The Spy's Reward by Nita Abrams Page A

There was some sort of poultice lying discarded in a damp lump on the pillow. He did not move or look around when the door opened.
    Meyer tried to think of something heartening to say, and failed. Sighing, he pulled a chair over to the side of the bed and sat down. Anthony didn’t look at him.
    â€œI didn’t even get one blow in,” his nephew said finally. “Not one. They held me up against the wall like a side of beef on a hook and battered me until I fell over. With—with the ladies watching.” He smiled bitterly. “And then Rodrigo came tearing in and knocked both of them down. Oh, and then I threw up.”
    A fairly comprehensive catalog of humiliations, Meyer thought. So much for his hopes of Anthony’s courtship. “How did it happen?” He kept his voice neutral.
    Anthony gave a disgusted snort. “My fault. Mrs. Hart was looking for you, and we ended up interrogating an ostler out by the stables with five or six yokels as audience. Two of them deduced we were English and after a few glasses in the public room came to tell us we were not welcome.”
    â€œAnd Miss Hart threw oil on the fire,” Meyer guessed.
    Anthony sat halfway up. “She is not to blame! They were drunk, spoiling for a fight!”
    Rodrigo seized this opportunity to start undressing Roth, moving very carefully. Meyer looked at the bruises across his shoulders and torso. One enormous spot on the side of his chest had already turned nearly black. “That looks bad.”
    â€œMrs. Hart sent for the apothecary. She thinks a rib may be broken.”
    Meyer shot a quick look at Rodrigo.
    â€œI intercepted the man and sent him away, señor. And I dissuaded the town guard from detaining the two drunks. I did not think you would wish any more attention called to our party than necessary.”
    â€œGood,” said Meyer, abstracted. He was pressing gently on Anthony’s side, behind the bruise. A gasp told him that Abigail had been correct in her diagnosis. “Get something to use for a binding,” he said over his shoulder.
    Rodrigo disappeared, and returned a moment later with a long strip of frayed cloth. Meyer wound it around tightly, watching Anthony’s face as he did so. “Breathe,” he ordered.
    Anthony took a shallow breath.
    â€œDeeper.”
    He grimaced, then obeyed.
    Meyer tightened the bandage a bit more. “Try again.”
    â€œBetter,” Anthony admitted grudgingly. He allowed Rodrigo to finish undressing him in silence, but when Meyer turned to go, he said sharply, “Sir, wait!”
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œI—I want you to teach me to fight. To box, and shoot a pistol, and use a knife.” He saw Meyer’s hesitation and read it as contempt. “I know I can never be very good at it—I know James started boxing lessons at twelve—I know I’m clumsy, and small, and even riding a horse for eight hours makes my knees shake. But surely I can learn enough so that I can hit them next time. Just once or twice. Or fire a gun, if need be.”
    â€œYou are in no condition right now—”
    Anthony cut him off. “Will the next time wait until I am healed?”
    He had a point. Meyer surrendered. “Sunday. If you still wish it.” Sunday night would be Rodrigo’s turn to ride back towards the advancing troops—or so he thought until he got up to leave. It turned out that Anthony was not the only one who had been injured. As Rodrigo held the door open for him, Meyer saw that the servant’s right thumb was swollen to twice its normal size. He raised his eyebrows inquiringly at the Spaniard.
    â€œDislocated,” Rodrigo said with a sour smile. “I’ve popped it back in, but it may be a day or so before I can use it properly.”
    â€œWell.” He recalled Rodrigo’s careful movements when undressing Anthony and swore under his breath. “It seems I am to enjoy another