The Spy's Reward Read Online Free

ladies in bath chairs, most of whom were dozing. They were quite elderly, and their attendants seemed to be younger. There were two women of the right age talking at a table near the entry, but they were speaking Italian. At the far end, closest to the river, were several older couples and a large family. In the center of the room, surprisingly, was a group of lively young people—or rather, a group of six young men, surrounding a petite, fair-haired, young woman who was startlingly pretty, and clearly well aware of that fact. She was flirting with all six admirers simultaneously, her posture and expression so blatantly inviting that for one moment Meyer wondered if she might be a courtesan. No, he decided, she was too tastefully dressed. And she had a chaperon, of sorts: an older woman, some sort of superior servant, sitting stiffly in the corner with her eyes fixed on the coquette in fascinated disapproval.
    A cough at his elbow announced the innkeeper. He was even more supercilious than the ostler, and his profound regrets that all of his rooms were spoken for were offered in a very perfunctory manner. His eyes lingered expressively on Meyer’s riding clothes. Clearly the guests of the Auberge des Cygnes were expected to arrive in carriages.
    â€œI am not seeking accommodation,” said Meyer. “Not yet, at any rate.” His tone was perfectly pleasant, but the innkeeper shifted nervously under his stare. “I am seeking a countrywoman, a Miss Hart, who is having a treatment at the baths.”
    â€œAh—Mademoiselle Hart.” The innkeeper coughed and looked even more nervous.
    Good. He would not have to canvas twenty-one more inns. “So she is staying here?”
    â€œYes, indeed, monsieur.”
    â€œI am expected, I believe.” He handed the innkeeper his card.
    â€œOf course, of course.” The man was steering Meyer back to the central entryway, peering quickly over his shoulder as he did so. “I will send your card up at once, monsieur. If you would care to wait in one of the salons? A room has been reserved for you, near the suite occupied by the ladies, but it is not yet made up.” He beckoned urgently to a servant and sent him running off with the calling card while herding Meyer toward the staircase. “And I wish to assure you that mademoiselle has been attended at all times—at all times, monsieur. You need have no concern. Many English believe that we here in France have no care for the proprieties, but I can promise you that is not so, especially here at the Auberge des Cygnes. This is a place where any young lady may confidently make herself at home, may even—dare I say it?—indulge in some youthful high spirits, secure in the knowledge that her elders are watching over her to check any rash impulse that might be misunderstood.” He gave another anxious glance back at the terrace.
    Meyer added two and two without much difficulty. He stopped, shook off the innkeeper’s tug on his sleeve, and turned back to the terrace. “That, I take it, is Miss Hart?” he asked, gesturing towards the blonde Jezebel holding court in the center of the crowd. She was not wearing a cap, and she was most definitely not an invalid. In fact, she looked to be bursting with health. Eli must have thought it a great joke to send him here expecting a sickly spinster.
    The innkeeper’s mouth made a little O of surprise. “But—monsieur is not the cousin of the young lady? You are not acquainted?”
    â€œI have never met her, no. I am a family friend. I had business in Nice, and her kinsman asked me to escort her home when she became stranded here with her companion.”
    â€œStranded?” repeated the innkeeper, bemused. “Companion?”
    â€œI am afraid there has been a misunderstanding,” said a woman’s voice in English behind him.
    â€œAh, madame,” said the Frenchman with obvious relief. “Here is