The Spy's Reward by Nita Abrams

army!”
    Diana’s eyes filled with tears again.
    Abigail’s voice softened. “If you would like to be of some help, go to our room and bring me down my small case; it has some medicines in it.”
    Her daughter gave a small, chastened nod and started up the stairs.
    Abigail stood for a moment, shaken by her own loss of control. She had not wanted to frighten Diana or make her blame herself for what had happened, and now she had just done both. With a sigh, she went back into the parlor and sat down to wait for Diana to reappear with the little stock of medicines. She wondered who felt worse: the wounded knight, who had failed to save the princess from the dragon, or the princess’s mother, who knew that there were hundreds more dragons out there, carrying rifles and bayonets.
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    Meyer knew something was wrong the moment he returned. Every single servant stopped dead the moment they saw him, then hastily resumed whatever they had been doing, making sure it took them in the opposite direction. He looked around for the innkeeper. Monsieur Busac, less cowardly than his employees, was hurrying out to meet him, gasping out half-finished sentences which veered wildly between apologies, reassurances, and excuses. All Meyer could make out was that the apothecary had been sent for, and the ladies were in the private parlor monsieur had reserved.
    His first thought was that Abigail Hart had been taken ill. She was calm and cheerful with her daughter, but he had seen the strain in her face when she had thought herself unobserved. They had been traveling at a brutal pace, over very rough roads, and the gig had offered little protection from the cold. He shook off the incoherent Busac and strode up the stairs. Perhaps a slight ailment would be to his advantage—nothing serious, something he could use as an additional excuse for delay, if need be. He knew he was being callous, but it had not been his choice to travel with the Harts.
    When he opened the parlor door and saw Abigail slumped in a chair, pale and distraught, with what could only be a bloodstain across the shoulder of her dress, he realized that he was perhaps not as callous as he had supposed. His initial panic subsided, however, as she rose to greet him. The blood was not hers, he saw, and she was steady on her feet. Something had obviously shaken her very badly, however, because she actually gave him a small, tremulous smile.
    â€œI am very glad to see you. We have been wondering whether you had also come to grief.”
    â€œWhat happened?” He looked around the room and saw the telltale signs of a brawl: crooked furniture, a rip in the fire screen, the print of a dirty boot on the side of the baseboard.
    â€œSome drunken Frenchmen forced their way in here and Mr. Roth was injured when they refused to leave. He is not badly hurt,” she added hastily, seeing the look on Meyer’s face. “And Mr. Santos was able to evict the men.”
    â€œWhat of you? And Miss Hart?”
    She assured him that they were unharmed.
    There was a perfunctory tap at the door, and Rodrigo came in. He, too, looked relieved to see his master.
    â€œI believe Mr. Roth could use your assistance,” Abigail said to the valet. Her cool tone implied that Anthony had been waiting for that assistance for quite some time. “He would not let me help him undress, and I thought it best not to send for any of the inn’s servants.”
    â€œI am very sorry, señora. I was dealing with the town officials.”
    She nodded grudgingly. “Now that you are here, I will go and change. Please send for me if I am needed.”
    Meyer followed Rodrigo into the bedchamber. He still was not sure exactly what had happened, but he could make a fair guess, and that guess was confirmed the minute he saw his nephew. Anthony was lying on his back, carefully breathing in an odd rhythm. His eyes were open, fixed bleakly on a spot just below the ceiling.