The Cornish Heiress (Heiress, Book Two)

by Roberta Gellis

  “I will not go near any of them unless I am at my last gasp, my lord—and I cannot think why I should be.”

  Roger stood up also, but Hawkesbury had reminded himself of something else. The funding for the venture had not gone through the complicated channels yet, but the draft could be forwarded to Philip anywhere if he wished to leave an address. Roger said hastily that he would advance the funds to be repaid when Philip returned and that Hawkesbury should hold the draft. Ungratefully, Philip was almost audibly grinding his teeth with impatience, and Hawkesbury’s secretary obviously felt the same way. Regardless of the fact that his employer was still speaking, d’Ursine bowed silently and left the room by a side door. Roger and Philip were not so fortunate. Before Hawkesbury had finished his thanks, regrets, warnings, and promises, d’Ursine had had time to write and dispatch two brief notes.

  One of these reached François Charon, an émigré who dealt in foreign books and manuscripts. When he had perused the note, he circumspectly burnt it and rewrote the pertinent information—that a “Parisian merchant” named Baptiste Sevalis was in reality an English spy—on a thin spill that eventually came into the hands of Joseph Fouché. The other was delivered to the house of a young gentleman, also an émigré, whose valet hesitated for some time before deciding to wake him. Jean de Tréport was not the easiest master to work for.

  Outside of Lord Hawkesbury’s house at last, Philip flicked his whip and the boy who had been holding his horses’ heads sprang away. The animals surged forward, just a little too fast, as if sensing their master’s eagerness.

  “Are you going first to Leicestershire?” Roger asked.

  “No, of course not. I intend to do exactly what we planned. But listening to Hawkesbury gave me the pip. That man has flatulence of the mouth. Moreover, that secretary of his sounds a little mad. He is just the type to run all over town telling people how we are going to discover all Bonaparte’s secrets.”

  Roger laughed. “I suppose d’Ursine is a bit unbalanced, but he is not a fool for all that. And as for Hawkesbury’s talking, it’s necessary in the Foreign Office. Look at the mess Cornwallis made of the peace because Talleyrand talked circles around him.”

  “You are not thinking that Hawkesbury would have done better, are you?” Philip asked, turning his eyes from the street and in his astonishment nearly running down an innocent, crossing sweeper.

  “Watch where you’re going!” Roger exclaimed, but he had to laugh at Philip’s protest.

  “Unfortunately not. I don’t think there’s anyone in our government that can match Talleyrand for sly cleverness. But Hawkesbury might have exhausted him—or put him to sleep—so that a few reasonable provisions could be slipped in.”

  Philip shrugged. “All right for diplomatic conferences, but he still talks too much for my taste. I can just see him mentioning to a small, select group the latest effort to discover Bonaparte’s intentions about invasion. Then one of them will mention it to a friend, a wife, a secretary. Pretty soon we might just as well have published what we are going to do in the Court Calendar.”

  That was just what Roger feared. He bit his lip. “If you’ve changed your mind, Philip—” he began eagerly.

  “God, no!” Philip exclaimed, grinning. “I have not enjoyed myself so much since Perce and I took that boat out and nearly drowned. I would just like to escape the consequences this time.”

  The light remark sent a chill down Roger’s spine. He had caned both boys for their disobedience and ill-judged daring, but the consequences this time might be more permanent than a few welts. Then he said, “That Perce! Oh, Lord!” because he suddenly connected the boy with the friend of Philip’s who had hung around Sabrina for a while. He hadn’t given him much thought because he had realized that no one had much chance once Lord Elvan entered the field, but if he had then remembered the tall, fair stripling with a cultivated expression of vacuity and a devil of mischief in his pale eyes, he might have…

  No, it was Sabrina’s right to marry whom she chose. Roger prayed he was wrong about Elvan for Sabrina’s sake. She was so precious to Leonie, the last of her father’s family, the only one saved from the shipwreck that had drowned her Uncle Joseph, his wife, and his son. It had been thought that the two little daughters were also lost, but a strong Irish maid had been holding the little girls when Lady Alice and her son had been swept off the lifeboat trying to save Joseph. The small boat had been driven north by wind and current and had come to ground at last on a tiny island west of Scotland.

  The people were poor and rather primitive, they had done what they could for the survivors, but Sabrina’s elder sister and the maid had died and Sabrina herself had been sick for a long time. None of the other survivors had known her, and she knew her name, Sabrina Evelina Alice de Conyers—but that was all. To the ignorant people of the island the name was no clue to where or how to inform Sabrina’s relatives, if she had any. They knew she was “a lady”, but that was all. No, Roger thought, life had to come right for Sabrina. It was a miracle she was alive; it was by a second miracle she had been found; surely a third miracle would make her happy.

  The ride was not long, and Roger brought his attention back to Philip, offering a few practical suggestions about the kind of behavior that would attract the least attention on the road. Once home, Philip ran upstairs to his father’s dressing room to change into the riding clothes that been laid ready earlier. He exchanged his white nankeen pantaloons for rather stained buckskins, his Hessian boots for a pair with tan, turned-down tops and spurs. Philip did not ordinarily use spurs, his horses being lively enough without encouragement, but extra effort might be required from a tired animal on this journey. In any case, he wanted to look more like a country squire’s son and less like a dandy.

  His linen was rather too fine for his purpose, but he could buy a shirt or two, or Pierre could supply him with more appropriate wear when they met. He put on the plainest shirt he had, tied a wipe around his neck in place of an elaborate neckcloth, added a buckskin waistcoat and a long-tailed black coat over all. The worst problem was his greatcoat. It was a delicate, fawn color with too many shoulder capes. Fortunately the weather was mild and he would not, he hoped, have to wear it on the road. He looked around the room, but the roll of extra shirts and underlinen, a pair of knee breeches, striped stockings, and slippers for evening wear was gone. Leonie must have had it all attached to his saddle.

  The last thing he did was to straighten the tops of his boots and feel around the inner edge until he found where Leonie had opened the stitching that held the inner leather lining to the outer shell. He slipped one of the documents d’Ursine had prepared into one boot, the list, of British agents in northern France into the other, noticing that Leonie had redone the stitching so that there was no visible sign that the boots had ever been opened. The identity papers he left in his wallet. They might cause some confusion if they were seen by local authorities in England, but Philip wasn’t worried about that. A touch with the glue pot and a moment or two to make sure that the openings of his boots were sealed, and the hiding place of the sensitive papers was secure.

  The door opened just as Philip looked around the room one last time. Roger came in and silently handed over a two-shot, tap-action muff pistol, small enough not to make a suspicious bulge in a pocket. It was, of course, rather inaccurate and useful only at close quarters—five or six feet—or as a threat. The long-barreled Lorenzoni quick-loading pistols in their fine case were something else again. They were old but immaculately kept, as accurate as fine Manton dueling pistols, and had the advantage that a dozen balls and powder charges were carried inside each gun itself so that paper cartridges or a powder flask and balls were not necessary. Last, Roger handed Philip an arm sheath carrying an eight-inch-long, razor-honed dagger that could be strapped to a forearm or slid down a boot.

  “I must say,” Philip remarked, “that there are advantages to being the son of a gunsmith.” That was a reference to his father’s adventure i
n revolutionary France, but did not produce the usual laugh, and Philip raised his brows. “Do you expect me to need to hold off an army?”

  “Hopefully not, but it never hurts to be prepared,” Roger said, keeping his voice steady with an effort. “There is another pair of pistols, good Parkers in the saddle holsters, cartridges in the flaps, more cartridges in the saddlebags. Keep the Lorenzonis hidden. They’re a good surprise to anyone who thinks you don’t have time to load. You remember how to use them, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” Philip replied, stowing away the muff gun and sliding the knife down his boot. “They were the greatest joy of my misbegotten youth. I thought I would never get old enough to be allowed to use them.” He paused, then said awkwardly, “I wish you would not worry. I guess I have been behaving like a dreadful ass recently, but my brain is not yet pickled. I know this is important. I swear I will not act the fool and—and I will pay strict attention to what Pierre tells me.”

  Roger didn’t answer that because he couldn’t command his voice. He merely clapped Philip on the shoulder and they went down the corridor toward the back stairs. At the foot Leonie waited. She was dry-eyed and smiling, but her brunet skin was sallow with pallor. She embraced her stepson and kissed him on both cheeks, saying, “Reviens bientôt, chéri. We will be waiting.”

  To Philip’s relief neither followed him out the door. He understood that his father and stepmother were worried, but he was not. Thus he found their emotion irritating even while he was warmed by the knowledge of their love. In the alley beyond the servants’ entrance was a rawboned bay called Spite. The name was a family joke. Spite had the sweetest disposition ever bestowed on a horse, but he had an odd habit that made him look vicious—of laying back his ears and showing his teeth. Philip never thought about that habit, he was so used to it, and in other ways the gelding was ideal. He had speed, stamina, took fences standing or flying, and would burst his heart going if it were asked of him. Last and best, he was not a handsome animal, and his description would fit about two thirds of the common hacks in the country. Philip stowed what he was carrying in the saddlebags, noting that there was just room for the pistol case. When he went up into the saddle, it was with a curious sense of release, as if the motion were a dividing line in his life. Technically he had been a man for years, living his own life in his own rooms—in London or at Dymchurch House. His income was assured and his own to manage as he saw fit. Nonetheless, he had not felt like a man. Although his father did not intrude in his life, he was there—a firm bulwark ready to offer support or advice in any crisis.

  That was over. Philip blushed briefly as he wheeled Spite out onto the street and headed toward Hyde Park. What a fool he had been for the past half year. But it was partly his father’s fault. Philip had known he could go his length, and come out scatheless. Mentally he shrugged. It was not worth thinking about now. He was really on his own. Pierre would help all he could, but Philip realized that once in France, Pierre probably could not do much. He was too obviously what he was—a Breton fisherman, and not young. Not a likely person to be wandering around military installations.

  First things first. He had to get to Pierre. How real was the threat that someone would be warned that he was on his way? A possibility, but not a strong one, Philip thought. In any case, not a thing he needed to worry about while he was in London or the nearby towns. There was so much traffic on the roads near London that it would be impossible to determine whether anyone was following him or was just an innocent traveler going in the same direction. On a lonely stretch of road it might be worthwhile to look around, but not here. He rode contentedly, regardless of Spite’s one real drawback, a bone-jarring gait that made long hours in the saddle painful and exhausting for the best of equestrians.

  Just as Philip passed out of London proper, a young man was shown into the library of Roger’s house. He bowed with a flourish but received only the curtest of nods in reply. Roger did not like Jean de Tréport. It seemed to him that this young scion of an émigré house had encouraged all of Philip’s less endearing habits. The marks of dissipation on his face made him look much older than Philip, although he was actually two years younger. His reputation, aside from the drinking, whoring, and gambling—which were accepted as normal in the circles in which he traveled—was good. He was honest in his play and paid his debts and his share.

  “I’m sorry to trouble you, Mr. St. Eyre,” Jean said.

  He had hardly any trace of accent, less than Philip, because he made a conscious effort to eliminate it. His parents had fled to England shortly after the Revolution began in France. Jean had been only a boy then, and he said he had few pleasant memories of his native land. Thus, when the old people died, he refused to go back even when the option was offered by the amnesty. He was more Englishman than Frenchman by now, he claimed, and besides, there was nothing to go back for. His father had sold everything he had before leaving. There were no lands to reclaim.

  “No trouble,” Roger replied civilly but without enthusiasm. “What can I do for you?”

  “Is Philip—is Philip in trouble?” Jean asked hesitantly. “We had an engagement for dinner last night, and he did not come. His servant told me he had gone off the day before in a violent rage, not saying where.”

  Roger set his jaw with distaste, but he knew this was the opportunity for which he had been waiting. “I have refused to pay his debts again,” he said coldly. “I do not know whether you consider that trouble. And I have told him to stay out of Town.” To Roger, as to all Englishmen, “Town” without the article meant London.

  “He is gone then?” Jean asked anxiously.

  “I have no idea,” Roger replied, “but I think not. If he is not back in his rooms, try Dymchurch House or Leicestershire. I warned him to stay away from those country houses where the play is high. Whether he will take my advice or not, I cannot say.”

  “I see. Thank you.” Jean bowed himself out, on a wave of slightly incoherent apologies.

  Outside, he walked swiftly around the corner. “He is gone,” he said to another young man.

  “Are you sure?” Henri d’Onival asked. “The note said he was supposed to leave for Leicestershire tomorrow.”

  “He is gone, I tell you. His father acted as if he had not seen him since Tuesday, but we know they were together this morning. St. Eyre told me to try Dymchurch if Philip was not in his rooms here. Thus Philip must be already gone and not toward Leicestershire, which his father also suggested to me—most innocently.”

  “You mean we are suspected?” Henri asked nervously.

  “No, I am sure not. Old St. Eyre is a sly beast, even if the son is a fool. He will say no more to anyone. I think he wants the story of his refusal to pay spread about. It would explain Philip’s absence from his usual haunts. Naturally, he does not want questions asked.”

  “But if he is not going to Leicestershire, where is he going? And how can we find him if he has left already? No, I do not like this. It is one thing to go with him as friends and find a way to search his things to remove these lists and passes, but to follow him elsewhere… No. Even, if we could find him, he will be suspicious.”

  “Yes, getting the papers will be more difficult, but you know we were also supposed to discover who it is that he plans to meet. And we do know where he is going. St. Eyre let that slip before he thought his son would be involved. Hawkesbury told Jacques that whoever it is has his base in Cornwall. Now, I do not think Philip will skulk along back lanes. There is no reason for him to do so, and he would not wish to put up with the accommodation in country inns. There are only two toll roads to the west; one runs to Bath and the other to Exeter.”

  “You mean we should each take one? I don’t think that’s wise. We had better report that the plans were changed—”

  “No,” Jean contradicted sharply. “Do you wish to return the money we were paid?” A significant silence answered him, and he went on. “I don’t think we should separate. I’m almost certain he wo
n’t take the road to Bath. There’s too much likelihood of meeting people he knows—his family and friends—returning from there. Let’s at least try the Exeter road.”

  “Very well,” Henri said.

  He was beginning to regret having mixed himself into this business. It was one thing to spend his time in the company of young army and navy officers and pick up a piece of information here and there. The money was useful. Unfortunately, the costs of mixing were high and his parents’ income was limited. Now there was almost nothing left. Insensibly, as his allowance dropped Henri continued to spend until it was more than he had—only a little at a time, he was no reckless debauchee—but now he was deep in debt.

  Regret or no regret, he had to go through with it, Henri decided. He had not realized that tradesmen’s debts were protected by law in England, and he had to have what had been promised when be came back with the papers and the name of Philip’s contact. The alternatives were too horrible—debtors’ prison or flight—and to where could he fly? No, he must steel himself to do whatever was necessary.

  Jean did not have the small qualms that disturbed Henri. He had lived on his wits for years. His parents had left him enough to exist on a modest scale if he were careful. Had he felt inclined toward a profession or trade, he could have lived comfortably. Since he was inclined to nothing but drink, cards, and women, his income was not sufficient. Jean was no fool, however. Mostly he lived at little cost to himself, a welcome guest who enlivened dull country sojourns. In addition, he had been supplementing his income for years in ways he found pleasant and amusing. Discreetly he led “flats” to gaming dens. Later he received a percentage of what they had been fleeced. He was on the payroll of many a “madam” also. No one lost on that, for the houses to which he introduced his friends were delightful, if costly, and he had his entertainment free of charge.