Free The Spy's Reward by Nita Abrams Page B

elbow.
    â€œBuckle is stiff,” Meyer muttered, fumbling at the bridle.
    Rodrigo pushed him aside. “Go on in, there’s coffee.”
    â€œAnyone else awake?”
    â€œTwo 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.
    â€œDon’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.”
    â€œI’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?”
    â€œSo, they are coming north.”
    â€œYes.”
    Rodrigo looked as though he was not sure whether to be grateful or dismayed at this news. “I will go. But if we continue at this pace, we will soon be too far ahead of them to double back at night. Have you thought of that?”
    Meyer shrugged. “We can always contrive something. A broken wheel, a lame horse. But we do not need to manufacture any delays right away; we will not be traveling at all tomorrow.”
    Rodrigo frowned. “Why not?”
    â€œThe Sabbath,” Meyer reminded him. “At sundown tonight.”
    His servant shot him an incredulous look. “You—worrying about the Sabbath? While Napoleon is forty miles away? Master Anthony—” He hastily corrected himself. “Señor Roth, I mean, will call your bluff if you attempt to use that as an excuse to delay us. He knows quite well that you travel on the Sabbath.”
    â€œI will not be the one making the request. Have you noticed how careful Mrs. Hart has been about what she eats? She is far more observant than I am. She will not wish to ride on a Saturday, and I will, of course, respect her wishes.”
    â€œI see.” Rodrigo opened the stall door, then paused. “Someday,” he predicted, “someday very soon, I think, you will regret making Señora Hart one of your pawns.” He stomped out of the stall and scooped up an armful of hay from the nearby bin, radiating righteous disapproval.
    Meyer followed him out and nearly tripped over the baskets. He had forgotten all about them. A startled flapping and cooing erupted.
    â€œMadre de Dios,” said Rodrigo, turning and dropping the hay. “Is that what I think it is?”
    â€œYes, I’ve brought us a little present. I sent down to Grasse for them yesterday and prayed they would be delivered in time. Amazingly, they survived the trip.” He hastily picked up a small metal tin from behind the baskets and stashed it away before Rodrigo could ask him about it. Sending messages was one thing. It was a bit dangerous, and scouting every other night would tax both of them severely, but Rodrigo would go along with it—after a certain amount of grumbling. If he found the jar of sulphur inside that tin, however, there would be open rebellion. And if he found the map and the notes tucked into the lid of the tin, he would probably turn Meyer over to the nearest insane asylum.
    Rodrigo lifted the baskets and peered inside at the disgruntled birds. “How are you going to explain the sudden presence of two sets of carrier pigeons to Mrs. Hart?”
    A very good question. Abigail Hart was an intelligent woman, that was already clear. And she didn’t trust him at all. He wished he could have seen the letter she had received from Joshua Hart. He barely knew the man, but his impression was that Hart was a pompous boor. A recommendation from Hart would probably incline the widow to despise Meyer before she had even met him. He remembered her narrow, assessing stare during the delicate negotiations this morning—no, yesterday morning. If she suspected what those pigeons meant, his