The English Heiress (Heiress, Book One) Read online

  Leonie grinned as nastily as Louis ever could She had long since worked out a way to get the keys and immobilize him… Then the nastiness went out of the grin. Her device would do no harm, and she was certain he would be able to work his way free and escape himself—or work out some good story that would protect him from punishment. However, whatever Louis’ fate, time was running out, Leonie was sure. The very next time Louis wanted her for the night, she had better make her move. That meant she would have to make Papa aware of their danger.

  Chapter Three

  The lift of spirits that had seized Roger St. Eyre when he left his father’s house to embark on the rescue of Henry de Conyers persisted, although the drive to London was hot and the news Compton had for him was all bad. As the man of business had written Sir Joseph, Henry’s last letter had arrived in April, addressed to his brother William. Since William was dead and Joseph had told Compton to open all correspondence, Compton had read the letter. He produced it now for Roger, who groaned as he read.

  The headlong enthusiasm of the man about the reforms to be made in France and the benefits to be reaped by all was at once appealing and appalling. Roger wondered briefly whether Henry simply did not want to be torn from his wonderful political experiment and had therefore ignored Compton’s report of first one brother’s death and then the other’s. A moment later, Roger shook his head at himself. There was not only enthusiasm in Henry’s description of the work finally produced by the National Assembly but also a strong streak of practicality in the analysis of the effects of the various constitutional provisions. There was also warmth. After a second reading, Roger had no doubt that Henry de Conyers was a man of strong affections and a strong sense of responsibility. Whatever his enthusiasms, he would not have ignored notice of his brothers’ deaths. Nor would he have sloughed off his responsibility for the estate, no matter how enthralled he was by social and political developments in his adopted land.

  As he reread the personal news at the end of the letter, Roger became aware of a sharp prick of anxiety mingled with excitement. “Through this difficult time,” Henry had written, “Marie has been as steadfast as any ancient heroine, supporting me with her love and understanding. I cannot tell you how often my spirit faltered when irresponsible orators like Desmoulins whipped the ignorant into a frenzied mob crying for blood, and when that blood was spilled, horribly. Many times I bade her take the children to you in England, but she perceived how very unwilling I was to part with her and them. Leonie and François also set up a terrible protest and begged me not to force them to leave their country in her hour of trial.

  “Now that all is over,” the letter continued, “I am glad I did not permit my fears for their safety to overpower me. They would never have forgiven me, I think, if I had deprived them of this experience, of seeing the creation of a great new nation, dedicated to the right of all men to be free and equal. In any case, we are all perfectly safe now. My work is done and I have been freed to return to a quiet private life. There is no chance that I will be called upon to meddle with the government of France again. I was agreed that we of the National Assembly could not succeed ourselves. No deputy to the National Assembly is eligible to be elected to the Legislative Assembly that will soon convene.”

  It was obvious to Roger that Henry had guessed wrong. They had not been safe. Had things gone as de Conyers expected, he surely would have responded in some way to Compton’s news. The lack of response could only mean that he—that the whole family—was dead, driven into hiding or perhaps imprisoned. Whatever had happened had obviously happened to the whole family. If Henry had been accused of some political crime and imprisoned or even executed, his wife Marie would have responded to Compton’s letters. Thus, the strongest possibility seemed to be that the family had been threatened or attacked and driven from their home. In that case, de Conyers would never have received Compton’s letters.

  Roger laid down the letter he had been reading and chewed gently on his lip as he reflected. It was odd that if Henry had been driven off his estate, he had not made his way to England. Perhaps he had not had sufficient money. He could have been afraid to stay in one place long enough to receive an answer to an appeal for help from England. Even so, would Henry not have written and requested funds to be sent to a place where he could pick them up? France was still in turmoil, but most of the banking houses were still functioning. In fact, Roger realized, Henry would not have needed a bank nor have needed to wait for help. An appeal to Lord Gower, the English ambassador, would have solved all his problems.

  Excitement quickened Roger’s breathing. The letter he had read had not been written by a fool or a coward. If Henry had not answered Compton or appealed for help from his family or the English embassy, it was because he could not. For some reason Roger did not bother to investigate, he would not believe that Henry and his entire family had been executed. He was, quite unreasonably, sure that they were under house arrest or restrained in some other way from communicating with their friends. An unholy light came into Roger’s bright blue eyes.

  Compton cleared his throat uncomfortably. Long years as a man of business for aristocratic families had given him a quick recognition of a “gentleman” about to indulge his fancy. What threw him off balance was the unexpectedness of seeing such an expression on the face of Roger St. Eyre.

  “Mr. St. Eyre,” Compton protested faintly.

  Roger raised one peaked brow. Compton cleared his throat again. He had seen that expression reduce witnesses, juries and sometimes even judges to stammering incoherence. It bespoke more than seven hundred years of uncontested “getting their own way” for the St. Eyres—a habit this particular scion of the stock was not about to change. Compton had no quarrel with Roger’s ability to quell witnesses, jurors and judges. It was one of the reasons he, as a solicitor, had briefed Roger to try difficult cases before recalcitrant justices. In fact Compton knew Roger only as a staid, sober and remarkably clever barrister—which was why he had been so shocked at the devilish mischief that had shone in his eyes a few moments earlier.

  “My father has empowered me to look into the matter of the present whereabouts of the Earl of Stour,” he said. “Do you have some objection to that, Mr. Compton?”

  The voice was all it should be, rich, smooth, with just the faintest hint of surprised arrogance. The face was grave enough to convince anyone of the sobriety and reasonableness of Roger’s character. Only the glint in the eye betrayed the inner emotions—a mixture of laughter and excitement. Compton looked into those brilliant eyes and shook his head. He had not risen to his present affluence and influence by being faint of heart.

  “None, sir,” he replied with asperity, “unless it results In finding that you, as well as his lordship, have disappeared.”

  A remarkably astute individual, Roger thought, stiffening just a trifle. Then the humor of the situation struck him, and he smiled. “You have a choice of me or my father,” he said wryly.

  Compton goggled. “Your father? Surely Sir Joseph would not consider… Good God! But how could he even think… The fatigues of such a journey at such a time…the…”

  “Yes, you perceive the difficulties, but, unfortunately, Sir Joseph does not.” The light in Roger’s eyes grew brighter, and Compton had a horrible notion that Sir Joseph’s would look just the same. “He says,” Roger continued, “that, having lived so long, it is unlikely a little exertion will kill him and that he does not wish to see Stour’s land fall into decay while the inheritance is in the courts.”

  “Neither do I,” Compton snapped, “but I do not see that it will help to have me—or you, or Sir Joseph—swallowed up in France too. The area must be in considerable disorder. I wrote to the Honorable Henry’s, I mean the present earl’s, solicitors in Saulieu, and received no reply from them either.”

  Roger nodded. “I suspected as much. I didn’t suppose you would overlook so obvious a move. That is why I don’t propose to attempt to find him through my usual French corr
espondents. Since I have nothing immediately in hand and the long vacation is just about upon us, I feel this is a peculiarly propitious time to investigate the matter personally.” Roger saw the objections forming on Compton’s lips and rose to his feet. “There is really no sense in arguing about the matter. Either I go or we remain in ignorance—and my father will not accept the latter course.”

  “We could send someone else,” Compton said dryly. “There are—”

  “No,” Roger interrupted firmly. “A junior clerk in your office perhaps? Don’t talk nonsense. Such a person would know neither enough French nor enough about France and would not be the slightest use. And please have the goodness to call off any inquiry agents you have hired, if you have hired any. It would be asking for trouble to have anyone openly looking for Stour under what I fear are the present circumstances.”

  “Fortunately I haven’t gone so far,” Compton said, tacitly agreeing that if Roger were to go, the less interest shown in Henry’s whereabouts the better. “I intended to suggest that method of approach to your father and obtain his approval for hiring such agents. I still believe—”

  “No,” Roger interrupted again. “Such men are either stupid or unfit for an inquiry in a foreign country. If Stour and his family are still alive and in the area, I fear that they are under restraint and circumspection will be necessary to free them.”

  “I fear so too,” Compton said a little grimly. Then he sighed. “Mr. St. Eyre, I think what you are doing is very unwise from your own point of view, very dangerous, but there is nothing I can do to stop you. From my point of view, if I can’t dissuade you from taking such a risk, I can only be most grateful.”

  On that pleasant note they parted. Roger could have repaired to his club for a leisurely and elegant luncheon and a chat with his friends, but he was seized with a restless energy that drove him to quite uncharacteristic activity. The rest of the day was remarkably busy. Roger settled all the unfinished business that he could and committed the remainder to the hands of a competent associate. At least, he hoped he had settled his business, because his mind was half on Henry de Conyers. By the time he was ready to inform the clerk of his chambers that he would be away for a while, something the young man had already guessed without difficulty, Roger had a full plan of action outlined.

  His next move was to visit his banker, where his request produced knowing glances and a slight puzzlement. Had the high-level gentleman Roger dealt with any idea that the sum Roger drew was for himself, he might have had to endure some protests. Roger was a valued client, nearly a friend, and an attempt like Compton’s might have been made to save him from himself. However, Roger’s banker was well accustomed to obtaining funds in foreign currencies for him rapidly. The banker was a little puzzled only because he had heard of no current scandal and no one who needed to leave the country in quiet haste. The only hesitation was caused by Roger’s demand for gold and silver. It would take time to gather the coin, Roger was told but he might have it late that afternoon or in the early evening.

  From the bank Roger hailed a hackney and told his groom to take his own curricle and horse back to the stable. He had driven himself, expecting to need to transport the chests of money, but he did not want to fret his excellent team by the start-and-stop pattern his next move would entail. Roger realized that for a stranger to come into a relatively small town in France and stay there would require some explanation. In ordinary times it would have been enough to say he was an English tourist—but these were not ordinary times. An itinerant tradesman would be the least remarkable figure. Since Roger knew nothing about any trade at all, he had at first dismissed this notion. Then it returned to him. He knew guns! Not only was he an excellent shot but he had always been fascinated by the mechanisms themselves. He could be an itinerant gunsmith! All he needed was stock.

  The rest of the afternoon was spent on a round of the major gunsmiths’ shops, where Roger’s purchases did raise protests. Some protested he was stripping them clean of parts, which were hard to obtain. Others wanted to know, laughing, whether he intended to set up a shop in competition. Finally however, Roger accumulated what he felt would be an adequate stock in trade—as many old and foreign weapons as he could obtain together with a few newer but worn pieces.

  Finally, having returned to his chambers, Roger wrote his father a full account of what he intended to do. It erred a trifle on the side of lightly dismissing all the problems involved and presenting the expedition in the vein of a long-needed holiday The odd thing was that Roger was not intentionally deceiving Sir Joseph. No matter how he tried to curb himself with a mental recital of the difficulties and dangers he would be facing, Roger felt as if he were going on holiday. His letter was a very accurate rendition of his own feelings.

  The sensation of having cast off a heavy load, of being free and light, was so strong as to be irresistible. Although it was already very late in the day when two small but heavy strongboxes were delivered from the banker to Roger’s chambers, he did not lock them in his safe and go to his club as he had fully intended. He was aware that he would be unable to make ordinary conversation. Either he would be too silent, inducing his friends to exhaust their inventiveness—which was considerable—in efforts to entertain him and make him forget his bereavement, or he would talk about his plans, which would be even worse. Half his cronies would insist on accompanying him and the other half would try to argue him out of going.

  The solution that accorded best with Roger’s mood was an instant escape. He had his curricle brought around and the strongboxes loaded. If he grew tired, he could stop at a posting house on the way. If not, he could drive through the night. It was cool and clear and the moon would be almost full.

  The impulse was most fortunate. When Roger arrived at his own estate, Dymchurch House, he found that Pierre had actually been in the alehouse at Kingsdown when the groom had brought the message and had sailed his chasse-marée around the next day. He had discharged his cargo earlier and was anchored openly in a nearby harbor, his men ostentatiously making minor repairs. It had been an odd chance, Pierre told Roger at dawn the next day, but he had thought it worthwhile to stop because he did not expect to be back in England for several weeks. Cargoes were getting harder and harder to come by, he complained bitterly. The whole country seemed to be going mad.

  “I did not care what those lunatics in Paris did,” Pierre growled disgustedly. “Men are men and it seemed to me that as many bottles and kegs would get by the town communes as got by the king’s agents.”

  “Perhaps the town officials are more vigilant or more afraid to take a little bribe,” Roger suggested, concealing his amusement.

  “It is worse than that,” Pierre groaned. “All this talk of equality and the rights of man has gone to the heads of those who can least afford it. Do you know what my supplier from La Rochelle told me?”

  Roger shook his head, not wishing to spoil Pierre’s story, although he had a fairly good idea of what Pierre would say.

  “That idiot,” the Frenchman continued, his voice rising with remembered fury, “refused to sell me anything unless I paid the tax! He said the taxes belonged to the people now, and he would not rob his fellow citizen as he had robbed the unjust king.”

  “Did you not try to explain that a large portion of the revenue still goes to support the throne?” Roger asked gravely, although his lips were twitching with suppressed mirth.

  Pierre threw his hands out in a gesture of hopeless revulsion. “I told him that, and he answered me that the amount was now strictly controlled to provide enough magnificence for diplomatic purposes. Then I lost my patience and told him he would rob no one since, doubtless, the major part of the revenue found its way into the private pockets of officials, as it always had. That was a mistake. The madman grew quite furious. He actually flew to strike me, exclaiming that those elected by the people had the people’s interest at heart and would not be corrupt as the king’s officers were.”

  “‘Tsk,
tsk,” Roger rejoined, unable to command his voice for a longer expression of sympathy.

  “If this continues,” Pierre went on dispiritedly, “I will need to deal with dishonest men, and that is always a bad thing. One cannot—”

  Unable to control himself any longer, Roger whooped with laughter. “Do you mean to say that you have dealt only with honest men all these years?” he choked.

  Pierre looked at him with surprise. “Now and again, I suppose, there has been a thief or two mixed into the business, but I take good care to be rid of such men as soon as they betray themselves. Naturally I have dealt mostly with honest men.”

  “But you are smugglers,” Roger said gently, as if he feared to shock Pierre with an unpleasant truth.

  “That is not dishonest,” Pierre protested indignantly, “that is only against the law. Do not talk like a lawyer, Roger. I pay honestly for my wares and charge an honest price for delivering them. I cheat no man. I can see no reason why my labor, or any other man’s, should be taxed to support a king—or a commissioner either.”

  This was not the first time Roger and Pierre had had such a discussion, and Roger merely laughed again. He had given up hope of convincing Pierre that government had some really necessary functions and that the cost of those functions rested rightfully on those who benefited from them. Although he did not even know the word, Pierre was a confirmed anarchist, absolutely convinced that each man should govern and protect himself and that part of governing oneself was not taking overgreat advantage of those weaker than oneself. Roger freely admitted it was a good idea, so was true Christianity, but neither philosophy was workable, except for a very few people. The rest of the world needed laws, lawmakers, law enforcers and judges to govern them.