The Cornish Heiress

by Roberta Gellis

  “Lady?” Philip repeated, grinning. “A female smuggler is scarcely a lady.”

  “Not by birth, perhaps,” Pierre admitted, but there was a note of doubt in his voice that Philip did not pick up. Pierre had certain suspicions about the girl known to him as Red Meg that he did not choose to examine because he felt it was none of his business.

  “Nonetheless,” he went on, “Mademoiselle Meg is a lady in her dealing with me and in her behavior.”

  They had walked back much more quickly than the slow pace they had kept to while moving away. Still, Pierre had enough time before they reentered the inn to explain what had happened between Black Bart and Meg and describe his uneasiness about her safety.

  “I was going to ask her if she would be my purchasing agent,” Pierre finished as they entered and resumed their seats at the table in the corner. Pierre signaled for drinks to be brought and went right on talking, ignoring the landlord who brought the tumblers of brandy to the table. “She is most certainly English and could buy without question. However, it would be better if someone I know went with her.”

  Philip understood that. It was for the benefit of the landlord, to demonstrate his trust in Philip. Actually Pierre had made it clear that his purpose was not to check on Meg’s honesty but to protect her. John’s devotion was no match for his limitations. Once they were sure Bart was out of the area or caught by the law, the need for protection would probably be over, but if Philip could be with Meg for the next two weeks, Pierre said, it would be a big load off his mind.

  “I will do it gladly,” Philip answered, smiling.

  “Good, then you had better drink up and get back to where you are staying. Mademoiselle Meg will be here tomorrow night, about the same time you came. We will all speak together then and settle one way or another.”

  Chapter Seven

  Although there had been no sign of Black Bart in the two past weeks, even when she and John had made several large deliveries, Megaera was shaking with nervousness as she prepared to meet Pierre. She knew it was ridiculous. Certainly Bart would make no attempt on her tonight of all nights. He must know that she would be doubly on guard after what had happened. Knowing it was ridiculous, Megaera still took every precaution, having John drive the pony out first and emerging herself in the shelter of the animal with pistols drawn.

  Nothing happened, but Megaera was exhausted by the time she and John reached The Mousehole. She had been obliged to be doubly alert, for she could not count on another pair of ears—or even eyes, because there was no way Megaera could think of to explain to John that he must watch for an ambush.

  Megaera’s face was so blanched, her eyes so wide when she entered The Mousehole, that her fear was apparent even in the dim light. Pierre jumped to his feet and went over to her, asking anxiously whether she had been attacked again. As she laughed shakily and disclaimed, honestly blaming her nerves for her appearance, Philip had also risen and turned. He barely restrained a whistle and a grin of appreciation when he saw the woman to whom Pierre was speaking. No wonder he called her “a lady” and worried about her. His father had always said Pierre was completely impervious to feminine charms, but, of course, he was growing older and the girl—what a beauty!

  No, Philip thought, bowing with grace when Pierre brought her to the table, it would be no hardship at all to guard her. He murmured something polite in French, noting her surprise that Pierre was not alone. She smiled at him, however, and interest seemed to drive much of the fear out of her. Philip, who had never seen Megaera before, had thought her beautiful even while she was pale and her expression rigid and distorted by fear. As the fear dissipated, animation filled the large eyes, the corners of the pretty mouth curled up, and the lips resumed their normal rosy color. Philip was enchanted. He had probably seen more beautiful women, but never in an overlarge and unclean man’s jacket and well-fitting but stained and worn buckskin breeches.

  Megaera was not as impressed with Philip’s appearance, but that was because she did not pay it particular attention, not because she thought him unhandsome. She had first glanced at him only briefly when Pierre asked permission to introduce her to someone “very close” to him. He had a proposition to make, he said, that might increase Meg’s profit, but this young man, Philippe Saintaire (Pierre simply used the name Roger had adopted when he was in France) would have to be involved.

  It was a mark of Megaera’s trust in Pierre that she felt no more than a deep interest in who “Philippe” was as she agreed to meet him and listen to Pierre’s proposition. What in the world could “very close” mean? Surely Pierre would have simply said so if the young man were his nephew. And he could not be Pierre’s son because the names were different…or could he? As they approached the table Megaera studied Philip’s fine-featured, dark-eyed, dark-skinned face. There was certainly a Gallic look to him, not particularly like Pierre but not unlike either.

  There was no rule that a son needed to resemble his father, and why should Pierre conceal the relationship? Then Megaera had to be careful not to giggle aloud or smile too broadly. Dear Pierre, he must be afraid of shocking her. She remembered that he had said once when they were talking that he was not married. Very likely this Philippe was his natural son. As a countrywoman who managed her father’s estate, Megaera could scarcely be shocked by an illegitimate birth, but it was sweet of Pierre to think she needed sparing.

  They all sat down together. Pierre, speaking in English for Meg’s benefit, began to describe his problem and his need for a purchaser who was plainly and clearly English—which Philip was not. Megaera was definitely interested, especially when Pierre mentioned the commission to which she would be entitled. Pierre was intrigued by her interest. He knew what kind of profit she must be making on the smuggled goods. He knew she drove the hardest bargain she could. It was obvious she was not spending the money on herself. Even though simple caution would prevent a clever woman like Meg from coming to a place like The Mousehole in silks and jewels, she could have bought a new coat or some trinkets to show him privately. Pierre knew Meg trusted him.

  The natural assumption was that Meg dressed as she did deliberately and that she needed money desperately for some important purpose. Once or twice Pierre, who was a rich man, had hinted that he might be able to help if she would tell him what the problem was, but she had frozen up instantly, becoming distant and different. That “difference”, a hauteur of manner, plus the clothing that did not fit and almost disfigured her person, added to her rigid and painstaking honesty, made Pierre reasonably sure that Meg was no common farmer’s wife or dishonest lady’s maid driven from her place.

  Although his curiosity was aroused, Pierre knew it was none of his business. It was Meg’s secret, and he had neither the right nor any reason to pry. He glanced at Philip, wondering whether the young Englishman would note the incongruity between Meg’s dress and manner and be able to guess the cause. Then he had to struggle against laughter as, previously, Meg had to struggle against suppressed giggles. The attention Philip was bestowing on Meg was scarcely owing to his recognition of a problem. However, Pierre thought mischievously, it might certainly lead to the disclosure of Meg’s secret—any secret.

  None of these thoughts had prevented Pierre from detailing what he needed and the easiest way to go about getting it. Megaera listened, frowning. The dealers were mostly in and around Falmouth, which was about thirty miles away. That meant two days away from home, and it would not be possible to take John. Even if he were not frightened to death by the many carriages and crush of people, he would be in danger through his deafness and his ignorance of what dangers to watch for. Megaera shrank from the thought of riding thirty miles alone, seeking a hotel without her maid and footmen.

  One half of her brain was calculating how much the commission would reduce the principal on the mortgages. The other half was telling her she was an idiot. How could she worry about going to a hotel alone when she was not afraid to direct a smuggling operati
on? But it was not physical things Megaera feared, really. Anticipation of an attack by Black Bart set her nerves on edge and set her trembling, but the haughty contempt of a landlord made her soul shiver. What if she should be turned away from the decent hotels? Her eyes roamed over The Mousehole, and she shuddered a little. Would she have to stay in a place like this? Only by coming here to deal with Pierre had she grown accustomed to the place. The first times, John had been with her and no one had dared insult her. Now, of course, she was known. No one would think of interfering with Pierre’s business partner, even if she was a woman.

  “I am afraid,” Pierre said, hesitantly, “that you would ‘ave to—er—pretend to be—er—ah—a woman of substance. Otherwise, English as you are, the factors might not wish to deal with you. There ees great demand now for the goods I usually buy, but I gladly take luxury goods—only I do not know the men ‘oo deal een them. Een the past an old Breton smuggler was not the kind they wished to sell to. And I prefer to deal weeth ‘onest men. Also,” his eyes twinkled, “eet ees less expensive that way, even weeth your commission.”

  Megaera bit her lip. That meant hiring a carriage, some kind of servant. No, she did not dare do such a thing locally, and where she was not known it might not be possible. She made a rapid mental review of her own staff. They were loyal, but it would be impossible to hope they would not slip, and call her, by her real name. Regretfully, she began to shake her head.

  “Philippe ‘ere would do all the necessary, except actually bargaining with the factors,” Pierre urged. “I promise you ‘e ees ‘onest and trustworthy. All you would ‘ave to do in addition ees arrange for storage of the goods until I return.”

  For a long moment Megaera stared across the table at Pierre. It seemed that he had guessed she had some reason for not wanting to be seen locally. His face was impassive, but behind his eyes some expression lurked. Distrust? No, not that. It did not matter. He had solved her problem.

  “Very well,” Megaera agreed, “but do you intend to wait? Is that safe for you, Pierre?”

  “No, no. I said you would ‘ave to store the goods. I will sail again—tonight, in fact, with the tide.”

  “But—”

  “Philippe does not go. ‘E will stay ‘ere to assist you in any way you desire.”’

  “Here?” Megaera looked around The Mousehole with an expression of horror.

  “No,” Philip said in English, grinning. “I will find a place; or perhaps you could recommend one?”

  “You speak English!” Megaera exclaimed with relief. She had just started to wonder how Philippe could do what Pierre, promised when the only words he had said were a polite greeting in French.

  Pierre laughed. “Mees Meg, you think me a fool? Of course ‘e speaks English, as well as you do,” he added mischievously. “Now let us arrange the signals and then Imust go. Philippe shall see you safe wherever you weesh to go. No, do not shake your ‘ead. I tell you, ‘e will not betray you. Eet ees no longer enough, the poor John. I see ‘ow you look when you come een. For a little while, until thees black devil ees taken or we are sure ‘e ‘as fled, you must ‘ave weeth you a man who can ‘ear and theenk quickly as well as see.”

  Before the attack Megaera would have fought such a suggestion tooth and nail. Now she bit her lip and looked uncertain, but the memory of that horrible ride expecting every minute that someone would spring out at her, tipped the scales. She watched while Pierre passed Philip most of the little sacks of gold.

  “He can come to the place the kegs are brought,” she said slowly. “All the men know that, but I… It isn’t that I don’t trust you, Pierre… It’s just… I have a reason…”

  “No reason you should trust me anyway,” Philip put in cheerfully. “After all, Pierre might be prejudiced in my favor. In fact, he is—anyone could see that. I might have concealed my evil nature from him all these years. S’truth, he does not know everything about me.”

  Pierre snorted and hit Philip in the head. Philip laughed up at him. Megaera’s eyes widened in surprise. If her father had had a sense of humor, it had been drowned in the bottle long before she was old enough to recognize it. Edward certainly had none. Thus it took her a few seconds to realize that Philip was teasing rather than actually warning her against himself and confessing something bad to Pierre.

  “I’m sure he doesn’t,” she said tartly as soon as the notion became clear. “However, it’s useless to think you can jolly me. If you have gone to all the trouble of concealing your worst side from Pierre for many years, you will not expose it to me. I have no sense of honor at all, I warn you. I would immediately lay an information and betray you to your—er—friend.”

  Pierre smiled at them indulgently and recalled Megaera to the matter of the light signals. She named the blinks arid he wrote them down, thinking with—satisfaction that she and Philip would get along well. He rose and said goodbye. Both nodded absently and returned to their wary yet interested contemplation of each other. Pierre shrugged and strode away.

  “Well,” Philip began, “can I not convince you to take me as a guest—a paying guest?”

  “Not as a guest, a tenant, or anything else,” Megaera said, but her eyes twinkled. “You may or may not have an evil nature, but you certainly have a curious one, and I am not going to satisfy it. I will tell you that I am not hiding anything shameful—”

  “That is not clever,” Philip interrupted, shaking his head sadly. “Really, you do not appear to be at all experienced at concealment. Perhaps you hope to convince me you are a murderess or something equally awful by such a statement, but your effort at a sly leer is not at all the thing. Now—”

  “Don’t be so ridiculous,” Megaera laughed. “Why in the world would I want you to think I was a murderess?”

  “To inspire awe in me, of course. Also, to keep me from contemplating cheating you or—er—importuning you.”

  “I have the best guarantee against ‘importuning’ in the world,” Megaera said dryly. “John may not be able to hear any distant threat, but he can see one close by.”

  “No, no,” Philip protested. “Never would I do anything so crude as to importune you by force. Have you not already warned me that you would split to Pierre? And has not Pierre warned me about your giant—and not too clever—protector?”

  “Then what did you mean, Philippe?”

  “You had better call me Philip,” he remarked, avoiding her question.

  The truth was that he hadn’t meant anything. He had merely been waltzing around his notion that she wanted him to fix on some reason, even a discreditable one, for her secretiveness so that he would not seek out the truth. However, the jesting remark about importuning her had brought to his mind the actual possibility of doing so—not by force, naturally Philip would not have dreamed of doing that, not even with a girl he picked up in the street. However, there were much pleasanter ways of “importuning”.

  “Will you not have something to warm you before we leave?” he went on hastily, before Megaera could repeat her question. “It is really quite chilly out.”

  Megaera looked around at the inn again, wrinkling her nose. It occurred to Philip suddenly that her speech was very fine, not a false gentility spread over a common accent, and also that she was not accustomed to the crude surroundings of The Mousehole. This increased his curiosity about her, but he knew it would be a grave mistake to allow that to show.

  “I assure you the wine and brandy here are far above the quality of the place itself he said with a gentle laugh. “At least, the brandy is. I have not tasted the wine, but—”

  “Do you think they even carry any?” Megaera asked, looking sidelong at the few men who remained now that Pierre’s crew had left.

  They were not prepossessing specimens, certainly, and quite unlikely to have a taste for fine wine Philip shrugged. “I can ask. If there is no wine, perhaps a brandy-and-water? Or hot rum with lemon? No, perhaps there would not be lemons here—but perhaps there
would. Sailors are very partial to lemon or lime, you know.”

  “No,” Megaera admitted. “I don’t know. I admit my acquaintance with sailors is small, but that is true of a great many people. Do you think my tongue will wag if you make me drunk?”

  Philip assumed an expression of injured innocence. “Not at all,” he disclaimed. “Simply I do not wish you to be chilled and delay Pierre’s business.”

  “Oh, what a clanker,” Megaera groaned, but she could not help smiling, and she did not at all wish to refuse the drink and have to leave. She had not had such an enjoyable time in years. “Very well, order what you think I will like. If I don’t drink it, you may.”

  “But that will make me drunk,” Philip protested.

  “And how will that make you different from any other man?” Megaera remarked with such bitterness that Philip leaned forward and took her hand.

  “What have I done to offend you?” he asked earnestly. “I was joking, I swear—”

  Her expression softened and she patted the hand that held hers before she withdrew it. “Sorry. It has nothing to do with you. I’m a little too familiar with the effects of overindulgence in brandy. Forgive me.”

  “If it distresses you,” Philip assured her, “I will not drink at all. It is of no consequence to me. I only thought you would be cold on the ride home—truly.”

  His response astounded Megaera, who had expected him to laugh or to say something stupid about his own ability to hold his liquor or, if he wanted to be cruel, ask why she was encouraging the habit by bringing duty-free liquor into the country. The odd thing was that the response astounded Philip, too. He had been walking around better than half soaked for almost six months—brandy on the table with his breakfast to dull not only the aching head and heaving stomach engendered by the previous night but also the boredom and frustration of his life. Of course, as soon as he had taken on this piece of work he had cut down his drinking. It would not do to be fuddled with French agents after him. However, it was a surprise to him that what he had said was true. He had no desire at all for another drink.