Then an idea struck Philip. Perhaps he could work the deal from the other direction and protect Meg from her vampire sister and father through Pierre. It was the winter season anyway, and the long passage between Brittany and Cornwall could only be made at very irregular intervals. Philip believed he could convince Pierre not to make a run until he himself returned. Even better, perhaps he could convince Pierre to go back to his old base in Belgium and run lace and Dutch brandy if he could not obtain French wine. That would keep Meg out of trouble, not do Pierre’s business any harm, and in the short run, keep Pierre closer to Paris until he finished this job.
Megaera had not said anything when Philip said he would take her away. She was aware that it was not a proposal of marriage; perhaps Philip, like his father, did not believe in marriage. Nonetheless she recognized his deep seriousness. All she could do was bury her face in his shoulder and struggle with her tears. He was so good. Imagine him being willing to take on such a burden only to have her. What was she to do? Every cell her body cried out to belong to Philip forever, but how could she? Even if the debts, could somehow be settled or staved off, there was the stupid lie she had told between them and, even worse, how could a Bolliet live openly with a smuggler’s bastard?
Chapter Nineteen
Jacques d’Ursine did not learn of Philip’s new mission until several days after he had left London. Although Lord Hawkesbury could not believe the suspicions cast on his secretary, he had given his word that this matter should not be discussed with anyone except the Prime Minister or the Minister for War or others at that level of government—and it was not. There is a limit, however, to what can be kept from a confidential secretary who wishes to pry. Putting two and two together, and then looking in the places in which the “four” might be filed, put Jacques in possession of all the facts, except one, within three days.
Because the original plot was no secret from d’Ursine—he had provided the clues that made Méhée de la Touche’s story fit British desires and expectations so perfectly—he did not need the names of the conspirators or the outlines of the plot itself. From the files he had pried into, he discovered that “Baptiste Sevalis” a Parisian merchant, had papers that permitted him to trade in Paris, and that those papers had been given to Philip St. Eyre.
It was highly unlikely that Philip was expected to stay in France for any length of time, so the purpose could not be to insinuate himself into a responsible position—as d’Ursine had done. Moreover, there were no military secrets that could be ferreted out quickly in Paris. Then Philip was going as a messenger. It was possible that he was merely picking up information from spies there, but not likely. It would be ridiculous to risk a young nobleman with Philip’s abilities and family influence as a simple messenger boy. Thus the message was crucial and Philip’s special qualifications were needed.
Logic then told d’Ursine that Philip was going to meet Cadoudal. Obviously, then, Philip must be carrying the name of the “prince” who was coming to lead the uprisings, and the time and place of his arrival so that Cadoudal and his fellow conspirators could meet him. Unfortunately, something had gone wrong and Hawkesbury had not asked Jacques to prepare the message. Jacques felt a flicker of fear. Was he suspected? It did not seem so from Lord Hawkesbury’s manner, but who could tell anything from the English who, glad or sad, furious or joyful, even when making love, no doubt, had all the animation of dead fish. Then he shrugged. Lord Hawkesbury would not be in office much longer. If there was any danger, d’Ursine would simply slip away and François Charon would arrange for his passage back to France, where he could claim his reward.
Since d’Ursine had no entrée into the Admiralty, it was not possible for him find out whether a naval cutter would land Philip in Normandy or the Pas de Calais or whether Philip would make his own arrangements as he had before. Nor did Jacques intend to use amateurs again. The debacle caused by Jean and Henri was more than he liked to consider. He was reasonably sure he had managed to silence Henri before his tongue wagged—imagine that fool trying to blackmail him—but he was not taking any more chances with self-important idiots who had neither experience nor understanding. Philip St. Eyre was more of an opponent than he had believed originally.
Expending more care than usual, d’Ursine went to a shop that dealt with old manuscripts and foreign books. The owner welcomed him with restrained enthusiasm and told him he had something special in his line. They went together into the private showroom. In a few minutes another man joined them. He had not come through the shop. François Charon and Alexander Hilliers were slick and believable—and both had families in France supported, protected, and watched by Joseph Fouché. There was no chance either would betray his purpose or d’Ursine, no matter what the circumstances, and both knew several routes to France. Each carried, after d’Ursine left, full information about Philip himself, the message d’Ursine believed he was bringing to France, and the recommendation that Philip should be killed, as he was dangerously adept at spying, quite ruthless, and had already brought to England information very detrimental to France’s war.
Later that day François Charon told his English assistant that he was going to Scotland to obtain several manuscripts that had become available. The assistant accepted the information without surprise. Mr. Charon did a great deal of travelling and never gave him more than a day’s warning. Needless to say, Charon traveled south rather than north. His task was to take the information d’Ursine had brought directly to Fouché by the quickest route available. Usually he did not go himself, but this news was of crucial importance. Once a Bourbon was discovered in a plot against Bonaparte, the family could be discredited and the First Consul could take the next step in his program and found a hereditary dynasty.
Alexander Hilliers did not need to make excuses to anybody. He rented a chaise not more than half an hour after he left Charon’s bookshop and set out to stop Philip in England if he could find him. This was not impossible since d’Ursine knew that Philip met a smuggler in Cornwall somewhere not far from Penzance. Jacques had learned that much from Henri before the conversation had degenerated into threats and murder. Unfortunately, Henri had not remembered the exact name of the place—that was one of the causes of the degeneration of the conversation—so he could not tell d’Ursine. Hilliers grunted irritably that there were ten thousand places near Penzance where cargo could be landed; however, he did not refuse to try. His own best contact was in Polperro, and that smuggler might know who ran a route near Penzance or where the ship lay to.
Although Hilliers did not equal Philip’s feat in the speed with which he traveled, he made excellent time to Cornwall. He arrived in Polperro three days before Pierre was due at Lamorna Cove and just one day after Philip and Megaera finished buying goods in Falmouth. The agents contact was not in at the time, and the inn he usually stayed at in Polperro had changed hands, so that he was eyed with suspicion. He rode inland then, to the Punch Bowl in Lanreath, where he was well known as “safe”, and he found many tongues there willing to wag at the glint of a coin. Unfortunately they did not know much, only that there was a regular run from somewhere in Brittany. If he wanted more information, the innkeeper said, he might get it at The Mousehole.
Across the room a thin, ragged, half-drunk man lifted his head. Black Bart had not done well since he fled from the battle at The Mousehole. The money he had carried away had not lasted long, of course, and no one was in the least impressed by him. In Treen he had built his power with the backing of his bullyboys. Here in the Polperro area the bully bucks already had leaders, and his bluster, unsupported by any good connection with a smuggler, was regarded with contempt. He had found occasional work unloading ships and helping with large deliveries, but only as a “last and least” hired hand, and his grumbling and whining had made him so unpopular that he had left the port and come to Lanreath.
The name “Mousehole” had drawn his attention, and he listened blearily to the short remainder of the talk between Hilliers and
the landlord. Somehow he got the impression that the man was carrying a large sum of money. What was more, there was something about him that reminded Black Bart of the two sheep turds who had queered his chance to get that bitch Red Meg. It occurred to Bart that here was a chance to get everything back to where it had been before the gentry mixed in and fouled the pitch.
More than a month had passed since the shooting at The Mousehole, and not a rumor of it had come to Polperro or Lanreath. No word had been passed that he was wanted. Likely Meg had kept the whole thing quiet thinking she had scared him off for good. She had never been one for mixing up with the beaks. If he hushed that fancy cull with the funny way of saying words, there would be money, a horse, decent togs. That would make him look as if he were up in the world. Black Bart snarled softly as he remembered how far from the truth that was. But no more. He knew now there was no sense in running. A man had to be in his own place. He wasn’t really afraid of the law. When he had done Meg, he would have the money from the smuggling operation to pay them off. Then they would dance to his piping rather than hers.
Mumbling to himself, Bart got up and staggered out. No one paid any heed to him. He was regarded as bigmouthed and pot-valiant when drunk, but of no danger to anyone. Even if his purpose had been guessed, no one would have said anything. Each man was expected to watch out for himself, and, to speak the truth, Hilliers was known to be deadly and capable and not pleased with those who minded his business.
It was the total idiocy of the action, the total improbability of it that made it succeed. Looking around for a suitable spot for attack, Bart paused to piss in a dark area near the gate in the wall that cut off the stable yard from the main entrance of the inn. Just as he finished, the door of the inn opened, the stranger stood silhouetted against the light for an instant, and then came directly toward Bart. As he passed Bart simply took one step forward and stabbed him in the back.
The only part of the whole thing that was not dumb luck was the knife stroke. That was a skill learned so well that even drunkenness did not affect it. Hilliers did utter a cry, but Bart’s hand was over his mouth already, and he was dead too fast to make another sound. Then Bart pulled him back into the darkest place, somewhat alarmed, although he was too full of brandy to be really frightened. Still he knew the grounds of the Punch Bowl were “safe”. That is, the landlord and the men who used it were agreed that no violence (except what was necessary to quell obstreperous drunks) was permitted there. Men who violated the rule did not do so more than once.
Quickly Bart rifled the agent’s pockets. Then he clapped the man’s hat on his head and drew on his greatcoat. There was a slit in the back, but most of the blood had been absorbed by the shirt, waistcoat, and coat he wore beneath. Still uplifted by the brandy in his belly, Bart drew the hat low over his face, raised the collar of the coat, and shouted for “his” horse.
It was cold. The ostler glanced at the garments, recognized the “swell” who had come in, and led out the horse. Remembering by a miracle who he was supposed to be, Bart flipped a coin. His drunkenness favored him again. He was unable to throw the coin straight and the ostler missed his catch. With a curse the man turned and bent to scrabble for his tip. Meanwhile, Bart mounted and rode out of the yard. The dead man was not discovered for some time. By then it was far too late to wonder who had committed the crime. The body was stripped of everything that could be of the smallest value. A little blood on things was not going to bother anyone who frequented the Punch Bowl. A quiet spot was found, and one more French agent disappeared without a sign.
Not being perfectly sober at the moment, Bart had ridden straight out on the road in front of the inn. He was too drunk—and growing too frightened—to remember he must turn right or left to go along the main road. The track he followed led nowhere, and he found himself in open country. He would probably have fallen into the spreading pools of the West Looes, had he not stumbled on a shepherd’s hut. He took the horse in with him for warmth and simply curled up and went to sleep.
It was the best thing he could have done. In the morning he was sober, if thickheaded. For a time he regarded his surroundings and the horse with blank amazement. Then slowly it all came back. First he plunged into a morass of despair, realizing he was finished in the Polperro area too. Then his drunken reason for what he had done began to take hold of him again. It was useless to keep running. He must have a reckoning with the red bitch. If he won, he would have the good life again. If he lost, he would have nothing to worry about anymore.
In this mood of reckless despair Black Bart began to examine what he had taken from the man he had killed. At first he was bitterly disappointed. There was some money, but no extraordinary sum, which was natural. Hilliers had only to pay for his travel (which money had been spent already), food, lodging and passage. After that English money would not be necessary. In France there were funds ready for him. In his fury Bart began to tear apart the saddlebags. From between the back seams, papers fell. Bart seized them eagerly and then cursed viciously, disappointed again. They were all in French. Growling, he threw them into the fire he had started in the primitive hearth.
That act of destruction, which he would have undone if he could, checked his rising rage and made him consider what he had found in the saddlebags more seriously. Two good pistols, plenty of ammunition, clothing. Again he thought of the idea that had induced the murder, and it did not seem so farfetched now. If he went back to Treen dressed like a swell and able to fling money around for a day or two (there was enough for that), he could get some of the men back on his side And those men, unlike the ones Red Meg favored, wouldn’t mind a little extra, even if they had to put a few others including the red bitch to bed with a shovel to get it.
Three days later when Black Bart rode into Treen, he found he would have been welcomed even without the money and clothing. His men, the ones who had run the gang under his supervision, had all been cut out by Meg. Without a leader to direct their resentment they had done nothing, but now they welcomed Bart with open arms and spouted wild plans for revenge. Bart was so uplifted by this fawning attitude that he actually stopped to think before rushing out to bash.
Having discovered when Pierre had last delivered a cargo—and that could not be kept secret, for most of the men in the village were employed in beaching it—Bart had a reasonable idea of when the smuggler might come again. He gestured his men closer and began to outline a plan. Basically it was the same as his original idea. They had to get Meg after the cargo was delivered and before she went to pay Pierre. They could invade the cave, kill John, and seize Meg.
After that they could have their fun with her. That might convince her she had better play the game their way. If it did not, she could be convinced by more forceful methods than rape to show them where the kegs were stored and to disclose all of her customers. They would have the money, the routes, and the kegs. If Pierre would deal with them, they would pay him; if not, they would have time to induce another smuggler to make Treen or Lamorna Cove his port of call.
In the joy of having Philip back and the excitement of another buying trip to Falmouth, Megaera forgot all about the problem of the disaffected members of the gang. If they had caused trouble, Tom Helston would have left a message at the cave, and that would have reminded her. The arrival of Black Bart, however, had forestalled any desire on their parts to be taken back into the gang. Had Helston been a cleverer man, the quiet would have made him suspicious. As it was, he accepted the peace as a gift from God and did not question it.
For Megaera it had been both a dreadful and a wonderful week. She nearly went mad finding devices and excuses to avoid telling Philip the full sum of the mortgages on Bolliet and the quarterly interest. She would never have succeeded, except for two things. The trip to Falmouth gave her three days of grace; if she was there, she could ask her “sister” no questions. The second thing was that Philip was not really determined to discover the answer right then. Since there was nothing he could do
about paying either interest, or debt until he returned from France, it did not seem worth quarreling about with Meg.
It was too complex and too delicate a matter to try to explain to his father in a letter. Besides, Philip had now decided that Roger and Leonie must meet Meg before he told them her troubles. Once they had seen her, good, sweet, and beautiful as she was, they would help him find a solution. If he told them the tale first, they would be sure she was some kind of harpy that had got her talons into him. The idea of Meg as a harpy was comical. She resisted his attempt to give her anything, except the warmth of his body and his love.
Thus, in a way, Megaera won the battle of wills. On the night that the Bonne Lucie lay to in Lamorna Cove and the kegs of wine and tobacco were brought ashore, Philip still did not know how much or to whom the money was owed. He did not go back to Moreton Place that last night. He stayed in the cave, but he did not waste his time that night or the next day—the last hours he would spend with Meg until he could get back to Cornwall—asking questions he knew she did not wish to answer. To the best of his ability—without betraying his mission which was, after all, a state secret—he explained what he was going to do. He said he had to go to Paris to make some arrangements. He did not say for whom, knowing Meg would assume it was for Pierre. She in turn promised she would be extra careful, and that she had not forgotten the letters he had given her and would use them if trouble should find her despite her care.
About that, Philip said nothing. He had determined to stop Meg’s smuggling without her permission by inducing Pierre to change his port of call. At any rate he was not too worried about her this time. Just before dusk Meg sent John away on an errand that would take about an hour. On his way back he was to pick up two ponies, one for Meg and one for Philip—Spite had been left at Moreton Place again, where Philip had said his adieux the previous afternoon. They would ride over to The Mousehole and there they would part, but they would not think of that yet.
The Cornish Heiress (Heiress, Book Two) Page 35
