Some of the events of early 1803 seemed to support de la Touche’s claims. The need to pass a law to conscript one hundred and twenty thousand in March implied that Frenchmen were not volunteering to enter the army. The sale of the Louisiana Territory to the United States in April implied a desperate need for money on the part of the French government which was Bonaparte, of course—and a despair with regard to the power to keep the overseas colonies. With such encouragement the British government had decided to support the plot to overthrow the rule of the First Consul, particularly after war had been redeclared between England and France in May.
In August a British cutter had landed Georges Cadoudal, one of the chief commanders of the Vendéan uprising of 1799, in France carrying drafts for a million francs to finance the uprisings that were planned in Paris, the Vendée, and Provence. Since that time various reports had cast considerable doubt on the real probability of such rebellions actually taking place.
“You aren’t the first to tell us that de la Touche’s hopes were oversanguine, Philip,” Hawkesbury finished, “that is, if they weren’t deliberate lies. However, as with the business of the invasion, it was very difficult to sift out the truth. Likely you are right. Some were paid to lie, some were sincere and self-deceived. However, we are virtually certain now that there will be no rebellion, just as you said.”
“I gather d’Artois does not agree with you even now,” Philip said.
“It doesn’t matter whether he agrees or not,” Hawkesbury snapped. “We will have no more to do with the matter. If anyone else wishes to involve himself, it will be without the assistance of this government. However, Georges Cadoudal is, in some sense, our responsibility. It is necessary to inform him that no further help will be forthcoming and to offer him a way back to England if he desires to return here. There was also—er—a promise that a ‘prince’ would come to lead the uprisings when the moment was ripe. This is now out of the question.”
“I see,” Philip said, and now he understood why he had been brought to speak to the Comte d’Artois.
“Yes, well.” Hawkesbury cleared his throat awkwardly and Philip looked at him with surprise.
“Yes, my lord?”
“We need someone we can rely on to deliver our message and to—to assist Cadoudal to return,” Hawkesbury went on, “Very frankly we are—there have been several leaks, aside from the trouble you reported.”
“From your private offices my lord?” Philip asked sharply.
“No! No, indeed!” Hawkesbury replied, looking affronted. “There has never been any problem—you are not accusing poor Jacques, are you?”
“I am not accusing anyone, my lord,” Philip assured him. “I was only trying to pinpoint the place.”
“I promise you we are working on that, and particular care will be taken—very particular care—if you are willing to accept this charge.”
“Me?” Philip gasped inelegantly, and then felt stupid.
Whatever the purpose for bringing him to d’Artois, Hawkesbury would not have told him that long story unless he needed to know it. Because he was still in the throes of pounding head and heaving stomach, Philip had somehow just accepted resignedly that Hawkesbury was talking to hear his own voice. Now he realized that, however much the Minister of Foreign Affairs enjoyed his own conversation, he would scarcely have chosen for pleasure a subject that showed his own organization in so poor a light.
“We were most pleased with your speed and ingenuity, and even more with your ability to gather extraneous information, Philip. And then there is the matter of a contact to bring Cadoudal back to England. It is so very difficult to arrange for a British ship to call for him. We hope that you will not need to engage in any particularly hazardous—”
“Oh, forgive me, my lord,” Philip interrupted, “I did not mean to sound unwilling. I will be delighted to go. I was only surprised because I thought someone with more authority would be necessary. I do not know Monsieur Cadoudal. Will he believe me? I mean—“
“I am afraid you will have to carry letters that would be rather incriminating if you were caught…”
Lord Hawkesbury’s voice drifted away and be had the grace to look a little embarrassed after his somewhat less than candid remark about the lack of hazard.
Philip laughed and was immediately sorry he had done so. He raised a hand to his head and massaged a throbbing temple. “That does not matter, only please do not tell my father. He worries, you know.”
“Wouldn’t he worry more if you simply disappeared?” Hawkesbury asked.
This time Philip restrained himself to a smile; laughter was too painful. I did not mean not to tell him I was going to France again. I will have to do that, of course. I meant about the papers. And, my lord, now that we speak of papers, I never returned the pass—”
“Keep it by all means. It may be useful and I am sure it will not be misused,” Hawkesbury interrupted. “I am very glad you are willing to do this, but I’m afraid it will mean getting to Paris in something of a hurry.”
“It makes no difference—” Philip began.
“Well, I thought we could have you put ashore at a more convenient spot.”
“Good God, no!” Philip exclaimed.
His violent rejection of Hawkesbury’s proposal was not owing to any suspicion but because it would rob him of the opportunity of seeing Meg before he left for France. He could scarcely say this to Hawkesbury, however, and it was absolutely necessary to respond in some way to the surprised question in the Foreign Minister’s face. In view of their past conversation, it was not difficult.
“If you do not mind, my lord, I prefer to find my own way into France. I know you said speed was important, but I deem it far more important that I get there and that no one is waiting to pick me up when I arrive. Then, in spite of his still-throbbing head, Philip’s mind really came to grips with what he had been saying just as an excuse “However, I will need new identity papers. I do not like to use the same ones twice.”
“Yes, of course, that is already arranged.”
Philip nodded with satisfaction. He had no intention at all of using those papers, and they would serve very nicely to confuse his trail if there was a leak from Hawkesbury’s office. Pierre would provide him with a new identity, or he could go back to being a Customs official, this time one who was stationed in the provinces and had come to Paris to visit relations.
“And one thing more, my lord. You were so good as to warn me that there may be a—a source of information coming from the Foreign Office. Since my life will hang on this, would you do me the favor of writing whatever is to be carried to Cadoudal with your own hand and not permitting anyone at all—none of the secretaries nor even your assistants to see it?”
“You are suspicious of Jacques!”
“I am suspicious of myself, of everyone and everything, my lord. However, it would make my mind easier if nothing were written that was not essential and that no one except you and I know where, when, and how I am to meet Georges Cadoudal. In fact, I will not discuss that either in your office or in your home. We can do it now, in the carriage, or take a walk on a later day.”
“I assure you that Jacques has been thoroughly in investigated,” Hawkesbury said angrily.
“I am sure he has been,” Philip agreed. “And very likely your faith in him is completely justified. However, it is my life that hangs in the balance.”
That was, of course, a telling truth. Hawkesbury frowned. “But I don’t have the seals and forms that are necessary to preparing identity papers. To tell the truth, I haven’t the faintest idea—“
“No, no. Those can go through the normal channels. France is settled and peaceful now. There is not much chance I will be asked to show my papers. I rode all along the north coast without being questioned once.”
That was natural enough, since most of the time Philip had been in uniform, but he did not mention that. Plainly Lord Hawkesbury was much annoyed by Philip’s lack of trust in his sec
retary, but he agreed at last that no one should know the contents of the letter or to whom it was to be delivered, or even that he had ever written such a letter. All the reports could be made after Philip’s mission was completed. He pointed out, after he agreed, that there were already a number of high-level officials who knew a good deal about the plot.
“As long as they do not know the time and place of my leaving or arriving or meeting with Cadoudal, I do not care,” Philip said calmly.
He did not imagine any part of the plot was a secret from the French. It seemed to Philip that there was more chance that Méhée de la Touche had been sent to England with the tale he told than that the man was self-deceived. However much Philip disliked d’Artois, he did not believe the prince would not recognize utter stupidity in an informant, and to Philip’s mind only utter stupidity could misread public opinion in France. None of that would affect him, Philip decided. It was plain from what Lord Hawkesbury had said that part of the plot (the French plot, not the English) rested on a Bourbon coming to France. That meant that the conspirators would not be accused or arrested until d’Artois or some other Bourbon close to the throne arrived—or until it was certain none would ever arrive. Thus if no one knew the contents of the message Philip carried or to whom he was bringing it, there should be virtually no danger, particularly if d’Ursine—or whoever else was the double agent—had mistaken information about the identity Philip would be using.
By evening, when he was explaining all of this to his father and stepmother, Philip was nearly euphoric. “Ce sera très amusant,” he said enthusiastically. “This time there cannot be anything to worry about. I am not seeking information nor is it even necessary for me ever to meet Cadoudal, as I understand. I will have a token, which will be meaningless to anyone except him.” Philip uttered that final lie blithely. It was in a most excellent cause.
“If it is necessary, it is necessary,” Leonie said with apparent calm, but her golden eyes were dark.
“It’s better than the West Indies,” Roger agreed with a wry smile. “You wouldn’t like some company, would you? My French is pretty good.”
“We will make a family party, then,” Leonie remarked brightly. “Yes, why not?”
“No!” Roger and Philip roared in chorus.
“Petit chou,” Leonie said, eyeing Roger determinedly, “without me, you do not go. You like French women too much. Two French wives. Next you will bring home—”
“I don’t like French women!” Roger exclaimed.
“Then why did you marry me?” Leonie asked, pretending affront.
“Because like un âne, I promised your father I would take care of you.”
“Then you cannot leave me to languish alone in a foreign country…”
Philip smiled benignly at them and addressed himself to his dinner. Having had no appetite for most of the day, he was now ravenous. There had never been anything serious in his father’s offer to go, although Leonie might very well have meant what she said. Roger was too deeply involved in the government now to disappear on an unnecessary venture. He had spoken only out of the feeling of frustration that chokes a man of action when he is tied to a desk. The half-laughing squabbling between Roger and Leonie, the teasing references to precious shared experiences—were an anodyne to fear. They had lived through worse dangers than Philip would face, they were telling each other. Surely he would be safe and escape as they had done.
Chapter Seventeen
As Megaera prepared her gown for the masked ball and planned cutting things to say to her “faithless” lover, Philip at last freed himself from London traffic and sprang his horses in the direction of Cornwall. He was making no effort to conceal the fact that he was leaving this time. He intended to outdistance rather than elude pursuers. Thus he drove his own light, racing curricle with his groom sitting beside him, and he whipped his horses to the best speed they could make. Under these conditions Philip could not expect to get much mileage out of each team, but that did not trouble him. He was prepared to change horses every time those he was driving began to flag. It was a very expensive way to travel, but it was fast.
Waking early and driving until it was too dark to see, Philip arrived in Moreton Place on the morning of the fourth day after he had set out. This time Perce was expecting him, Philip having sent a letter express as soon as he arrived home after speaking to Lord Hawkesbury. Perce raised one fair eyebrow as Philip came up the steps to shake his hand.
“Not in any hurry, I see,” he remarked, looking at the steaming, trembling horses. “Your groom looks like something you dug up and reanimated. Have a pleasant trip, Pajou?”
The groom, who looked almost as exhausted as the horses, shuddered. “M’sieu drive, like you say, to the inch,” he sighed loyally.
“Um, yes—to within an inch of your life, I think.”
Philip laughed. “I was in a hurry, rather. Pajou, take the horses round to the stable. Tomorrow morning you can drive the curricle back to Dymchurch House by easy stages. I won’t need you out here. These roads are better for horses than for carriages. Spite is still here, is he not?” he asked Perce.
The groom muttered something under his breath that made Philip laugh again. “He doesn’t think much of your Cornish highways,” he said.
“I don’t know that I’d care much for them myself at the pace you must have been going. Do you know your letter only came yesterday? Yes, Spite’s still here. I’ve exercised him a bit, but his gait—ugh! I’ll tell you something else. Don’t be surprised if Fa kisses you on both cheeks or kneels down and salaams. I don’t know what you did, but it must have been interesting.”
“It is no secret now—at least, not from you, but I did not do anything. It was—er—someone else’s idea, and the rest was all luck. Look, I will tell you the whole later, but I must go out now for a little while.”
“Go out?” Perce walked to the long window of the library, to which he had led Philip, and looked out.
“There’s going to be a beauty of a storm. I’d say it was going to snow. M’mother will have the vapors. We’ve got a masked ball tomorrow night.”
“Masked ball?” Philip sounded horrified. He had hoped to be with Meg the following night.
“Yes, and you’re on the dinner list. Unless it will cause a genuine national emergency, you had better be here.”
“Yes, of course.”
The Moretons had been too kind for Philip to distress his hostess by disrupting her dinner arrangements. It might be very difficult, in the limited society available to her, to find another single man if Philip did not appear. A moment later Philip smiled more genuinely. He could slip away from the masked ball. All he need do was to tell Meg he would be at the cave late—after midnight.
“Yes, I will surely attend,” he repeated, “but I must go out now. I must leave word for my friend.”
“Philip, don’t be daft!” Perce exclaimed. “If your friend comes by ship, he isn’t going to come tonight. If you nearly killed yourself and your horses to meet a boat, I assure you it was useless. No ship will make harbor in any of the smaller coves for several days. I know Cornish waters.”
Philip smiled. He was not sorry to learn that Pierre could not possibly show up for several days. He had been killing his horses to arrive well before Tuesday so that he could have a few days with Meg, but he knew it was possible that Pierre’s day had been changed. If, by accident, it coincided with his arrival, he would have had no time with her at all.
“No, I did not expect to meet a ship tonight or tomorrow, but I must leave word that when it comes it should wait for me. Also, there is something else I may need to do that will necessitate going to Falmouth—not before your mother’s party. I know it is dreadfully rag-mannered to use your home as a way station, but—“
“Don’t think of it. I told you Fa’s delighted. You can have anything you want here, anything at all. Mother thinks you’re a little odd, but she blames your unhappy childhood. Tell me—no, go ahead and leave your
message, and if you’re drowned on the way, don’t blame me.”
Philip was not quite drowned, but he was soaked through by the time he returned from the cave. He had been praying that Meg, by some twist of fate, would be there, although he knew perfectly well that she almost never was during the day. Fate was not kind, and Philip could only leave a note full of joy and love and longing. Even as he wrote it near the edge of the cave for light, the rain broke, falling in torrents. Philip cursed, but he knew Meg would not deliver in such a downpour. That meant there would be no point in returning that night. Since she couldn’t know he was back, she would have no reason to come to the cave. The best he could do was tell her he would come, despite hell or high water, the next night after midnight and each night thereafter by eight o’clock.
Despite his regret at not being with Meg the time did not drag. Each time Philip had told his story, he had to edit it carefully. He did not, for example, think the incident with Désirée suitable for Leonie’s or Lord Hawkesbury’s ears (although he would have told Roger if he could have gotten him alone long enough), and he had modified other adventures so that his father would not get the idea that he was reckless. With Perce he could tell the whole thing just as it happened.
“It was all luck,” he ended. “Someone is cheering for our side. I mean, what I did was right and should have worked, but all the extras—Bonaparte at the dockyard and the rank riders or smugglers on the way home from that bordello—that was just luck.”
“Not to mention Désirée herself—”
“No,” Philip said, wrinkling his nose with distaste. “I meant about as much to her as a dildo. My only advantage over it was that I moved by myself.”
“You didn’t used to be so fine,” Perce remarked. “Is there so much difference between being a dildo and a pocketbook? If I had a choice, I suppose I’d rather be ‘loved’ for my rod than my gold.” Then he began to laugh. “It just goes to prove that the specialist has it all over the dilettante.”
The Cornish Heiress (Heiress, Book Two) Page 31
