The Spy's Reward (5 page)

God help us.
She leaned against the wall. Decades of conflict in Europe had finally ended last year—the same year that her nine-year exile from her daughter had been revoked. Two long-held, long-cherished fantasies, combined in one: to travel to the great cities of the continent with Diana. It had been her idea, her plan. She had made all the arrangements, hired Hervé, read dozens of now-outdated guidebooks and memoirs, pored over maps. And now her daughter—her sheltered, spoiled, impulsive, beautiful daughter—was trapped in a town full of Bonapartists in the middle of what had just become a war zone.

Abigail would, under ordinary circumstances, have kept Diana as far away from Nathan Meyer as possible. Her daughter was too young to be married; Abigail would not let Diana duplicate her own error if she could prevent it. And even if the notion of Diana's marriage had been more acceptable in the abstract, she would have been opposed to this particular match. Joshua Hart's clumsy maneuvering had made her furious. Luring them to Digne—
not
a town on her carefully compiled list of worthy sights for their tour—and then foisting Meyer on them at the last minute was, in her opinion, despicable. The letter extolling Meyer's qualifications as a bridegroom had enraged her even further. A gentleman of leisure! Received by such notables as Sir Charles Barrett! What was admirable about leisure? What Jew was a gentleman? As she saw the women she had grown up with presiding over country homes and riding in carriages on the Sabbath and appearing in public with their arms bare, she despised them for aping the manners of a society that would never accept them. Meyer's own daughter, in fact, had recently married a Christian. The man was a profligate, an apostate, a disgrace. Had Abigail been on her own, she would have hesitated a long, long time before approaching Nathan Meyer for help. But she was not on her own, and so she did not hesitate at all.

“We can be ready in five minutes,” she told the servant.

He nodded. “I will remain here, in the hall. Call if you need assistance. Bring only what you can carry yourselves, and dress warmly.”

Twenty minutes later, she and Diana were ensconced in the bedchamber of the little post house, hastily cleared for their use by Meyer's nephew. Rodrigo had found them hot water and towels and even some breakfast. The street was quiet at the moment; the only sound was Diana's soft humming as she pinned up her hair. Abigail wanted to grab her, to shake her, to scream that the world could not be pieced back together by means of a washcloth and a cup of chocolate. But she said nothing, and when Diana asked her to help with the pins, Abigail stepped over and held them in hands that did not tremble.

 

 

The second council of war was convened in the public room of the Auberge de Barrême at a little past ten in the morning. It consisted of Diana Hart, seated; Abigail Hart, seated; Anthony Roth, seated; Rodrigo Santos, standing; and Nathan Meyer, standing. For this meeting, Meyer had decided to play the role of obliging family friend. He drew up chairs for the Harts at a table by the window and, after a moment, another one for Anthony.

“I assume that you wish to return to London,” he said, addressing Abigail Hart. “As quickly and safely as possible.”

She nodded.

“It is unfortunately not easy to determine the best means of achieving that object.”

She stared up at him. “What do you mean? I thought you said a few minutes ago upstairs that you now knew where the invasion force was.”

“Yes. I know where it is, and how large it is, and I was even able to obtain some information about their projected route.” He flipped open a book lying on the table—he had borrowed it from her—and unfolded the map bound into the front cover. “We are here.” His finger stabbed down just north of the town of Castellane. “Napoleon, with some fifteen hundred troops, is here.” The finger moved south of Castellane to Grasse. “A small advance unit, under General Cambronne, is here.” He pointed to Seranon, halfway in between. “Cambronne has sent a request to Castellane for provisions. Provisions for five thousand.”

He saw both women swallow nervously as they looked at the map. Castellane was less than five leagues from Barrême.

“They are obviously headed to Castellane,” said Meyer. “What I do not know is what they will do when they get there. They may turn west. There is a narrow pass from Castellane through the hills; in two days they could reach the Rhône, and have an easy route to Paris. They could also continue north, pass through Digne, and go up into the mountains.”

“That was not a mountain?” Diana asked in a small voice. “The pass yesterday?”

“The range between Digne and Grenoble is, er, a bit higher,” Anthony offered.

Nearly ten thousand feet higher, as Meyer calculated it, but the girl would likely be discovering that for herself very soon.

He captured Abigail Hart's gaze with his own. “We—you—have several choices. First, you can simply remain here. The army may well come through, but they are unlikely to molest a small party of visitors. After they pass, it might be easier to travel.”

She shook her head. “I—I must confess that it was rather frightening to see the change in Monsieur Munot at the inn this morning. And I am anxious to leave before more recruits join the invaders.”

“I take it, then, that for the same reason you would not wish to go south and attempt to reach the coast? That would be the second option.”

She blinked. “Would that even be possible?”

“Possible, yes. But the roads to the south are jammed at the moment with panic-stricken farmers running away from trouble and bored young men running towards it. I would not care to travel in that direction escorting two women.” He leaned over the table. “To my mind, the practical choice is between north and west. And that choice depends, of course, on where Bonaparte is planning to go.”

“Where do
you
believe he will go?”

Meyer studied her, calculating his strategy. Her green eyes narrowed. She was studying him in return. He could feel her suspicion, her hostility. Good.

“I believe he will go north.” His voice was soft. “There are too many loyal garrisons in the Rhône Valley, and the people of that region have always supported the Bourbons.”

“And we, therefore, should turn west.”

“It is what I would advise.”

“But”—her hand shot out and came down across the line representing the Rhône River—“if there are so many royalist troops here, do we not risk trapping ourselves between two opposing armies?”

He looked down, shrugged. “I cannot make this decision, Mrs. Hart. You are responsible for your daughter's safety; it must be your choice. Both routes have their dangers.” He added after a moment, “You may also wish to consider that the northern route is extremely difficult. Yesterday's road is as nothing compared to some of the passes closer to Grenoble.”

Abigail Hart was not a stupid woman, he decided. She did not like him, but she did not underestimate him either. He could understand her dilemma: was he urging her to go west in the hope that she would agree—or in the hope that she would rebel? The thread running between the two of them was stretched taut. Would she tug back? Or let go, and watch him stumble?

She bowed her head. All he could see of her now were her cap and the edge of her smooth, golden-brown hair. “Is your preference for the western route an overwhelming one?” she asked, very low. “Do you believe the choice is clear?”

He held very, very still. “It is not clear at all. That is why I am so reluctant to endanger you without giving you a say.”

“I would prefer to go north, then.” She looked up at him. “I cannot like the notion of heading directly into a valley full of newly mobilized soldiers.”

“I could, of course, ride west today. I would rejoin you in Digne two days from now with more information about the state of things near the Rhône. You could travel with my nephew in the meantime.”

“No!” cried Diana immediately.

Anthony flushed and bit his lip.

“It might be best to stay together,” Abigail said. Her face was tinged with red, although it was not as red as his nephew's.

“Very well.” Meyer turned to Rodrigo. “Can you have the horses harnessed in half an hour?”

“Yes, señor.” His expression was very cold. So Rodrigo, at least, had understood what was happening.

“And you, Mrs. Hart? Will that be enough time for you and your daughter? Are your bags packed?”

Her expression was just as cold as Rodrigo's. “We have one bandbox apiece, Mr. Meyer, and a small valise. I daresay we can manage to put on our bonnets and close up three bags in thirty minutes. If you will excuse us?” Without acknowledging his bow, she led her daughter off towards the bedchamber.

Rodrigo did not move.

“The horses?” Meyer prompted.

The servant gave him a fierce look. “What would you have done if I had told her the truth?”

He sighed. “What truth?”

“That you know France like the back of your hand. That entire divisions of the British army followed your recommendations for their line of march. That it is absurd for anyone else in this party to have any say in this decision whatsoever. Now you have reeled in that poor woman like a fish on the line, so that you can absolve yourself of blame later. You know Napoleon will head for the mountains, and you goaded her into proposing that route for us.”

“I am not omniscient,” said Meyer wearily. “I believe he will go north, yes, but it is not certain.”

“I pray that he does go north,” Rodrigo said, still glaring. “Because if he goes west, you will abandon the ladies and go after him, and I will be ashamed that I ever served you.”

“
Do
you serve me, Rodrigo Santos?” His voice was low and hard. “Or do you serve some dream of Iberian chivalry? I did not ask you to go to the Cheval Blanc this morning. I did not authorize you to bring those women here and offer my services as escort.”

“Would you have left them here unprotected?” Rodrigo asked, shocked.

“Perhaps.” He stared out the window for a moment. “But it is too late now. You offered them my help, and they accepted. I will keep them safe, if I can.”

5

“We have been traveling for two days and we are back where we began,” Diana said, tossing her bonnet onto the bed. “In tedious, tedious Digne-les-Bains. Only
now
we have a horrid little room in a horrid little inn instead of our lovely rooms at the Auberge des Cygnes.”

The Auberge had been full—or rather, Abigail suspected, reluctant to house English guests. It had taken Rodrigo several hours to find them accommodation for the night, and she shuddered to think what they were probably paying for the two grudgingly conceded bedchambers at Le Mercure. She did not know precisely what the charges were, because Meyer had refused to let her pay them. Or to pay for the horses, or the carriage, or the hamper of food Rodrigo had somehow procured before they left Barrême, or even for her lodging at the Cheval Blanc. He had pointed out this morning that thanks to Hervé's treachery she had very little ready coin and her letter of credit was unlikely to be honored in the small mountain towns on their route. She had conceded this and had proposed—quite reasonably, she thought—to keep an account and repay him when they reached London. But in a typical display of high-handed male arrogance, he had informed her that he had better things to do with his time than collect receipts for every coin they spent. Then he had stalked off before she could reply.

That was the first argument. The second argument was about their papers. Meyer had asked for them before setting off from Barrême and had then, without so much as a by-your-leave, taken them away.

“What have you done with our papers?” Abigail had asked when he had returned empty-handed.

“Put them somewhere safe.” He was tightening the girth on his horse, not looking at her.

“Where? What if I need them?”

“I will fetch them out.”

“Mr. Meyer.” She spoke softly, slowly. Now he did look up. For some reason he seemed almost amused, and that enraged her further. “Those are my papers, mine and my daughter's.”

“I do not dispute that.”

“Then why have you stolen them?”

“I have not ‘stolen' them. But I do not wish you to show those papers to any Frenchman with a sash on his coat who asks to see them. I am charged with your safety; in the interests of that safety I must reserve the right to decide when to show our papers and to whom.”

She forgot to be angry for a moment; she was too shocked. “But—we cannot refuse to show our papers!”

“There will be many travelers without papers on the roads of France this week, I assure you. A few coins will be just as welcome in most cases, and far safer.” He gave one last, savage jerk on the strap and walked away, adding, over his shoulder, “And unfortunately for your accounts, I am afraid that it is not customary to give receipts for bribes.”

She was not going to let him march off like that twice in a row. Abandoning dignity, she ran after him.

“Mr. Meyer!”

He turned.

“You do understand that without those papers Diana and I cannot go anywhere on our own? That we are virtually your prisoners?”

“It is at the very least a mutual bondage, madam.” His mouth was set in a grim line. “I cannot leave you; I have pledged my word to protect you. We travel at your pace, along a route you have chosen, to your destination. You will forgive me if I attempt to ensure that we reach that destination without attracting the attention of Bonapartist mobs.”

That time she had been the one to walk away, resolving not to speak to the insufferable Mr. Meyer for the rest of the day. Perhaps he had read her mind; perhaps he had made a similar resolve. It was now nearly ten hours later, and she had caught no more than a glimpse of him in that entire time. He had ridden outside the carriage throughout the journey back to Digne, even though it was a cold, dreary day. At every halt he had vanished, reappearing only as they were about to get under way again. When they reached the little spa town he had vanished again. He was making it quite clear that he wanted nothing to do with the Harts.

Unfortunately, one of the Harts was behaving equally badly. While the uncle had been pointedly absent, the nephew had been gracious and attentive. It was young Roth who had chatted with determined cheerfulness in the carriage, Roth who had handed them in and out of the vehicle, Roth who had procured hot drinks, Roth who had remained with them at Digne's posting station while the servant hunted for lodging, Roth who had escorted them, a few minutes ago, to this room and tipped the servant who carried their meager luggage. And every overture by Anthony Roth had been met with the coldest, most contemptuous response imaginable on Diana's part.

“Have you visited this part of France before, Miss Hart?” Roth would ask.

“No, I have not.” In a tone that might have been acceptable if Diana were traveling on a stage coach and some stranger had leered at her. Or perhaps not even then.

At this point Abigail would hastily break in. “It has been so difficult to travel, of course, while the war was on. Although I understand that you have been doing business in Italy for some time now. In Naples? We very much enjoyed our brief stay in Italy. Diana, did you not say only the other day how charming you found Florence?” And so on. Abigail did not have a talent for babbling; her efforts had likely only rubbed salt in Roth's wounds.

Abigail took off her bonnet and put it down next to Diana's. Part of her knew that ten hours of rough roads, combined with her irritation at Meyer, might make this a poor moment to speak calmly and firmly to her daughter about her rude behavior. But she felt obliged to make the attempt.

“Diana, if today was a sample of how you mean to treat Mr. Roth I warn you right now that I will not tolerate it,” she said. “How could you be so uncivil?”

At Abigail's indignant question, Diana lifted her chin. “I did not wish to encourage his attentions.”

“You cannot tell me that you do not know how to discourage a young man's attentions in a less brutal manner. I have been watching you encourage and discourage would-be gallants all over France for many weeks now.”

“Do you think me a flirt, Mama?” She lifted one eyebrow in a manner calculated to remind her mother of just how flirtatious she could be.

They had had this conversation before, including the eyebrow. With an effort, Abigail repressed an impulse to stalk across the room and shake her daughter until her teeth rattled. For someone who had seen her mother only twice a year from the age of eight to the age of seventeen, Diana had an uncanny instinct for the precise phrase and gesture that would irritate Abigail the most.

“We are not discussing flirtation. We are discussing common courtesy.”

Diana raised both eyebrows this time. “Oh? It seemed to me that you were not very courteous to Mr. Meyer earlier today.”

Abigail thought of several responses: “Two wrongs do not make a right.” Or, more to the point, “Mr. Meyer is the most provoking man I have ever met.” Instead, she took a deep breath and said quietly, “I did not behave well, I admit it. But I was hoping that you would make up for my lapse. Instead you outdid me.”

That spiked Diana's guns; she had expected Abigail to defend herself. She looked down, uncertain how to respond, then capitulated—not without a small grimace of distaste. “I will try to be more polite, Mama, but he is very tedious.”

Everything was tedious today, according to Diana. The carriage, the weather, the meager luncheon at the mountain tavern, the book Abigail had offered to lend her.

“I found him a very pleasant and well-informed young man.”

“That is not what I meant, Mama. It is his
manner.
You know what I am talking about: the way he turns red when I look at him, and stumbles when he helps me out of the carriage, and stares at me when I pretend to be asleep so as to escape his attention.”

Abigail did indeed know what Diana was talking about. Roth was clearly smitten, and he was not the type to interest Diana. He was short, with a pale complexion and fair hair. He had nice eyes—at least Abigail thought them attractive—but they were blue. And at the moment, he could barely walk properly; evidently he had ridden hard the day before and was still recovering. Diana preferred tall, dark, athletic men. Like Nathan Meyer.

On cue, her daughter strolled over to the window and said pensively, “Mr. Roth does not look much like his uncle, does he?” A pause. “By the way, will Mr. Meyer be joining us for supper?”

“We will be eating in our room.”

“What?” Diana spun around.

Abigail held up the note the inn's servant had brought up with their bags. “Mr. Meyer sends his compliments, but there are no private parlors available. He will arrange for a meal to be brought up to the room, since we are fatigued and will wish to retire early.” She did not bother to conceal the irritation in her voice.

“Well!”

And before Abigail could stop her, Diana had marched to the door and was headed downstairs, with Abigail hurrying after her. She could not prevent Diana from making a scene—she had tried twice before on this trip, and failed both times—but she might be able to contain the damage. Although if Diana was planning to light into Nathan Meyer, Abigail was not sure she wanted to stop her.

There was no scene. Diana, and Abigail behind her, took one look at the boisterous crowd in the public room of the Mercure and retreated precipitately back upstairs. Diana even locked the door. They looked at each other sheepishly.

“Our room seems very clean for—for this sort of place,” Diana said tentatively. Then she started to giggle. “Mother, did you
see
what the fat woman in pink was wearing on her head? It looked like a dead rabbit!”

 

 

Meyer was getting ready to leave again. He opened the shutters and peered out at the sky. “Still cloudy. I hope the moon comes out; that road will be nearly impassible in the dark.” It would not be an easy trip even if the moon did appear. He had been on horseback all day, and now he was facing an additional forty-mile roundtrip over two passes.

“You should know that road quite well by now,” Rodrigo said dryly. “I believe this will be your fourth encounter with the Col de Chaudon in two days.”

Nathan slung a battered dispatch case over his shoulder. “Get some sleep. If they do not turn west at Castellane, it will be your turn tomorrow night.”

“They will not turn west,” the servant said gloomily. “You are never wrong about this sort of thing.”

No, they would come north. Nathan was sure of it.

Rodrigo handed him two pistols. “What shall I say if you are not back by the time Mrs. Hart is dressed tomorrow morning?”

“Tell her I have ridden out to get more news of the invasion. It is the truth, after all.”

“And Master Anthony?”

Meyer looked nervously at the bed. “For God's sake, don't call him that when he is awake. He already thinks we are patronizing him.” His nephew had fallen asleep the minute he had pulled off his boots and lain down. “Best to tell him as little as possible. He might conceive that I was endangering Miss Hart with my plan.”

“You are,” Rodrigo said. “As you are well aware.”

“It is a very small risk. As
you
are well aware. Anthony, on the other hand, may prove more of a challenge as far as safety is concerned.”

“I was surprised when he continued on with us today,” Rodrigo said. “I had thought he would be returning to Italy.”

Meyer shook his head. “He was on his way to London. But in any case he would have followed Miss Hart.”

“Ah, yes. That.”

“That, indeed. Precisely what I meant when I said that his safety will be more difficult to guarantee.” Meyer sighed. “Five francs says that he is injured ‘protecting' Miss Hart within three days.”

“Too easy. Make it one day.”

“Done.”

They clasped hands.

“I have won the last three,” Meyer reminded his valet.

Rodrigo shrugged. “I am due for some luck.”

“Do you suppose there are other men who make wagers with their servants?” Meyer asked as he wrapped a muffler around his neck.

“Most men stay in one place long enough to make some friends.”

“You would be utterly wretched if I were to marry again and settle down,” Meyer informed him. “You know that perfectly well.” He picked up his hat and headed for the door. Then he turned. “Oh—and make sure the women don't go downstairs. It's a bit rough down there.”

 

 

It was nearly dawn by the time Meyer rode into the yard behind the Mercure, so tired that it took him several tries to open the stable door. Rodrigo must have been listening for him, though, because he had not even finished unsaddling his horse when the Spaniard materialized at his elbow.

“Buckle is stiff,” Meyer muttered, fumbling at the bridle.

Rodrigo pushed him aside. “Go on in, there's coffee.”

“Anyone else awake?”

“Two servants in the kitchen.”

The haze of fatigue turned black for a moment, and he leaned against the stall door, blinking to clear his vision. He cursed under his breath.

“Don't look to me for sympathy.” Rodrigo threw a blanket over the horse. “You know my opinion of this scheme. Riding that road, in the dark, in your condition, is madness—and the roads will only get worse as we proceed.”

“I'm out of practice,” he admitted. “It used to require several days of this sort of thing before I wilted.” He looked at his servant. “You will go tonight?”

“So, they are coming north.”

“Yes.”