“You will do nothing of the sort,” Roger said sharply. “Nasty, ungrateful whelp that he is. And don’t think he’s angry with you—because he won’t come today. I sent him off to Dymchurch with a flea in his ear.”
Leonie said nothing for a moment, looking down at her hand held tight in her husband’s clasp. In ways she knew Philip better than Roger did. She understood his fury. It was the natural outlet for a child’s frustration, but Philip was no child. Leonie understood that he would be sickened by his own behavior as soon as he recognized it. In retribution he would meekly pay his debts and stay at his father’s estate until he was released—but that was no solution to the problem. In fact, it would only make it worse.
“We must do something,” she said in a constricted voice. “If he felt he were part of a real effort in the war, he would be willing to take orders. Why cannot one join the navy as a man? Philippe knows well how to sail. All summer he is in that boat of his, and he used to go with Pierre. Do they not need men who know how to sail?” Her beautiful eyes dimmed. “I would be afraid for him, bien sûr, but—but I am growing afraid more and more of what will happen if he does not find—find—whatever it is for which he seeks.”
“I, too,” Roger agreed, “but the navy is not the answer.”
“Pierre!” Leonie exclaimed suddenly. In her desperate attempt to find a solution, she suggested Roger should ask Pierre Restoir to tell Philip he needed help aboard the Bonne Lucie. Pierre was a Breton smuggler, an old friend of Roger’s, who had been responsible for getting Roger and Leonie out of France in the days when the guillotine was claiming its daily victims. He had saved their lives; perhaps, Leonie was thinking he could save Philip’s.
“I can’t go to Pierre,” Roger replied. “Don’t think I haven’t considered it myself. The trouble is that if Pierre gets caught he’d only be interned as a prisoner of war—and I could probably get him paroled into my custody. If Philip got caught they’d hang him as a traitor. Well, maybe I could save him from that, but he’d be ruined for good, Leonie.”
Still the idea lingered in Roger’s mind. Although Pierre was nearly sixty now, and a rich man from the years of successful smuggling, he still engaged with enthusiasm in his illegal trade. He had weathered the Terror by moving his base of operations to the Low Countries, and during those years he and Roger met frequently. Though Pierre was not a spy, he would bring Roger what information he heard, particularly any new word of French ship movements. When the Netherlands was overrun by the French, Pierre returned to his native, Brittany and from there, succeeded in making contact with a smuggling gang in Cornwall.
During the Peace of Amiens, Pierre had visited Roger and Leonie once or twice just for the pleasure of seeing them. He told them he had made a most satisfactory connection in Cornwall with, believe it or not, a woman. “She drives a devilish, bargain,” Pierre had complained, shaking his head at the paring of a profit he did not in the least need but felt obliged to make as large as possible on principle. However, she was honest, he insisted, which was more than two other groups he had dealt with before. Roger had choked over the word “honest” in connection with smuggling, but, he did not argue. He knew what Pierre meant. Smuggling was illegal, but if you did not overcharge and fulfilled your commitments as to quantity, and quality it was not, in Pierre’s opinion, dishonest.
Since the renewal of the war Roger had not seen his friend, but he knew where to reach him. West of Penzance on the rocky Cornish coast was an alehouse called The Mousehole. There messages could be left, as they had once been left at the Soft Berth in Kingsdown. The trouble was that The Mousehole was three hundred miles from London rather than about seventy. If it had not been for that, Roger thought as he made his, way to his legal chambers the next morning, he would have been inclined at least to ask Pierre’s advice. He was at his wits’ end regarding what to do about Philip.
* * * * *
When Roger arrived at his office on the morning of October 8, he found a message requesting that he call in at the Foreign Office at eleven o’clock. Roger looked at it blankly and then told his clerk to cancel his appointments from ten-thirty on, unless he could handle the problem himself. Actually, Roger was somewhat relieved. His mind was so full of Philip that he doubted he would have been much good to either a legal or a political client.
The meeting at the Foreign Office, on the other hand, would probably not require any serious thought. Lord Hawkesbury liked to hear himself talk, but he liked an audience too. There would probably be a group among whom Roger would be lost. By and large Lord Hawkesbury’s ideas were harmless, so Roger did not feel obliged to do or say anything beyond a nod now and again. He was somewhat surprised, therefore, to find his lordship alone and to be waved to a seat on the opposite side of his desk.
“I am given to understand that you know France and the French very well,” Hawkesbury began.
“I have done business with them for many years,” Roger replied cautiously. “Both my wives were born in France I have visited many times and from 1791 through 1794. I lived in France. Whether that means I know France and the French, I am not sure.”
“You know that Bonaparte was assembling a fleet at Boulogne to invade England just before the peace, and that work was resumed on that fleet with enormous energy when war was declared again.” Hawkesbury touched a file of papers. “Some of the information seems to have come from you, but we have other information that implies that work on that fleet was never completely discontinued.”
“I do not believe the latter can be true,” Roger remarked. “A friend—the one from whom I obtained the other information you mentioned and, er, whose name I prefer not to give, told me that the craft already built were lying unprotected and were decaying from neglect. This was some time in May, shortly after the declaration of war. I have no reason to disbelieve him, as we have been friends for nearly thirty years and he has risked his life for mine more than once.”
Hawkesbury looked at him. “Yet a man may do things for his country that he would consider below mention on a personal level.”
“You mean he might have lied for the sake of la belle France?” Roger smiled. “No, he is not French and does not love any government at all. He regards governments as useless and oppressive organizations designed solely for the enrichment of those who govern.”
Lord Hawkesbury sputtered with indignation, and Roger had to fight an urge to laugh aloud. Often since he had become a member of Parliament he had found himself in agreement with Pierre. However, there was no sense in offending Lord Hawkesbury, who was personally an honest man if not a brilliant one and who, for once, really seemed to need and want information.
“Do you mean, St. Eyre, that you do not think a fleet is building at Boulogne?”
“Not at all. I am sure one is being built now. During the peace, I renewed many of my old contacts, and I have reason to believe Bonaparte is obsessed with the notion of invading England. There might be some reason, however, for wanting us to think the work was more forward than it is in reality.”
“Were your French contacts reliable?”
“Oh, yes,” Roger said dryly. “One of them was a cousin of Joseph Fouché, who is—as much as any man could ever be—in his confidence.”
Hawkesbury pursed his lips thoughtfully. Joseph Fouché, like the astute Talleyrand, had managed to survive the Terror, keep his balance and his influence through the unstable Directories, and was one of those involved in the coup d’état that had placed Bonaparte in power. Unlike others who had done favors for the First Consul, Fouché was neither imprisoned nor exiled. In fact, as head of the Ministry of Police, it was on his advice that others were removed, temporarily or permanently, from circulation. He seemed to be suffering a brief eclipse, dating from 1802, which was when Roger had met him again on a very short visit to France, but there was considerable evidence that Bonaparte still listened quite closely to that efficient and totally unfeeling gentleman Everyone assumed that Fouché would soon be back in offic
e.
“Can you still reach this man?”
“No, Maître Fouché died quite suddenly a few months after my visit, but even if he were alive I would not try. Maître Fouché was an old friend and a fellow barrister, but he was also a loyal Frenchman and would have told nothing, even if he knew anything to tell, which I doubt. His daughter is still alive but being Fouché’s cousin would be no protection to her. If anything, it would be a danger. If Joseph learned his cousin had contact with the English, he would throw her to the wolves in a moment—provided, of course, he thought it would do him some good.”
“I see.” Hawkesbury frowned. “That is not much help. We have problem that I hoped you could solve. Receiving intelligence from France is not difficult. There are many émigrés who profess themselves eager to serve England as their adopted country. However, since the amnesty Bonaparte offered, it is growing more and more difficult to determine which of our agents are loyal furthermore, those whose loyalty, cannot be doubted, like poor Jacques d’Ursine, are so bitter that their opinions cannot be trusted. If one were to believe Jacques, Bonaparte must drink babies’ blood, have twenty million men under arms, and be capable of appearing in five places at once.”
“I have heard him,” Roger said dryly He did not like Jacques d’Ursine, who suffered too much from self-pity for his taste, and he did not think it wise to have a monomaniac around the Foreign Office, even if the man’s mania was enmity to Bonaparte. However, d’Ursine was Hawkesbury’s personal secretary, and it was none of Roger’s business whom he chose to employ.
Hawkesbury shook his head. “Yes, poor Jacques. Well, what with one thing and another, it is almost impossible to weed out what is true from what is deliberately planted—like the information that hundreds of seaworthy craft are ready for launching at Boulogne.”
“My dear Lord Hawkesbury,” Roger exclaimed, “that maybe true, for all I know, although it sounds unlikely. My information is from May. I have no idea how quickly such ships could be repaired and built if sufficient men and materials were available.”
“Neither do we,” Hawkesbury said dryly. “That is, we have most contradictory reports as to what is happening. Unfortunately, until we are sure how forward the enterprise is, more of our ships of the line than the Admiralty likes are committed to the Channel.”
He passed across the desk from the file under his hand a copy of a report from Lord Keith, Commander in Chief in the North Sea, on which some lines were heavily marked. Roger read, “A fleet or squadron may get out of Brest unperceived and watch for an opportunity for running up to the Downs or Margate roads, in which case it might be superior to our squadron long enough to cover the landing of any extent of force from the opposite coast.”
“You spoke of a friend who seems to have knowledge of condition of the fleet at Boulogne,” Hawkesbury said when he saw that Roger had read the marked passage. “Do you think—’’
“He is not in that area any longer,” Roger interrupted, “and he is not the kind one can pay to spy. He would tell me if he knew, but I doubt he would be willing to interrupt his business to find out. Nor could I reach him quickly or surely. His English base is on the Cornish coast, but,” Roger smiled ruefully, “I’m afraid his business is quite illegal—”
“I gathered as much from your reluctance to use his name or give any other particulars,” Hawkesbury said with dissatisfaction, then sighed. “Do you have any suggestion as to how we could check on this matter?”
All the time they had been talking Philip lay heavily at the back of Roger’s mind. When Lord Hawkesbury brought up the subject of Pierre acting as a spy, the two things clicked together. Pierre would not be bothered with deliberately gathering information, but he could be relied upon to carry Philip into France and back again to England. In fact, he would do much more for Philip. He would doubtless be willing to introduce him to the whole chain of smugglers and corrupt officials with whom he was connected, and he would protect him in any way possible.
Roger looked across at Lord Hawkesbury and bit his lip. “I am not sure,” he said slowly. “I do have an idea, but I—I am very reluctant… It is my son, you see—”
“Your son? My dear St. Eyre, how could a young Englishman gather information in France? He would be betrayed by his speech and manners—”
“Not Philip,” Roger interrupted. “You may believe me when I say he can pass as French easily. He will not even have the problem that your émigré spies have. Their accent is aristocratic. Philip’s is pure Parisian and a bit coarse, since it comes mostly from his servants. However, I am not sure he will be willing and—and I am not sure, my lord, that I am willing to broach the matter to him. It is very likely that if he is caught, he will be executed out of hand. Bonaparte is not as particular as we are to observe the niceties.”
Lord Hawkesbury made no answer to that for a moment and then rose to pull a bell rope that would summon a footman. Seating himself again, he drew a sheet of blank paper toward him. “I am writing to see if Mr. Addington will receive us,” he remarked to Roger as he scrawled the request. “I think he can better convince you of the urgency of the situation. I can understand your feelings, St. Eyre. This is not the same as agreeing that a son enter one of the services. Any particular ship or army unit might never see action at all, whereas in this case you, personally, would be sending your son into great peril. It is my opinion that we must ask this sacrifice of you, but let us hear what Mr. Addington has to say.”
In fact, although Addington confirmed the great necessity for accurate information and went so far as to summon the Secretary of War, who further confirmed this opinion and added other details, it was far more the memory of Philip’s face and behavior over the past months that convinced Roger. It was true Philip might be caught and killed, but Roger trusted his son’s brains and “Frenchness” and Pierre’s help. Pierre had never been caught, and he would watch over Philip as carefully as if he were his own son. Most significant of all, Roger felt that if he could not soon find something Philip could do—that Philip felt was worth doing—his son would sink deeper and deeper into self-destructive habits until he would, perhaps, be better off dead.
Tentatively Roger agreed to put the question to Philip and, torn first by one fear and then another, decided to post out to Dymchurch House that very day. He could not bear to face Leonie and tell her what he had done. If Philip refused, as he had refused every other suggestion Roger had made concerning ways to occupy himself, Leonie would not need to be worried. He sent a note to tell her he was going to Dymchurch to speak to Philip, promised he would not quarrel with his son again, and said he would be home the following evening.
There was no trouble in traveling. The road from London to Dover had many posting houses with excellent teams of horses for hire. In his eagerness to leave, Roger had not even wanted to wait while his own phaeton was brought round from the house. Besides, he was afraid he might find Leonie in the carriage if he sent for it. His wife was highly intelligent and not the most docile and biddable woman in the world. She would certainly suspect that something more was going on than he had told her. Ordinarily Leonie would never interfere between Roger and Philip, but In view of their less than amicable parting, she might feel any discussion between them would be improved in civility by her presence. Thus, Roger hired a post chaise.
He was very sorry before they had covered half the distance. There was no fault to be found with the progress they were making, but without the necessity of driving himself, Roger had nothing to do but think. He began to wonder whether he was lying to himself whether he was sending Philip off to be killed because he was so selfish that he didn’t want to put up with his son’s bad temper. By nine-thirty, when the chaise drawn by the last team of smoking horses came up the long drive and stopped in front of Dymchurch House, Roger would have turned around and started back to London if he had not known that the horses and postilion were too done up for another stage.
The condition in which he found Philip rapidly
reversed the opinion of himself as a deliberate murderer on which he had been brooding during the long drive. Philip was not dead drunk, but he certainly was not sober and he looked like death warmed over.
“Could you not trust me to come here?” he asked belligerently as soon as Roger walked in.
“I have something serious to talk to you about,” Roger said, ignoring his son’s remark. “Are you sober enough to listen?”
“Now what have I done?” Philip snarled.
“Nothing sensible for months, if you want the truth,” Roger snapped, “but I have a proposition to make to you. There is a piece of work for which you are suited. It is not nice work, and it is very dangerous, but it will be of infinite benefit to our nation if you can stay alive long enough to do it.”
“I thought you had given up discovering petty tail-chasing occupations,” Philip began, but his voice drifted off as the pain and fatigue on his father’s face finally pierced through the alcoholic fog in his brain.
“Do you want to wait until morning?” Roger asked.
“No.” Philip got to his feet, wavering only slightly. “Give me twenty minutes, sir, and I will be ready for you.”
Chapter Two
The twenty-four sturdy ponies strung together made surprisingly little noise as they trotted docilely down beside the narrow stream toward the sea. The path was well defined but that did not bother the lead rider. People from the village were encouraged to beach their boats in the cove and eke out their thin crops by fishing. There were plenty of reasons for a path to be trodden flat leading to Lamorna Cove. The reason the ponies hooves were muffled was to keep the sound of steel striking stone from echoing off the naked cliffs that rose on each side of the narrow valley the stream had cut.
The Cornish Heiress (Heiress, Book Two) Page 2
