The Spy's Reward Read Online Free Page A

Monsieur Meyer, who says he is expected.”
    Meyer turned, startled, to find a slender, green-eyed woman gazing at him warily and holding his calling card at the end of her fingers as though it might burn her. This woman was, in fact, wearing a cap—a very expensive one, edged with Brussels lace. But judging by the thick, light brown hair under the cap and the color in her cheeks, she was not an invalid either. She took in his windblown hair and riding boots and the slight frown on his face. The red in her cheeks deepened, but she did not lower her eyes.
    â€œI must apologize, Mr. Meyer,” she said. Her tone was not apologetic. It was embarrassed and not a little annoyed. “You have traveled all this way, evidently in some haste, for nothing. My cousin can sometimes . . .” She paused, and began again, more courteously. “I do not know how you came to be so misled. Far from being ‘stranded,’ as you put it, we have been ready to set out for England for over a week. Joshua wrote me that he would be in Grenoble and would like to travel back with us. We have been waiting here for him to join us. Only this morning did I learn that you—a complete stranger—were coming instead.”
    He looked over at the laughing group in the terrace room. The girl was reading aloud from a piece of paper—a love letter, perhaps, or a poem. Then she rolled it up and tapped one of her admirers on the cheek in mock reproof.
    â€œYou are saying that Miss Hart does not require an escort.” A brigade of duennas, perhaps, but not an escort.
    Her eyebrows went up. “She is with me.”
    Eli had not mentioned the companion’s name. “Ah. Yes. Mrs. . . .”
    â€œHart,” she said impatiently. “Abigail Hart, Diana’s mother. And if you think her own mother insufficient protection, perhaps it will ease your mind to learn that we are traveling with two maids, a footman, a coachman, and a courier.”
    Meyer shot another glance at the girl, then back at the woman. Her mother. The same fine features, yes, the same smooth forehead and level brows. There was a glint of gold in the light brown hair under the cap. Not as pretty as the daughter; her face was sterner, quieter. The eyes were compelling, though: green edged with black, very clear. At the moment they were also very cold. He was beginning to be annoyed and embarrassed on his own account. What could Eli have been thinking? It was not like him to be so careless, sending his victim off to play Sir Lancelot to a maiden who was traveling with her mother, a staff of four, and a professional guide.
    â€œA very reputable gentleman, madame’s courier,” the innkeeper whispered to Meyer. “A former military man, from a good local family.” Evidently the news that Meyer was no relation to Miss Hart had not blunted the innkeeper’s impulse to reassure him about her safety.
    Abigail Hart held out the calling card. “We are very grateful for your consideration on our behalf, and I deeply regret this inconvenience.” She paused, and then added stiffly, “We would invite you to dine with us, but we will be busy preparing to leave early tomorrow.”
    â€œNaturally.” Meyer gave a slight bow. “I will be staying at the Angleterre, should you require any assistance getting under way in the morning.” He ignored the card. If she wanted to insult him by returning it, she would have to put it in his pocket herself. After a moment her hand dropped.
    â€œGood-bye, Mr. Meyer.”
    â€œMadam, your most obedient servant.” He did not bow this time.
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    Diana waited until late in the evening, when Abigail was tired and cross. “That will be all, Lisette,” her daughter said to the maid, holding out her hand for the hairbrush. Abigail’s shoulders, unconsciously braced against the maid’s inexpert tugs, sagged in relief as the girl bobbed her head and withdrew.