The Cornish Heiress Page 5

  “I must bring John,” she said.

  Pierre laughed. “But, of course. For me eet ees safe—’e does not talk—and for you eet ees better ‘e be always near.”

  The boats were beginning to scrape onto the beach. Red Meg came out of her vivid memories with a start and began to direct the loading of the ponies. She and Pierre were old friends now. Tomorrow night she would meet him at The Mousehole, pay him, and arrange for the next shipment in about two weeks. He tried to come frequently from September through November or December. After that the weather got so bad they could not count on a regular schedule. Megaera stocked up over the autumn months—there was plenty of storage space in the subsidiary caves—so she could service her customers without interruption over the winter.

  Chapter Three

  On the way back to London with Philip the next morning, Roger’s qualms were eased. He was not less fearful or less guilt-ridden, but both emotions were made bearable by the glow of happiness that had transformed Philip. They were driving themselves without even a groom up behind because Roger had thought Philip would burst if he could not talk. He was so happy that even a hangover could not depress his spirits.

  “I had better not take Blue Boy,” Philip said, coming out of a few moments of frowning silence. “He’s best for steady work, but a pale dapple like that is too noticeable. In fact, I wonder if all my horses are too good. Do you think I should buy some old hack?”

  “Let’s take it in stages, Philip,” Roger suggested. “You have to get to Cornwall and meet Pierre at The Mousehole. Probably you’re right that you should ride rather than arrive either by post or in your own curricle. The point is, I don’t know how often Pierre comes over. With the watch being kept for French ships so intense, it might be difficult for him to get through.”

  “I do not believe it,” Philip said, grinning happily. “They are watching for ships of the line or a whole flotilla of little ones, not for one chasse-marée. And if Pierre were going to give it up or not come for a long time, he would have written to you. Someone at The Mousehole could have mailed the letter for him.”

  Roger suppressed a sigh. Philip was right. Pierre would have let him know if he did not intend to return to England for a long time. “All right,” he agreed, “but I don’t know his schedule. You might have to wait a few weeks or even a month, if you happen to arrive just after he made a delivery. You can’t live at The Mousehole. I doubt it’s a first-class posting inn.”

  Philip hooted with laughter. “It is probably worse than the Soft Berth was. I do not care for that, but they would not permit me to stay. They would tell a stranger there were no rooms. Where the devil did you say this Mousehole was?”

  “Pierre said you must take the coast road out of Penzance. About a mile and a half along the road, there are a few houses. Just beyond the last one the road branches. You must take the left fork. Pierre said to look hard; it’s only a rough track and pretty overgrown. Another mile and a half or so will take you to The Mousehole. It’s on a tiny cove.”

  “Smuggler’s rest, eh?” Philip suggested.

  “Probably,” Roger replied, “but if I know Pierre he doesn’t land cargo there. I doubt he even brings in the Bonne Lucie. By the way, he also calls her Pretty Lucy when he’s in England. For Pierre it would be too obvious to use a regular smugglers’ place. I’m sure they know his business, but he doesn’t do it there.”

  But Philip had not been listening. His brow was furrowed with his own thoughts and he was repeating “Penzance, Penzance,” under his breath. Then he said louder, “Five miles from Penzance! That is what he said. Five miles from Penzance.”

  “No,” Roger insisted, “I’m sure Pierre said a mile and a half—”

  “Not Pierre,” Philip interrupted, his eyes dancing. “Perce Moreton lives five miles from Penzance at a place called Sancreed. I think I might just arrive at Perce’s—”

  “Without an invitation?” Roger asked, horrified.

  “I have had many invitations, but who wanted to go all the way to Cornwall at the time?”

  “He may not be at home.”

  “Know he is at home, Philip said with a laugh. “On at me about the delights of Cornwall when he was trying to wean me from my wicked ways. It will not matter if Perce is not there either. His mother and father know me pretty well. Always took me along with Perce for tucker when they came to visit him at Eton. Perce told them I was an orphan because you had run away to France— Oh, good God, that is perfect!”

  Roger looked at his son warily. Joy and mischief mingled in explosive proportions in Philip’s face. “I have a feeling that I am about to become the goat,” he said faintly.

  “Watch your horses,” Philip recommended.

  “I was driving before you were born,” Roger pointed out, nonetheless checking on his team. His son was a notable whip.

  “Naturally,” Philip responded. “It must be that familiarity breeding contempt thing—unless, of course, you just do not have the knack…”

  Roger could not help laughing. “It’s you who are losing your knack, my boy. That red herring is far too smelly. Now just what does my being in France thirteen years ago have to do with Lord Kevern’s parents?”

  “Well, I do not think anyone ever bothered to explain to them what happened to you—I mean, the subject never came up. Likely Lord and Lady Moreton still think you are not much of a father, abandoning me like that right after my mother died—”

  “I didn’t expect to be gone for more than a few weeks,” Roger said guiltily. “I’m sorry—“

  “Do not be ridiculous,” Philip interrupted. ”Grand-mère et Grand-père were there. I worried about you, sir, but I did not feel abandoned. Anyway, it is going to be very useful now. I shall tell the Moretons that you have thrown me out.”

  “What!” Roger roared.

  “Well, what other reason would I have for going to Cornwall, of all unlikely places? And for staying? And for coming back? You have paid my debts three times, given me a stake, and told me to get out and not come back. That is quite—“

  “Quite outrageous!” Roger broke in. “Philip, you are enjoying this!”

  “Certainly,” Philip agreed promptly. “And you see it is reasonable that in such straits I would join, the smugglers—to sustain my bad habits, I guess.” He could see pressure building up in his father and added slyly, “Are you going to try to tell me you did not enjoy getting Leonie out of prison and helping all those people escape? Martyred, were you?”

  “I was very worried about Leonie’s safety,” Roger said with dignity, but his lips twitched. Philip had punctured his sense of propriety, and he was proud of his son’s quick wit.

  It was really a believable reason for Philip to take up with Pierre, and what the boy was saying was, sadly, common enough. Irate or uncaring fathers had been known to disown sons for less than Philip had done. Many more simply stopped the funds that supported their wild offspring and let nature take its course. Debts and harassment, sometimes debtors’ prison, usually tamed the cubs into more moderate behavior.

  “What are we going to tell Leonie?” Philip asked next.

  “The truth,” Roger replied. “You know she can smell a lie on either of us, and she would be far more hurt and worried if she sensed that we were lying. Fortunately she has a great faith in Pierre. Knowing you are with him will be a great comfort to her.”

  Roger was right about that, but Leonie would not have made a fuss in any case. The light in Philip’s eyes and the worry in Roger’s demanded calm and support from her. She understood well the need to do one’s duty; her father had done his regardless of consequences, and Leonie had been proud of him. Now she swallowed her fear for the young man who had seemed to be God’s gift to fill the hole her brother’s death had left in her heart. Philip’s duty was to serve his country; hers was to make that service as easy as possible by allowing him to do it without being dragged at by her fears.

  With Leonie o
nly the positive factors of the adventure were discussed. Roger explained that Philip would be in no danger on the sea even if the Bonne Lucie should be sighted or even captured by a British ship. “First of all, Pierre has signboards with the English name, Pretty Lucy, which he places over the French name, and he has a Union Jack he can raise. And even if they’re stopped, there will be papers identifying Philip and any vessel he uses for transport as under the protection of the Crown. The worst that could happen is that they would be brought to Dover or Portsmouth. There will be special clearance in sealed papers there.”

  “And in France?” Leonie asked. She managed to control her voice so that there was no tremor in it, only interest.

  “Of that I am not certain,” Philip replied. “I have no doubt that Lord Hawkesbury will have suggestions, but I think I will take Pierre’s advice. From what Papa says, the matter is urgent, but not urgent in the sense of days or weeks. If Pierre thinks I will need something special from the Foreign Office, I will—simply come back to London. However, somehow I feel he will manage best from his end.”

  “Yes, he will know,” Leonie agreed.

  “And the Terror is over, my love. Madame la Guillotine is retired. Even if Philip is caught in France, he will be safe. Smugglers are encouraged by Bonaparte, you know. All he does is take away their gold for his war and send them out again.”

  Leonie smiled. “It seems a most sensible attitude.”

  Her eyes were on her embroidery, and the men did not see the shadow in them that turned their normal golden hue mud-colored. It was useless for her to say that she knew the same indulgence would scarcely be shown to spies. She could not imagine what excuse a smuggler would give for being in the government shipyards of Boulogne, but there was no sense in raising points like that either. They were as obvious to the men as to her. Some excuse would be found. Leonie just hoped it would be good enough.

  In fact, it was this problem that held everyone’s attention most closely in the private office Lord Hawkesbury maintained in his home. At the small desk near the window, Jacques d’Ursine was writing out the papers Philip would carry. No one, Lord Hawkesbury swore, beyond the four in that office would know of Philip’s mission. That was why they were meeting in Lord Hawkesbury’s home rather than at the Foreign Office. So why, Lord Hawkesbury asked, was Roger so reluctant to give any information on his French contact. Perhaps they could provide more help if they knew more.

  Roger had already discussed this matter with Philip. Nothing was to be said about Pierre absolutely nothing. Governments, Roger pointed out cynically, had no honor, even the best of them. What Lord Hawkesbury knew would get into some record somewhere. His intentions might be excellent; he might wish to be sure that Pierre was rewarded for his help, or protected. Nonetheless, when the emergency was over, other foreign secretaries might feel differently. Pierre would be known, a marked man and ship. Philip agreed with his father and merely made his face a blank as Roger replied to Lord Hawkesbury’s urging.

  “Impossible. He has my word that I would never name him or his ship. I have already violated my promise by giving this information to Philip. In the interests of the country I was willing to go that far. And, you know, my lord, that even with the best of intentions, absolute secrecy might not be possible.”

  “Are you accusing me—or Jacques—”

  “Of nothing, my lord,” Roger said hastily, although he was by no means as sure of Lord Hawkesbury’s discretion as be would like. In company he felt to be secure, his lordship might say more than was healthy. The less he knew, the better off Philip would be. “However, you are an important personage. Your private residence is not a secret. It is not impossible that this house is discreetly watched.”

  “It may be, of course,” Hawkesbury conceded, “but I hoped it would be thought that I would conduct only private affairs here. Perhaps it would have been better to meet at the Foreign Office after all.”

  “No, my lord. If I thought so, I would have said so. But we must work on the assumption that we are awakening suspicions somewhere. Philip must do his best to convince anyone who might be interested that his behavior is natural.”

  “Yes, of course. Do you have some plan for this?”

  “Well, I-I have been—er—running into debt a bit, my lord, and I thought I might spread it around that my father had lost patience with, me. It—er—is not completely untrue, except that it had nothing to do with the debts. So it would be reasonable, you know, that I should go into the country. Well, I would be going in any event. Hunting, you know.”

  “You aren’t going to meet a ship in Leicestershire,” Hawkesbury remarked.

  “No, no, but—er—anyone who was watching me would rather stand out in such company. When I was sure there was no one, I could move on. Or if there were, my friends and I—I could say it was a joke or agents of my creditors or something—and we could—er—take care of them or him—whatever.”

  “I see. And then?”

  “I cannot say for certain, my lord. I just do not know. However, I promise I will make all the haste I can. I understand that if there is a fleet, it must be quite ready, since no one in his right mind would think of invading during the winter storms.”

  “Bonaparte is not in his right mind,” Jacques d’Ursine put in.

  “I do not believe that,” Philip said. “Those victories—“

  “Luck! Dishonest grasping at other men’s skill—” d’Ursine interrupted shrilly.

  “Yes, yes, Jacques,” Hawkesbury soothed. “Are you finished with those documents? And don’t forget to include the identity papers that the Ministry sent over. We don’t want to make this meeting too long, you know, in case someone is watching.” He paused a moment to be sure d’Ursine had returned to his work and then looked back at Philip. “You know what information we need?”

  “Yes. The number of ships and their condition of readiness first. Then, if I can, the condition of roads in the area, supplies, number of men employed, troops in readiness, anything that would help the War Office judge when an invasion might be launched and the number of troops that might be committed to it. And, of course, whatever I can pick up in addition.”

  “We must know about the ships. If we had had more ships available in the Mediterranean, Bonaparte would be in our hands now He would never have reached Egypt and never have come back either. And there was not even a threat of invasion then. Now, with the patrols we are forced to keep the French have far too easy a time importing all kinds of supplies. Our blockade is much hampered.”

  “I understand,” Philip assured him.

  Before he could say more, d’Ursine rose and brought the documents to Lord Hawkesbury. He examined them and nodded. “This will cover most eventualities. You have an identity as Baptiste Sevalis, a Parisian merchant. It is the best that can be done if you will not be more specific about— No? Very well, then.”

  He drew a seal from a locked drawer; d’Ursine tipped wax onto the paper and Lord Hawkesbury applied the seal to the passes. The identity papers had been previously sealed with forged French seals. When all was dry, he passed the sheets to Roger, who read them and passed them on to Philip. With a nod of approval Philip did not bother looking at them. He would have plenty of time to examine everything later. He folded the sheets carefully and stowed them in a pocketbook, which he placed in an inner breast pocket.

  A few more words were exchanged, but it was obvious that Philip was not attending and was all but visibly quivering with impatience. Hawkesbury smiled and asked if he was eager to be on his way.

  Philip laughed and looked shocked. “Not today. If I am going first to my friends to divert suspicion I must take clothing and my servants. All this must be arranged if I wish to go early tomorrow. If you will give me leave, my lord?”

  “Of course.” Hawkesbury stood and came around the desk to shake hands with him. “Good luck, my boy. You have those passes, your identity papers, and that list of our men in that area of Fra
nce. But be wary. Not all of our agents are to be trusted completely.”

  “I will not go near any of them unless I am at my last gasp, my lord—and I cannot think why I should be.”

  Roger stood up also, but Hawkesbury had reminded himself of something else. The funding for the venture had not gone through the complicated channels yet, but the draft could be forwarded to Philip anywhere if he wished to leave an address. Roger said hastily that he would advance the funds to be repaid when Philip returned and that Hawkesbury should hold the draft. Ungratefully, Philip was almost audibly grinding his teeth with impatience, and Hawkesbury’s secretary obviously felt the same way. Regardless of the fact that his employer was still speaking, d’Ursine bowed silently and left the room by a side door. Roger and Philip were not so fortunate. Before Hawkesbury had finished his thanks, regrets, warnings, and promises, d’Ursine had had time to write and dispatch two brief notes.

  One of these reached François Charon, an émigré who dealt in foreign books and manuscripts. When he had perused the note, he circumspectly burnt it and rewrote the pertinent information—that a “Parisian merchant” named Baptiste Sevalis was in reality an English spy—on a thin spill that eventually came into the hands of Joseph Fouché. The other was delivered to the house of a young gentleman, also an émigré, whose valet hesitated for some time before deciding to wake him. Jean de Tréport was not the easiest master to work for.

  Outside of Lord Hawkesbury’s house at last, Philip flicked his whip and the boy who had been holding his horses’ heads sprang away. The animals surged forward, just a little too fast, as if sensing their master’s eagerness.