The Spy's Reward (10 page)

11

The Auberge du Marchand consisted of two century-old town houses on one of the principal streets of Gap. The houses had been acquired and then remodeled piecemeal, and the interior of the hotel thus resembled a three-dimensional maze. Staircases went up half a flight and ended abruptly at a single door; corridors turned and ran into a wall. Doors five yards apart proved to open into the same apartment; single doors gave access to three smaller doors. The stables were in an alley four buildings away and were impossible to find unless one of the hotel clerks led the way in person.

Meyer was not happy with the situation. He had ridden ahead to book rooms there on the recommendation of the host of a pleasant roadside tavern they had passed a few hours back. It might be “a very superior hostelry, very congenial to the ladies,” as the tavern keeper had promised, but as Meyer looked around with a professional eye he thought he had never seen any place better suited to an assassination—if, of course, the assassin could find his victim. From the point of view of a man determined to protect someone, it was a nightmare. There were no adjoining rooms big enough to house a party of five, and after the experience in Sisteron he was unwilling to lodge the Harts in any room more than three steps from his own bedchamber. In the end he settled for two rooms, one of which was quite large and included a sitting area. The two shared a small hallway, and there were no other guest chambers anywhere nearby. The doors were even two different sizes: the larger room had double doors, and the smaller room, which the men were sharing, a single one. Meyer was determined not to stumble into the wrong room this time.

The two other men did not like the place much either. Anthony, who had climbed immediately into bed the moment they arrived, would have very much preferred his own room. Until he fell asleep he complained petulantly each time the door was opened. Meyer suspected very strongly that Anthony was coming down with a fever. As for Rodrigo, when he discovered that the easiest route to the stables involved traversing three courtyards, two of which were locked promptly at sundown, he informed Meyer that he would sleep in the stable loft with the grooms. Meyer felt sorry for him, but he was in no mood to let anyone lock up a possible means of escape from Gap. If Rodrigo was to take his turn riding south tonight there was really no choice in the matter. And of course, that also meant one fewer person in the already-crowded smaller room.

The ladies, on the other hand, did find the Auberge du Marchand congenial. Or at least, the younger lady did. When Meyer escorted the two women upstairs, Diana exclaimed rapturously. The room was so large! So elegantly furnished! It seemed more like part of a private home than a hired room at an inn! (Here Abigail had glanced at Meyer and raised her eyebrows expressively. Both the sleeping area and the sitting area were relentlessly decorated in high imperial style: gold eagles and red-velvet upholstery juxtaposed with Egyptian-style pieces—the most hideous of which, an ebony table in the shape of a crocodile, had actually made both adults wince when they saw it.) In addition, the hotel had several dining rooms, and Diana was looking forward to what she called “a proper meal, for once,” meaning at least six courses and more waiters than diners. As Meyer left, she was shaking out her only evening frock and lighting all eight candles in the sconces attached to the mirror.

It was only when Meyer returned to his own room down the hall that he discovered the most serious disadvantage of the Auberge du Marchand. Certain rooms had unusual acoustical properties—unbeknownst to the guests being overheard—eerily projecting conversations to another room next door, or around the corner, or upstairs. Diana and Abigail Hart, for example, had no idea that their voices were emerging from Meyer's fireplace. The voices were so loud that he glanced over at the bed to see if Anthony had been awakened again. Apparently not. Meyer was just about to go next door and warn the two women to speak more softly when he heard his own name.

“Mama, how old do you suppose Mr. Meyer might be?”

“I don't know.” There was a pause. “He must be over forty; he has two grown children. But he certainly doesn't look it.”

“Did you peek . . . when he took his shirt off?”

“That is a
very
ill-mannered question.” Abigail's voice was tart.

“Well, I did. I admit it. How do you suppose he came by all those scars?”

The reply did not come through as clearly; Abigail must have moved to a different spot in the room. He could hear only the word “affair,” which he suspected had been preceded by the phrase “none of our.”

“Do you think he is a criminal? A bandit? His servant is Spanish, you know, and they say Spain is full of bandits.”

Spain was not full of bandits, he wanted to shout. Spain was full of men who had lost their land when Napoleon invaded and had never gotten it back, even after the Allied victory. Men like the character he had played today at the roadblock. They hired themselves out as fighters. What else could they do?

He didn't hear her next reply at all.

“Did you see he had a knife hidden in his
boot
?” Diana's voice rose so high on the last word that it was almost a shriek.

Now he could hear Abigail again: “Yes, I saw that.”

“And where did he get those papers, the ones that said he was Spanish?”

“Perhaps experienced travelers furnish themselves with that sort of thing.” She sounded hesitant.

“Mother! Don't be absurd! It is all very suspicious. Suppose he is not Mr. Meyer at all? Suppose he murdered the real Mr. Meyer and took his place?”

“And hired an actor to impersonate his nephew as well? Or do you believe Mr. Roth is also a bandit?”

“No.” Grudgingly. “But Mama, something is very odd. You must see that. You must ask him to explain.”

“I suppose you are right. I will speak with him tonight. After dinner.” She sounded very reluctant.

“He is never to be found after dinner. Or sometimes even during dinner. That is another odd thing. I think you should find him now. Or I will, if you don't dare.”

“Diana!”

He heard a door open.

Panic-stricken, his first impulse was to hide. He quenched the lamp and headed for the armoire, hoping it was big enough to conceal him. Then he reminded himself that they would knock. All he had to do was not answer.

Quick footsteps came down the hall, followed by an imperious tattoo on the door. “Diana, for goodness' sake, you need not beat the door down!” Abigail sounded exasperated. “Obviously there is no one there.”

“I will just look.”

Had he locked the door? He was not sure. He dove under the bed just as the answer became clear: no.

“You see?” The voice came from the doorway. He could see Abigail's feet in the block of lamplight spilling in from the hall. “It's dark. There is no one here.”

But there was someone there. Meyer heard the bed creak suddenly above him.

Then sheets and covers flew over the side of the bed, and Anthony's voice roared, “Damn it, Rodrigo, I told you to stop leaving the door open!”

There was an appalled silence. Meyer saw Abigail's feet stepping back.

“Oh God.” There was another whirlwind of sheets, this time back up off the floor. “I do apologize. I thought—I was asleep—”

“We—we were looking for your uncle,” stammered Diana.

The feet were retreating rapidly. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Roth, most sincerely. We did not mean to disturb you.” That was Abigail, a bit breathless. “Please go back to sleep. You do not look very well.”

Meyer waited at least a minute after the door closed to slide out from under the bed. Anthony gave a choked cry and nearly dropped the lamp he had just rekindled.

“What the devil were you doing under my bed?” he demanded. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes very bright.

Fever, thought Meyer. Another complication. “Hiding.”

“What?”

“Shhh.” Meyer pointed to the fireplace. Sure enough, two female voices were once again floating out of it.

“Mother, why didn't you stop me?” moaned Diana. “I have never been so mortified! Poor Mr. Roth! He will never speak to me again.”

“He looked ill.” That was Abigail, sounding worried. “I will ring for someone; Mr. Meyer must be found. I think we should call a doctor.”

Anthony was sitting up in bed, his mouth open, staring at the fireplace. Only now did Meyer notice that he was not wearing anything except a pair of drawers and the tape over his ribs. His bruises had turned green around the edges.

“Do me a favor,” said Meyer. “Wrap yourself in a blanket, and go to their room at once. Tell them it is your turn to beg their pardon, but their voices are coming through our fireplace and you thought they might wish to know.”

Anthony gave a dazed nod, heaved himself out of bed, and disappeared, trailing half the bedclothes behind him.

So, thought Meyer, at least he was no longer the only one in the family who had been displayed half-naked today to a woman he admired.

 

 

Dinner was a very awkward affair. First, Meyer had to pretend that he knew nothing about the conversation he had overheard. There was a speculative light in Diana's eye when she looked at him which made it difficult to forget some of her remarks, however. Her gaze lingered several times on his torso, and once he even caught her peering at his shoes. Perhaps she thought he had a dagger in them. Abigail, on the other hand, did not look at him at all. She kept her eyes lowered during the entire meal. In fact, she kept her head down as well, which meant that he spent over an hour looking at the top of one of her accursed caps. He suspected that she was nervous about her plan to interrogate him. He was none too sanguine himself about that prospect.

He also had to pretend that he knew nothing of the encounter between the two women and his nephew. Every time Anthony's name was mentioned, Diana turned scarlet, which made that particular bit of acting very difficult. Finally he decided that it would be more suspicious to ignore such a blatant display than to acknowledge it, and at the next blush, he broke off his sentence and asked Diana politely if she was too warm. She turned even redder, looked at her mother in frantic embarrassment, and fled the table, murmuring some disjointed excuse.

Abigail raised her head for a moment. “Pray do not tease her, Mr. Meyer,” she said in a low voice. “She is—she is very conscious of Mr. Roth's attentions.” Then she looked down at the table again.

Meyer could not believe his ears. The self-possessed, morally upright Abigail Hart was lying to him. She was doing a terrible job, too. He frowned. This was very interesting. Why would she lie to him? He knew her well enough by now to feel sure that she would not normally hesitate, once Diana was gone, to reveal what had happened with Anthony. She would even see the humor in it. He certainly did. If only he had hidden in the armoire; then he could have seen Diana's face when Anthony erupted bare-chested from under the covers.

Let us consider this logically, he said to himself. The only reason to lie about such a delicious story would be to conceal her visit to his and Anthony's bedchamber. And the only reason to conceal the visit would be to avoid answering the question he would probably ask: why did you come to my room?

He leaned back, studying tonight's cap. It was amber-colored silk, matching her gown, and nearly the same color as the tiny bit of hair at the edges. From what he had overheard, from what he had seen just now, it appeared that Abigail was even more reluctant to interrogate him than he was to be interrogated. Why not put her on the defensive? Why not take the initiative?

“Mrs. Hart,” he said.

She looked up, alarmed at something in his tone.

“I would like to speak with you in private.”

Flustered, she looked around the dining room. It was not crowded; the weather at this time of year in Gap did not attract visitors. There were no other guests within earshot. There were, however, several hovering waiters. It was that sort of establishment.

He signaled to the nearest hoverer.

The man snapped to attention as though he were a subaltern and Meyer his captain. “Monsieur?”

“Is there a small room nearby where madame and I might take a glass of wine?”

“Certainly, monsieur. If monsieur will have the goodness to wait for one moment?” He summoned a lower-level hoverer, who darted off at his whispered instructions and returned a minute or so later accompanied by a very superior gentleman in a powdered wig who escorted Meyer and Abigail to an alcove off of the hotel's music room, where a horn quartet was playing. There was a certain amount of additional hovering, involving wine and biscuits, but at length the various carriers of trays and openers of wine were dismissed, and he and Abigail were alone. The musicians did not count; in fact, they were excellent insurance in case this room resembled the Harts's bedchamber acoustically.

Attack first, he reminded himself. “It seems to me that you might have some questions about what you learned of me today. Well-justified questions. I wanted to give you an opportunity to ask them.”

She twisted the wineglass in her fingers. “That is very kind of you, but—”

“Come, Mrs. Hart. Surely, even if you averted your eyes from my, ah,
déshabillé
, you cannot have failed to hear the guard's description of my scars?”

“I saw them,” she said, almost inaudibly. “There were . . . quite a few.”

“Yes,” he said. “Unless I was attacked simultaneously by five footpads, each armed with a different weapon, I think we must conclude that I have been wounded on more than one occasion. Oh, and he missed one.”