good thing about traveling by himself: he could groan as much as he liked. The way he reckoned it, in fact, he was owed at least twenty-two groans for the twenty-two punches he had taken in silence yesterday, and he sometimes allowed himself an extra one when he was jolted painfully enough to produce an involuntary grunt.

  There were also, of course, disadvantages to setting off alone. He had to be very careful where he stopped, because getting on and off the horse was a tricky proposition. Consequently, when he saw an old couple selling candles next to a roadside shrine he drew rein. There was a handy chunk of half-quarried stone to use as a mounting block, and if that was not sufficient, he could ask the man to help him. He was sidling his horse up to the piece of stone when he heard riders come up behind him and stop.

  “There he is,” said a female voice in French. The hoofbeats started up again, trotting towards him.

  He couldn’t turn around—he had already discovered that any twisting movements were agonizingly painful. So he levered his right leg over the cantle and slid awkwardly off the horse, turning his head back towards the new arrivals.

  It was Diana, of course. She was wearing a thick cloak, but her cheeks were pink with cold, and little wisps of blond hair were blowing around the brim of her bonnet. She gave him a too-cheerful smile, as though there was nothing at all odd about a sheltered, eighteen-year-old heiress riding out alone to rescue an adult male. Well, not alone. There was someone with her: a groom, probably from the inn. But she clearly believed Anthony was in need of rescuing. Unsurprising, after yesterday.

  “Tell my mother I have come up with Monsieur Roth,” she said to the groom, handing him a few coins.

  The servant nodded and wheeled smartly back towards Sisteron.

  “Well,” said Diana, looking down at Anthony. “You certainly did not get very far. Jean-Pierre told me that you had taken the slowest nag in Sisteron, and it seems he was not exaggerating.”

  “Miss Hart.” He touched the brim of his hat. Bowing was not a good option at the moment.

  “You are very foolish to attempt to sit a horse today, you know.” She nudged her horse alongside him. “Can you help me down? Oh no, perhaps you should not.” With a quick twist of the reins she brought her horse around the other side of the block and hopped off right next to him.

  The old woman, seeing a potential customer, hurried over with an apronful of candles. Diana smiled prettily, and, encouraged, the woman launched into her sales pitch. This was a very ancient shrine, very famous. Many miracles had been reported here. If mademoiselle would light a taper to the blessed virgin of Le Poêt, her prayer would not go unfulfilled.

  Diana bought two, handed Anthony her reins, and went over to the miniature building which housed the statue. Incredulous, he realized that she was actually lighting the candles. He had taken a savage beating yesterday after she had boasted of being Jewish, and today she was praying to the Madonna of some decrepit little village in the middle of nowhere.

  “Now we can go back,” she announced as she returned.

  The thought of retracing his slow, aching steps back to Sisteron was unbearable, but of course he could not leave her here by herself. He groaned. Aloud.

  She looked alarmed, but for the first time since he had met her, Anthony did not care what Diana Hart thought.

  He beckoned the old man over. “If you could help me?” Between the stone and a few shoves from below he managed to mount again. “And mademoiselle.” He indicated Diana with a jerk of his head. Once she was up, he turned his horse and without a word headed back south.

  She pulled up alongside him, holding back her fresher and faster horse with a visible effort. “You are vexed with me.” She sounded surprised.

  “Yes, I am vexed. It was a perfectly reasonable decision on my part to leave early, so that I could travel more slowly. Now, because you sent your groom away, I must escort you back to Sisteron. I will now ride double the distance, and will be compelled to keep pace with everyone else tomorrow instead of resting.” He was growing angrier by the minute. “I fail to see why you chose to meddle in my affairs. I do not need assistance from a schoolgirl. I am a grown man. I have traveled all over Europe without any assistance for five years now.”

  This was not quite true. Anthony usually traveled with a trusted family servant whose role sometimes was more similar to that of a nursemaid than that of a valet. When the news of Napoleon’s escape had reached him in Grasse, however, Anthony had sent Battista galloping back to Naples, with instructions to stop at all the bank’s courier stations en route and get the news out as fast as possible.

  “But you are injured,” she pointed out. Her chin had a stubborn little jut which was, he had to admit, very attractive.

  Why was he arguing with a spoiled flirt? He gave an exasperated sigh and kicked his horse into a trot. His ribs gave an agonized protest. Perhaps a canter would be easier. Without looking to see if Diana was keeping pace, he kicked again.

  She pulled in front of him, forcing him to a stop. Her face was white with anger, and her horse, sensing her agitation, danced uneasily beneath her. “You,
” she informed him, breathing hard, “are not a gentleman. I beg your pardon for feeling some concern for your welfare. How dared I presume to know better than you, with your vast experience of the world. Well, I may be a schoolgirl, but after watching you on the journey from Barrême I will tell you this: I can outride you any day of the week, even before you broke your rib. I do not need your escort. It is only twenty minutes back to the inn, and the road is well frequented. Go on, go off by yourself! And I hope your slug of a horse deposits you in the next available ditch!” With that she turned her horse, brought the animal rearing up in an impressive display of equestrian temper, and dug in her heels.

  Swearing, Anthony followed as best he could. His horse did not seem to have a gallop; it subsided into a canter and then a trot after a few paces, and neither kicks nor the crop had any lasting effect. But then Anthony heard the scream. There was absolutely no doubt about whose voice that was. He leaned over the neck of the horse and brought his crop down savagely on the animal’s flank. He forgot about his ribs, his still-swollen mouth, his aching shoulder. Shouting, plying the crop, he tore down the road and around the corner.

  At a crossroads just ahead, Diana was sitting frozen on her horse. Three men surrounded her. One had a rifle cradled in his hand; the other two had pikes. Over to the side two more men were setting up a tent. They were all wearing bits and pieces of old uniforms; the man with the rifle was in fact the helmeted galloper he had noticed earlier. The uniforms looked depressingly familiar, at least to someone who had lived in Italy while Napoleon’s troops had occupied it.

  At Anthony’s approach the helmet-wearer swung the gun up and cocked it. “Halt!” he called. “In the name of the emperor!”

  Anthony halted, and one of the tent-peggers, at a gesture from the leader, came up and took the bridle of his horse.

  “Your papers,” demanded the leader.

  Anthony handed them over.