The Spy's Reward (19 page)

“My God, what is it?” Meyer exclaimed, rising in alarm from his stool by the fire. “Is it James?”

Meyer's son was in Belgium with Wellington. So far as Roth could tell, the Allied army was spending its time attending balls and musicales and quarreling over who would command which sections of the four-nation force. It was no wonder Wellington wanted someone to keep an eye on the Dutch and the Prussians. “Last I heard, James is perfectly well, if a bit bored,” he said. Without being invited, he took a seat across from Meyer in a large armchair beside the desk. “And if you had not abandoned Whitehall in a fit of pique, you would be seeing regular reports from him and would not frighten yourself needlessly because I have paid you a late-night visit.”

His brother-in-law subsided back onto his stool. “Is this a scolding, then?” he asked in a resigned tone.

“More of an interrogation.” Roth helped himself to a pear from the tray of food sitting on the desk. “Your colonel came by two days ago,” he said, slicing the pear in half. “He informed me that you did not seem to be yourself and asked me whether I had noticed anything unusual about you since your return from France.”

Meyer's face settled into a stony mask. “And what did you say?”

Roth took a bite of pear, chewed, and swallowed. “I said that you had not been home much, but that you seemed abstracted. As though you were contemplating some difficult question.”

“I have been contemplating something,” said Meyer. “I have been contemplating the pitfalls of matchmaking. From the bottom of the pit.” His tone was nicely shaded between annoyance and irony. “Miss Hart was not one of your better candidates, Eli.”

“Yes. Well.” It was Roth's turn to be on the defensive. He took another bite of pear. “I admit my fault. I have already promised Louisa I will make no further attempts on your celibacy.” Then, at the ironic lift of Meyer's eyebrows, he corrected himself. “Perhaps celibacy is the wrong word. On your unmarried state, then.” Meyer had kept a mistress in Spain for some years, and lately there had been rumors of someone in the south of France.

There was an uncomfortable silence, which Roth filled by eating more pear, followed by a bit of bread and cheese. Then, feeling as though he might as well earn the cool stare he was getting, he asked bluntly, “Are you, er, keeping company with anyone at the moment?”

The stare went from cool to cold. “You know perfectly well I would never do so in London. Louisa would be mortified. I had thought you would be as well, but perhaps, given the tenor of this conversation, I was mistaken.”

No, he was not mistaken. Roth had always been grateful that his brother-in-law's illicit activities—both military and amatory—took place under assumed names in far-away places. Feeling more and more as though he was pushing against an immovable wall, Roth nevertheless returned to his inquest. “But in all seriousness, Nathan, is there any particular reason why you do not wish to accept assignments from White any longer?”

Now the stare was positively arctic. “What possible concern is that of yours?”

Roth refused to be intimidated. “The natural concern of anyone for a kinsman. Allow me at least the virtue of consistency. I questioned you when you resigned from the bank. I questioned you when you moved to Spain. I actively tried to prevent you from taking Rachel and James there a few years later. If, at a crucial time for the British army, you suddenly withdraw from your unofficial government position, you cannot be surprised that I am curious and even a bit troubled.”

Meyer shrugged. “There is no great mystery. I felt that I would not be of much use.”

“Colonel White tells me that he disagrees with your evaluation.”

“White will say anything that he finds expedient at the time. He needs someone in Brussels at the moment; he therefore assures you—and me—that I am perfectly capable.” There was a bitterness in his voice that Roth did not quite understand.

“So you think his visit to me was simply motivated by irritation? He finds himself short-staffed, and comes to see me to ask if I can try to persuade you to return? He has worked with you, and with James, for years, and his only thought, when you abruptly resign, is for his own inconvenience? If that is your judgment of the man I can only say that I am astonished you were willing to work with him for as long as you did.”

The dark eyes fell, and Roth pressed his advantage. “What happened in France, Nathan? Did something there cause this change?”

“Nothing happened.” Meyer made an impatient gesture. “Compared to most of my visits to France, I assure you that it was very tame.” He rose. “You must excuse me; I have an early appointment tomorrow.”

“Yes, I have noticed that all your appointments seem to be early these days,” Roth retorted. “Early enough to make certain that you avoid seeing me.”

Meyer sighed. “If you wish to play the concerned kinsman, you might ask Anthony where he got those blisters on his face.”

“Anthony is almost as hard to track down as you are,” Roth said irritably. “And just as touchy. It's a good thing he is going back to Italy soon.”

“He is?” Meyer looked relieved. Roth still did not know what had caused the rift between uncle and nephew, but in Meyer's present mood he was clearly not going to get any answers.

“Yes, his man is leaving tomorrow, and Anthony himself follows at the end of next week.” Roth leaned back in his chair. “You can recall Rodrigo now from whatever artificial exile you concocted for him. That was why you sent him away, was it not? Because of his quarrel with Battista?”

“No,” Meyer said, “I sent him away because he sometimes answers questions I do not wish to have answered. Questions from overanxious relatives, for example.” The door shut behind him with a gentle click.

Roth belatedly realized that he was sitting in Meyer's favorite chair in Meyer's own study having just eaten most of what must have been his brother-in-law's supper. With a sigh, he got up, banked the fire, and snuffed the candles. His total profit for the evening was one pear and two ounces of cheese. Louisa was going to have to see if she could do better with Abigail Hart.

21

The day after his visit to Abigail Hart, Anthony reluctantly decided that unless he wanted to be just as dishonorable as his uncle, he would have to tell his family—at least the London branch of it—that he was planning to enlist. And although he saw his aunt Louisa twice within the hour after this decision, and knew quite well that Eli Roth was in his office at the bank, he was determined that he would tell Meyer first. The prospect was terrifying, but there was no point in signing on to fight the French if he could not even face his own uncle.

It took him quite some time to track Meyer down. His uncle was not in his study at the back of the Roths's town house, nor at the desk reserved for his occasional use at the bank. Anthony knew better than to go over to Colonel White's headquarters at the Tower, but he did try several of the coffeehouses near the Horse Guards. He finally did what he should have done first: he consulted the Roths's butler, who directed him to the Traveller's Club, where Anthony found his uncle leafing through the latest newspapers from Brussels. Meyer did not seem very interested in what he was reading, which was understandable, since the papers were all at least three weeks old. He did not seem interested in his surroundings either, however; he did not even look up as Anthony approached.

Anthony sat down quietly in an adjacent chair. “We have more current reports from Belgium at the bank,” he observed after a moment.

Meyer put down the papers, startled. “Anthony! How did you get in?”

Jews were not normally welcome at the Traveller's, but Castlereagh, who had founded the club, had insisted that all White's couriers should have access to the place. Meyer's membership listed his status as international guest and his residence as Frankfurt.

“I told them I needed to see you on army business. It even happens to be true.”

Meyer eyed the faint red lines on Anthony's cheek. “Is this army business by any chance connected to the powder burns on your face? Or your torn fingers? If I did not know better, I would say you had been firing a rifle. Repeatedly. Or perhaps a musket.”

“Musket.” He slumped back, disgusted. “I might have realized that you would notice.”

“I take a personal interest in your bruises, these days,” his uncle said. “Having caused so many of them myself during our recent adventure. Why are you training with a musket? Are you joining the militia?”

Several of Anthony's colleagues at the bank were active in their local militias, which had been drilling regularly for ten years in case Bonaparte ever invaded England. It was a relatively safe method of demonstrating patriotism. He said, watching his uncle's face, “No, not the militia. An infantry regiment. The 44th Foot.”

Meyer lost his faintly bored look. He sat up with a jerk. “An infantry regiment? You are joking, surely.”

Anthony set his jaw. “James is in the Rifles,” he pointed out. “At least, he serves in the 95th when he isn't doing something even more dangerous, like sneaking into French fortresses. No one suggests he is joking when he goes off with his battalion.”

“Yes, and a fine model for prudence he is!” Meyer snapped. He left unspoken what they both knew: James had been studying to be a spy since he was eight. Anthony could barely fire a gun. His uncle took a deep breath. In the patient tones of a man trying to reason with a child, he said, “Forgive me, but you cannot have thought this through. You have no idea what the life of an enlisted man is like.”

“Do not tell me about floggings and weevils and seventy-pound haversacks,” Anthony said, his jaw set. “I have already heard it all. Mr. Davis, my unofficial trainer, insisted that I walk from Battersea to Walworth carrying all my gear on the hottest day last week. I still have the blisters.”

“And you are prepared to sign on for seven years of these delights?”

“No, but it will not be seven years, no matter what the enlistment papers may say. Everyone believes there will be one great battle. In mid-July, most likely. That is less than two months from now. I want to fight in that battle.”

“What if everyone is wrong? What if it takes years of slow, grinding, dreary work to push Bonaparte back again? As it did in Spain?”

“Then I will ask you to buy me out.” He gave his uncle a level stare. “Don't tell me you would not be able to do it.”

“What I would like to do is to
talk
you out. Before you are in.” Meyer sat back in his chair and brooded. “This is because of that beating you took in Sisteron,” he muttered, half to himself. “In front of Miss Hart. You asked me to teach you how to shoot a gun right afterwards; I should have seen this coming.”

“That is not the reason. At least, not entirely.” Anthony shifted uncomfortably. Here was his cue for a fiery speech denouncing Meyer's devious ways and justifying his own decision, but he no longer wanted to deliver the speech. To his surprise, he found himself reaching for a very different explanation. “I was in Grasse, you know, meeting with perfumers, when the news of Bonaparte's escape arrived,” he said slowly.

Meyer frowned, but waited for him to continue.

Anthony made a frustrated gesture. “Do you know how long it has been since those poor men could export their goods legally? Over ten years! How much of a local market for fine perfume do they have in the hills of southern France?”

“So you are going to war for the lavender growers of Provence.”

“Yes, I am,” said Anthony fiercely. “I am sick of being a smuggler instead of a businessman. You and James enjoy breaking the rules. I don't. If the only way to stop Napoleon from bringing another decade of war and embargos and blockades to Europe is to stand there with a musket in some field in Belgium, then so be it.”

There was a long silence. His uncle studied him carefully, then said at last, “When are you meeting the recruiter?”

He had been holding his breath. Now he let it out. “Friday.”

“They will have you on a boat to Antwerp twenty-four hours after you sign on, you know. Wellington is desperately short of men.”

“So I have been told.”

There was another silence. “Have you shared this news with anyone else?”

Anthony shook his head. “I wanted to tell you first.”

“Hoping I would talk you out of it, perhaps?”

“Hoping that I could resist when you tried,” Anthony admitted. “I thought you would be the toughest. With the exception of my mother, of course, but she is in Italy.” He asked after a moment, “What do you think her reaction will be?”

“Apoplexy,” said Meyer succinctly. “Followed by death threats against me for failing to stop you.”

“I'll write to her tonight,” Anthony said, dreading the thought. “And what of Aunt Louisa and Uncle Eli? I suppose I must tell them as well.”

“You must do more than that. You must persuade them, as you did me. Unless you fancy being abducted from your regiment by bank hirelings.”

“Uncle Eli would never do anything of the sort!” Anthony was shocked.

His voice dry, Meyer said, “You think not? I assure you that in his own way he is just as ruthless as you accuse me of being.”

That gave Anthony pause. What if Meyer had only been pretending to accept his decision to enlist? What if Anthony woke up tomorrow to find himself drugged and bound in the hold of a ship headed for the Antipodes? He shot his uncle an uneasy glance.

“I have renounced ruthlessness,” Meyer reminded him. “You are safe from me, if not from the French army.” He stood up. “Are you going to the bank? Now that I will have you to worry about as well as James, I think I would like to see those reports you mentioned. On our way we can stop by the house and you can tell your aunt Louisa what you have told me.”

Anthony swallowed. “This morning?”

“Do you want her to hear it from someone else? I have already hinted to your uncle Eli that he might want to investigate those powder burns on your face.”

“May I observe,” said Anthony bitterly, “that in Italy I only have
one
parent?” But he stood up and put on his hat and gloves.

They were walking out together when Anthony suddenly remembered his other piece of news. “Oh, I stopped by the Harts's yesterday. Mrs. Hart accepted your gift.”

Meyer stopped and turned around. “She did?” he said, looking both relieved and apprehensive.

“Yes, and I took the liberty of asking her whether you might call on her at some point.”

Now his uncle looked even more apprehensive. “What did she say?”

“Nothing. But if I had to interpret her silence, I would translate it as ‘not yet.'”

“Well,” said Meyer, “that is better than the ‘Over my dead body' silence, which is what I was expecting.”

 

 

It was not until the morning after Anthony Roth's visit that Abigail finally got up her courage to look carefully at the book Meyer had sent. The note on the flyleaf had been so brief that she had begun to wonder whether there was not some other message inside—a loose sheet of paper folded between two pages, perhaps. Or something in the margin of one of the poems. She brought the volume down to breakfast with her, and made herself wait until she had looked at all of the post, including the bills. Only then did she pick it up and shake it. Nothing fell out. She flipped the pages. No pieces of paper appeared. No marginalia either. Perhaps the poems themselves were meant to be the message. Glancing up quickly to make sure that Fanny was still absorbed in the newspaper, she began to read.

The first poem, “She Walks in Beauty,” was a love poem. It made her a bit uncomfortable, especially when it described the flowing hair of the beloved. The second poem, “The Harp the Monarch Minstrel Swept,” was incomprehensible. The third seemed to be another love poem, in an almost sacrilegious vein. She stopped reading and began skimming. Then, increasingly uneasy, she turned back to the beginning and read every word on every page. It was not a long book.

An hour later she was on her way to find Meyer.

 

 

Sweelinck came to find Louisa in the kitchen, where she was consulting the cook about a new pastry recipe her niece Rachel had sent her. “I beg your pardon, madam,” he said, “but there is a caller for Mr. Meyer.”

“He has gone out,” Louisa said. “I heard him tell you so myself. He is at his club and may not be back until this afternoon. If it is someone from Whitehall, send them on to the Traveller's, or ask them to leave a note.” She turned back to the recipe, which seemed to be missing some key ingredient. She and the cook had both tried to roll out the dough, and it crumbled apart each time.

“The caller is a lady,” Sweelinck said. “A Mrs. Hart.”

Louisa turned around. “Mrs. Hart? Not Miss Hart?”

The butler's injured look told her that he did not make errors of that sort.

“I will be right up,” she said, hastily looking around for something she could use to clean off the flour from her hands and bodice. “Put her in the bookroom. No, that is full of Eli's papers. The drawing room, then.”

Sweelinck bowed and withdrew.

“Offer her some refreshments as well,” Louisa called after him. One of the kitchen maids brought her a basin of water and she repaired the damage to her gown as best she could. But she felt harried and untidy as she arrived to greet her unexpected guest, and the sight of Abigail Hart did not make her feel any better.

Neat. That was how Louisa would describe her. Everything about her was neat. Her features were regular; her clothing impeccable; her hair smooth beneath a starched cap. She was sitting very carefully on the edge of a gold silk armchair, with her hands folded in her lap. Under her hands, centered precisely, was a small book. Then she looked up, and Louisa saw her eyes. They were wide and green and did not belong to the person who had chosen that modest gown and folded her hands over the book.

Abigail rose, setting the volume on an adjacent chair.

“Mrs. Hart?” Louisa hurried over. “Louisa Roth. My brother-in-law is from home, but I have been wanting to meet you; my nephew Anthony speaks of you often.”

“I am sorry, I cannot stay.” She looked nervous. “I only came by to return this book. Mr. Meyer gave it to me by mistake.”

Louisa wisely did not ask why the book had not been sent with a footman. “Please do sit down, if only for a minute or so,” she said. “I should have called weeks ago to thank you for your care of Anthony; you must at least allow me to do that much now.”

Abigail sank back onto her chair.

“Were you offered anything? Would you care for some tea?”

“Yes.” Then she corrected herself. “That is, yes, I was asked if I wished for anything. I am quite content as I am.” A blatant lie, her folded hands were trembling slightly.

“Anthony tells me that you had quite a time of it in France,” Louisa said. “What with his illness, and the soldiers, and the snow.” Her phrasing was deliberately constructed to suggest that she knew many more details; in fact, those three words—illness, soldiers, snow—had been acquired only through patient sifting of Anthony's occasional offhand references combined with judicious consultation of newspaper reports.

“It was not very pleasant,” her visitor admitted. “But it was certainly memorable.”

“You had your daughter with you as well. That must have made you even more anxious.”

The first hint of a smile softened Abigail Hart's face. “That is an understatement. When I saw Diana being held at gunpoint at that roadblock, I thought I would faint. Luckily Mr. Meyer remained calm, even when they stripped him and found all of his weapons.”