The Cornish Heiress (Heiress, Book Two)

by Roberta Gellis

  This excursion into espionage was something new, but it paid well enough so that Jean welcomed the experiment. He had a vast contempt for those he lived on. It had delighted him to be able to refuse invitations he had previously accepted, knowing that his hosts would now need to scrabble about for an extra man. He was sure he would be welcomed back next Season with relief after the fools they would need to invite in his place. Not that this adventure was his first. It seemed to be the most serious, however. What he and Henri had been given in advance to cover expenses was handsome. What was promised for the future, on successful completion of the mission, was munificent. Jean wondered where it came from. Perhaps when he returned from Cornwall he would squeeze d’Ursine a little and find out.

  “I will meet you at the Sun, where we can rent a carriage and horses,” Jean pulled out his watch and snapped it open, “in an hour. That should be time enough to gather up what little we need. Remember, you will not need evening clothes, and do not bring a million neckcloths as if we were going visiting in a grand house.”

  Philip had done exactly as Jean predicted. He did not really expect to be followed, but despite his avowal of caution he would have been rather pleased if he were. At this point he was eager to taste the joys of being a hunted man, and it seemed highly unlikely that his adventure could really begin until he arrived in France. So he took the most open, obvious route and stopped for tea at a well-known posting inn. His promise to his father, that he would do nothing wild restrained him from giving his name or doing anything special to draw attention to himself, but he could not resist riding on into the dark before he finally stopped.

  This marked him as a man in a hurry, but to his disappointment no one seemed interested. Philip ate well and went up to bed early, wondering if Spite’s even disposition and strength could make up for his uneven gait. He was not looking forward to the morrow. As he undressed, Philip eyed his boots uneasily. They were dusty and in excessive need of polishing. Moreover, it would be remarked if he did not put them out for cleaning—and that was not the kind of notice Philip wanted. He might be hungry for adventure, but he did not wish to endanger the success of his mission.

  Having picked up each boot, examined and flexed the area that had been opened and found it sealed tight and capable of bending without giving away what was hidden, Philip put his boots out to be cleaned with all the others. It was, in his considered opinion, the safest thing to do, and he was right. Although concern—that the paper would crackle or the bootboy notice the slight bulge or the seal open owing to rough handling—stole into his dreams and made him restless, Philip found his boots and their contents intact in the morning. The fatigue of restless sleep only compounded the discomfort of Spite’s rough gait. By teatime on Friday, Philip was very ready to linger on a comfortable chair in a private parlor of a large posting house. He was even tempted to ask for a chamber and go no farther, but conscience drove him on.

  Outside of Salisbury, however, it began to rain, and Philip had had enough. He stopped at Wilton, quite unaware that the fast post chaise, which had passed him outside of Stockbridge, was now behind him. It had stopped in a small lane until he rode by, and then traveled at a discreet distance along the relatively empty road, turning off into side roads to wait and leave the road behind Philip empty for a while each time it drew close. In Salisbury the chaise was much closer, close enough to see which hotel he stopped at—if he stopped, but he did not. On the road the distance was allowed to widen again.

  The chaise went right through Wilton, but it was soon apparent that Philip was not on the road ahead. Back it came and stopped in the innyard. Jean hopped out and, to the ostler’s amazement, walked into the stable. A quick glance told him what he wanted to know—that a still-damp, rawboned gelding was munching contemplatively on a fine display of oats. Before the ostler could speak, Jean pointed out two stalls near the door and said that his horses should be settled in them because he intended to leave very early the next morning. He stayed to see the animals unhitched and bestowed in the spots suggested and to criticize the rubbing down.

  It seemed unusual for a man to be so attentive to the comfort of rented horses, but they were a good team and the postilion did seem to be unusually stupid. The ostler accepted Jean’s behavior without thinking much about it. Obviously the man intended to use the same team the next morning, and he wanted to be sure they were in peak condition.

  That deduction was true, but it was not the reason for Jean’s lingering in the stable. He knew Philip and Philip knew him well, and he was taking no chance on running by accident into his intended victim. There could be no believable excuse for him to be on this road and stopping in the same inn. It was too much of a coincidence. However, Philip did not know Henri. It was therefore quite safe for him to enter the inn, make sure Philip was there, and rent a private parlor to which Jean could go directly and not leave until Henri had determined that Philip had gone up to bed.

  The plan worked very well. Henri did not even need to ask where Philip was. The landlord, apologizing for providing only a small room for Henri and his companion, mentioned that his larger room had been rented less than a half hour earlier by a single gentleman. “A busy night,” he remarked, rubbing his hands together and smiling. His inn, less than five miles from Salisbury, did not often have so much “gentle” custom, the upper-class travelers preferring to stop at the larger, better appointed inns and hotels in Salisbury. This meant three expensive, special dinners as well as the rent for both parlors and extra bedchambers—and the gentry did not examine bills with the same care that merchants or other tradesmen gave to them.

  The bad weather brought dark even earlier than usual in October. Philip was not in the least sorry. He was sick of his own company and doubly tired owing to his restless night and a full day of Spite’s bone-crushing movement. As soon as he had eaten, Philip went up to bed. This time the fact that he had set his boots out did not cause him any qualms. In fact, even if he had been worried, it would not have kept him awake. He was so tired it was doubtful that a full-scale war outside his window could have disturbed him.

  Certainly the quiet snick of his latch opening did not wake Philip. He did not even sigh or turn his head as Jean, his face hidden by a neckcloth raised over his nose and mouth, slipped into the room. Henri, similarly masked, hung back uncertainly until Jean stuck his head back out of the door. It was too dark in the inn corridor to see Jean’s glare, but Henri knew what his face must look like, and entered. This was totally out of Henri’s experience. He was frightened half to death. If they were caught, it would mean prison.

  Jean closed the door softly behind his unwilling companion and moved silently toward the bed. Mentally he swore obscenely. He had had no idea how dark it would be. It was possible to see darker shadows that denoted the room’s furnishings but, the bed was a heap of indistinguishable shapes. It was impossible to tell where Philip’s limbs lay under the blankets or what was his head rather than a curve of the several pillows furnished by a thoughtful landlord in his best bedchamber.

  Thus it was also impossible to fix his eyes on his target, rush to the bed, and strike Philip with the butt of the unloaded pistol he carried in his hand. He had to go right up to the bed, pause, lean closer. At that point the plan went a little awry. Jean bumped the bed lightly as he strained to see. Philip jerked. His, sleep had been deep, but he had been sleeping for some hours and he was no longer exhausted. Although he had decided there was no foundation to his hopes that any adventure would overtake him before he left England there was just enough suspicion left in him to bring him half awake before Jean brought his gun down.

  Jean felt the gun hit something solid. Philip jerked again and then went limp. With a sigh of relief, Jean fumbled on the bedside table for the flint and tinder and lit the candle that stood ready. They did not dare light the branches of candles for fear the glow would be seen under the ill-fitting door or between the curtains. Besides, they knew there was not much to search. They had a go
od look at Philip when they passed him and saw he had virtually no baggage.

  The roll of greatcoat and extra clothing was unstrapped first. It took longer than Jean had thought, and Henri was trembling with anxiety. Every garment had to be shaken and felt to be sure that the papers were not inside a sleeve or a leg. The saddlebags hanging over the back of a chair were next. Too nervous to feel through them, Henri dumped them on the floor. Jean growled at him and then growled again when he saw there was nothing in them of the least interest. He pawed through the evening slippers and the rolled stockings, fine silk, too thin to conceal anything.

  “He has sent the papers ahead,” Henri muttered, “There were knee breeches. He is going to visit someone.”

  “No,” Jean snarled. “There was more in the saddlebags than this. Also he is such a fool that he is probably still carrying the papers openly in his wallet. That must be under the pillows.”

  The voices were low, but they were enough to cover the soft groan Philip had just uttered. The concentration on what they were doing and the light of the candle also concealed from them that Philip had raised a hand to his head. Jean’s blow, although meant to stun for a considerable time, had been softened by a fold of the loose down pillows. Philip had been only briefly unconscious. By the time the saddlebags were dumped, he was aware but still too dazed to be certain what had happened. Now, just as the two turned toward the bed, Philip realized that his head hurt. He had been struck! He sat up, reaching under the pillow for his pistol and calling out.

  Without waiting for anything, Henri dashed the candle to the floor and ran for the door. Jean might have stood his ground, but he was blinded by the sudden extinguishing of the light and startled by Henri’s movement. He, too, ran for the door, just as Philip found his gun. Philip did not fire, partly because he knew he could not aim owing to his dizziness and the dark, but more because he realized his assailants had left the room. For a few minutes Philip struggled dizzily to rid himself of the bedclothes, which were well tangled around his legs, so that he could give chase. When be had finally pushed them away, however, he did not bother to get out of bed.

  Philip had no idea that other guests had arrived. Tired as he was, he had discouraged the early attempts at conversation the landlord had made. He assumed that the attackers had found a way in or had bribed the landlord or a servant. So, unless the men were total idiots, they would have prepared a quick escape route. He should have shouted or fired his pistol at once, but he had been confused. Now it was too late. There was no sense in rousing the whole place. Whether the landlord was truly unaware or paid to be unaware made little difference; in either case he would be no help. Gingerly rubbing his head, Philip got up and dragged a table across the door. It would not keep anyone out, but it would make enough noise, scraping across the floor, to wake him.

  Chapter Four

  In the morning when he saw the mess, Philip was furious. However, he knew the thieves had not got what they wanted His boots had been in the possession of the servant whose duty it was to clean them, his purse had been under his pillow with the wallet and the muff gun, and the Lorenzoni pistols were under the bed behind the chamber pot. Philip had thought when he regained his senses that there had been no time for his assailants to search. Now he realized he had been wrong, but as he repacked his possessions he saw that nothing at all had been taken; even the packets of paper cartridges for the Parker pistols in his saddle holsters were there. Everything had been torn open and strewn around, but his watch and his snuffbox had not even been moved on the bedside table.

  Initially, when he saw clothing and other articles strewn around, Philip thought of calling a servant to clean up. He reconsidered that notion in time. There would have been questions about what be had lost, on why he had not called for help. Possibly to keep a clean name the landlord would have demanded that he report to the authorities in the neighborhood. That would mean endless delays. Besides—Philip rubbed his head, which was still tender and ached a little—he would prefer to deal with his assailants himself. The first round was a draw; the next he would win. These had not been ordinary thieves—those would have taken his watch and snuffbox.

  When he came down to breakfast, the inn was quiet. No one said anything to him about a window or door found open. That might merely be caution, but it might also imply that the landlord was party to the deed. It was best, Philip thought, to take no chances. He ate well but quickly, ordering that his horse be saddled and ready as soon as he was finished. Since Jean and Henri were long gone—they had left as soon as it was light enough to see, well before the sun rose—Philip never discovered that there had been other guests at the inn.

  As Philip directed Spite onto the road again, a stirring of excitement filled him. They would try again, but not, he thought, at an inn. They would expect him to be on his guard there. They, Philip wondered, why did he think they? He had not seen more than one shadow in the room, and yet he was sure… Yes, there had been at least two. He remembered now that the door had opened before the shadow reached it. Philip’s brow wrinkled. Spite’s gait was not soothing his aching head. It did not seem possible to him that a gang could be involved. That would be impractical. Two or three men. What would they try next?

  Philip looked around him, but this was a highly unlikely place for an attack. The grazed-over downs rolled away on either side, ahead and behind. There was no hiding place for anything larger than a partridge or a pheasant. It was simply not possible for anyone to prepare a surprise attack on this section of the road. Once again Philip searched the horizon on every side, trying to be sure there was no fold of land or patch of wood in which men and horses could be hidden. If there was, it was too far away to make surprise possible anyway. Philip dismissed the possibility from mind—almost disappointed—and tried to think ahead.

  When Philip left the inn, the Lorenzoni pistols, loaded and half-cocked, had been moved from their box in his saddlebags to the tops of his boots. Simply by dropping either hand down to his side, he could draw a gun and fire. Moreover, the Lorenzonis could be reloaded in about two seconds by the simple procedure of raising the muzzle and swinging a lever forward, then dropping the muzzle and swinging it back. There was no need to fumble for a cartridge paper, tear it open, pour powder and ball down. the muzzle, and ram it home before being ready to fire.

  Added to Spite’s surprising turn for speed and ability to jump, Philip felt quite sure he could wound or kill the men before they could hurt him. He had one advantage over them, which he had deduced from what they had done in the inn. Plainly they had some reason for wanting to keep him alive. Nothing would have been easier than to put a pillow over his face while, he was stunned and smother him. There were two of them, and they could have overpowered him even if he should have regained consciousness before he strangled. Philip himself felt no such compunction. If he could kill them, he would do so gladly. They were French agents, enemies of his country and enemies of the most insidious kind. Either they could pass as Englishmen or actually were English, and therefore far more despicable, being traitors.

  Had Jean or Henri guessed the pattern of Philip’s thoughts, they would have gotten rid of him when they had the chance. Instead they imagined be would be only frightened and wary. A long discussion resolved into the decision to abandon all attempts to waylay him until they were west of Exeter. There was no way Philip could avoid passing through that city, the Exe being too wide for a bridge below the town. Thus, all roads led into Exeter, and Jean was sure they could pick Philip up again when he entered or left. This plan had the further advantage that Philip might relax his guard if several days passed without any added alarm.

  Their long hours in the carriage had produced one more idea—that it was stupid to expose themselves in any attempt to take Philip. Thus Jean had found a person in the slews of Exeter who, for a few guineas and whatever Philip was carrying that was of value, would take on the task of holding him up. They told a tale of blackmail—Philip had obtained papers that co
uld be used to ruin their business. They did not want him hurt if it could be avoided. All they wanted was the papers. The highwayman could have Philip’s purse, his watch, his snuffbox—all his valuables. However, as the papers were almost certainly concealed on his person, he would have to be overpowered and stunned or bound and blindfolded so he could be thoroughly searched.

  The highwayman made nothing of that. Sometimes men who traveled with valuables carried an extra purse to be flung to a thief. Often they went so far as to carry cheap watches or snuffboxes too. It was becoming a common practice of the more daring rank riders to search their victims. However, for that a really lonely stretch of road or a guarantee that none would come along and interrupt was a necessity. If Jean wanted the job done near Exeter, or the victim took the well-traveled coast road toward Plymouth, it would be necessary to block the road in both directions for at least a few minutes, until he could stun Philip and drag him off the road.

  Jean and his hired man had argued over the price of such help and come to terms. Jean and Henri would block the road from Exeter by drawing their carriage across it. One of them could pretend to have fallen and been stunned. Anyone who came along could be stopped and asked for help. The highwayman would provide another of his ilk to stop anyone coming from Plymouth. The signal would be one pistol shot, which would serve the double purpose of frightening Philip into obedience. If Philip took the less-traveled road toward Launceston, the second man would not be required. It would be enough for Jean and Henri to block the Exeter side.

  After all this planning, it was a sheer accident that Henri saw Philip enter Exeter. He was lounging in the breakfast room of the inn at which they were staying after a very late rising idly watching the traffic that passed on the road. In fact, he did not know Philip by sight and would not have recognized him. It was the rawboned bay that drew his attention. Philip stopped to ask the ostler of the inn a question, and Spite laid back his ears and showed his teeth as if he were about to savage the man who had raised a hand to stroke him. When Henri had gone into the stable to order their horses put to after the abortive attack on Philip, Spite had turned his head and frightened Henri half to death with that gesture.