The English Heiress (Heiress, Book One)

by Roberta Gellis

  The third letter had been no more explicit, except for saying that Roger “intended” to remain in Paris for some time to come and that Sir Joseph should not expect him at any time soon. Sir Joseph realized, of course, that Roger’s “intention” was far more a matter of necessity than volition, and the phrasing was chosen equally to spare his father worry and to deceive anyone who might open the letter. If it had served the second purpose, it had certainly not served the first. Sir Joseph had been inquiring about the situation in France and what he had heard appalled him. He did not blame himself for allowing Roger to deceive him or allowing his son to go. Even if he should have known better than to believe Roger’s glib explanations, there was nothing he could have done to prevent him from sticking his neck out. Nonetheless, he was worried.

  “Is there nothing we can do to help?” Lady Margaret asked anxiously.

  “I don’t know,” Sir Joseph said quietly.

  He was not a man to give way to emotions, but Lady Margaret was not fooled by his outward calm. Roger was his favorite son. He loved all his children, admired and respected his heir, who was just the right type of person to inherit and manage the estate. In fact, Arthur was “squire” in all but name already. But Roger had a spark that tickled his father’s sense of humor and made him particularly dear. Lady Margaret knew how her husband had grieved to see his son turn sullen and grim, lightless, under Solange’s cruelty. And now, after Joseph had only just seen Roger coming to life again, to lose him even more finally would be bitter.

  “Money,” Lady Margaret said. “Joseph, money can buy anything if there is enough of it. Can’t we somehow buy him a passport, forged if necessary. I—you can use my jointure. Somehow…”

  “You are very good, my love,” Sir Joseph said, raising her hand and kissing it. “If it were only a matter of money, I would have acted long ago—not by touching your jointure, of course. There is money enough. Do you think Arthur would object to anything I chose to do to rescue his brother?”

  “But how do the émigrés get out? They escape. Why can’t Roger escape? He isn’t—isn’t in particular danger, is he?”

  “I hope not.” Sir Joseph tried to be soothing, but his voice shook a trifle. “It’s more likely that he’s afraid to take any risk with the girl—or she doesn’t want to leave, and he won’t leave her without protection.”

  “But surely he must have realized…” Lady Margaret’s voice drifted away.

  It did not matter what Roger realized. If Henry’s daughter was as stupid and willful as Solange, Roger could have talked himself blue without accomplishing anything. And this was not a situation in which anything other than persuasion would be of use. Roger could drag Solange physically from the gaming tables. He could not drag Henry’s daughter out of Paris because that would increase her danger. How could the girl be so stupid? She had been imprisoned already. Suddenly Lady Margaret realized what they were doing in their anxiety.

  “Joseph, we aren’t talking of Solange. Not all French women are like her. Let’s not hate the girl before we see her. Poor thing, she’s all alone, her parents and brother dead, and she’s been in prison. Perhaps she’s ill.”

  “Yes…”

  “But what are they doing in Paris?” Lady Margaret asked, sitting more upright. “I never stopped to think of it before, but Roger must have known that Paris was the most dangerous place—”

  “I can answer that easily enough,” Sir Joseph replied. “Roger was taking the girl to Lord Gower. Obviously he would not travel alone with a young woman longer than necessary. He would wish to place her in Lady Gower’s care.”

  Lady Margaret watched her husband’s frowning face and did not say anything more. No answer was necessary to the explanation. She should have thought that out for herself. However, that was not what kept her quiet. It was clear from Joseph’s expression that less than half his mind had been given to his answer. After a moment, his eyes focused on his wife again.

  “Well, it can do no harm,” he said suddenly.

  “What can’t?”

  “The main reason I daren’t buy a forged passport is that one doesn’t know from one moment to the next who should have signed it. The government ministers are not only being shifted, which wouldn’t be too bad, but are being accused of treason and executed. If Roger should be caught with a passport signed by the wrong minister, he might be executed out of hand also.”

  “Why?” Lady Margaret cried, her eyes widening. “That’s insane! When you apply for a passport you don’t necessarily condone the policies of the man who signs it. Usually you don’t even know him!”

  “Just now, my dear, the French are not operating on their famous logic. What I have been hearing from Gower would curdle you blood. Just believe me and don’t ask for the details. I have thought of two ways to—well, I wouldn’t say attack the problem. It won’t be as effective as that. More like nibbling away at its edges. However, it will be something.”

  “Oh yes, anything—anything at all,” Lady Margaret sighed. “I am so worried, and Philip—God in Heaven, it would about kill the child. Roger is all he has. That mother! Poor darling, he doesn’t even have good memories to cling to. Can you tell me what you are going to do, Joseph, or would it be safer if I didn’t know?”

  “There isn’t anything definite enough in my mind to ‘know’, but there is a network of English spies in France. Some of those men aren’t very trustworthy—they sell information both ways—which is why as long as the situation was not acute I didn’t wish to use them. However, now… The other thing—Roger’s first letter didn’t come through Fouché. It came from a smuggler’s den near Kingsdown. I wonder who brought it there?”

  “You can’t go asking such questions in a smuggler’s place. They wouldn’t answer you.”

  “No…but… I wonder how Roger traveled to France. His servants might know that. Perhaps his valet—no. Old Peters died, and Roger took on someone Solange urged on him—to make him more elegant.” Sir Joseph snorted with contempt. One thing Roger had always been was elegant. “His groom—that’s who I can ask. Shannon has been with him since he was a boy.”

  Lady Margaret was already ringing the little silver bell to summon a maid. The girl sent a footman, who ran off to bring a message to the stables. Nothing more could be done on that score until Shannon rode in from Dymchurch House, but Sir Joseph finished his breakfast with more appetite than he expected to have after his eyes had fallen on the newspaper. He was busy enough during that day and the next to prevent the time from dragging.

  At Sir Joseph’s request, Lord Gower invited certain people from the Foreign Office to speak to him, and they were most interested in the problem. Sir Joseph would have felt better if he had been more convinced that they wanted to get Roger out rather than that they wanted to use him while he was in Paris. Nonetheless, he felt a certain reassurance. They would certainly try to contact Roger—they had asked for a “token”, and he had given them a pair of pistols Roger would recognize—and would spread the word about him only among men in whom they had absolute confidence. They would also certainly do whatever they could to help him if he were in serious trouble.

  On the evening of the next day, Shannon was shown into Sir Joseph’s study. He was a sturdy man of about fifty, with a normally placid countenance—anyone who had to keep up with Roger in his boyhood needed a calm disposition. Now his face was distorted with worry.

  “Ain’t nothing ‘appened to Master Roger, ‘as it?” he blurted out, his anxiety overruling the awe he felt for Sir Joseph.

  “I hope not, Shannon, I hope not. However, I am worried about him. I don’t know whether you have heard that France and England are now at war. I’m afraid that will make it impossible for Roger to return.”

  “Nosir, that it won’t—at least, if ‘e can find Monsoor Restoir it won’t. ‘E won’t care about t’ war. Anyways not so it would stop ‘im from ‘elping Master Roger.”

  “Restoir? Why does that name sound familiar to me? Restoir…�
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  Shannon shifted his feet uneasily. He knew he was not supposed to speak about Pierre or his business. However, he could not believe that restriction included Sir Joseph or that it applied in a time of emergency. Still, the habit of silence was strong. However, Sir Joseph solved his dilemma.

  “This Restoir is a smuggler,” Sir Joseph said, alerted by Shannon’s uneasiness. Then the name and the business clicked together in his mind taking him back twenty years. “My God, he must be the man who saved Roger’s life that time. How, after all these years—”

  “Oh, it ain’t years. Oftentimes when Monsoor is over ‘e stops for a crack with Master Roger. I brings up word, and Master Roger rides out to a place they meet—now o’ course Monsoor comes up to the ‘ouse, since ‘er ladyship,” the man’s lips twisted in remembered hatred, “is dead.”

  “All these years?” Sir Joseph murmured. Then he frowned, and before he could stop himself—because he did not really want to know—he asked, “Was Roger in the smuggling too?” If he was, it was the fault of the French bitch, but Sir Joseph wished his son had come to him if her needed money instead of engaging in such an enterprise.

  But Shannon laughed. “Nosir. It were just friendly like—at least these years. When ‘e was younger—I didn’t know or I would’ve stopped it—’e used to go out with Monsoor in the boat for fun. When I found out, I told ‘im the shame ‘e could bring on you, and ‘e stopped. But they was friends—is still. Monsoor took ‘im over when ‘e went.”

  “So!”

  Doubtless that was how the letter had come, too. Roger addressed it to Restoir and he brought it over. Well, thank God for that. Roger did have a safe way out of the country—if he could get to Restoir. The next logical thought Sir Joseph had was to wonder whether Restoir could be of any other help. Sometimes a smuggling network ran far and deep and reached into high places. Information and money could travel those underground ways.

  “How good a friend is Restoir?” Sir Joseph asked quickly. “Think hard before you answer, Shannon. Would you risk Roger’s life on the man’s goodwill?”

  “On his goodwill—yessir. ‘E wouldn’t do nothin’ willin’ly to ‘urt Master Roger, nor Master Roger to ‘urt ‘im. They’m friends for long and Monsoor, ‘e—sometimes ‘e says things like Master Roger was still a little boy and needed care took of ‘im. The only thing…”

  “Yes? This is important, Shannon. Say anything you know—anything.”

  “Well sir, Monsoor—e’m wild like. ‘E’m clever too, but ‘e’ll take a chance. ‘E got a laugh like a wild bird, and a wild eye too—like—you’ll pardon me, sir—like Master Roger ‘imself when—before ‘er ladyship.”

  “You think he might lead Roger into danger?”

  “Yessir, ‘e would that, and Master Roger—these last few months before ‘e left, beggin’ pardon, sir, but ‘e was like—like bilin’ inside, bubblin’ sort of. I begged ‘im and begged ‘im to take me… Sir, I would’ve gone ‘gainst ‘is say, only ‘e told me I’d be a danger to ‘im, not ‘avin’ any frog language like.”

  “He was perfectly right, Shannon. It would have been very dangerous for Roger to have an English-speaking servant. You mustn’t blame yourself, no matter what happens.”

  “Nosir.” But the groom’s face was twisted with misery, and he burst out, “It ain’t no good to say it. I should’ve knocked ‘im on the ‘ead. I would’ve, too—only I knew it wouldn’t do no good. ‘E’d’ve only gone anyways—with a sore ‘ead and without Monsoor. At least Monsoor knows frog ways and could tell Master Roger things.”

  Sir Joseph was touched. He knew the groom had been with Roger a long time, but he had not realized how attached the man was. “Don’t worry too much,” he soothed. “Roger has a good knowledge of French ways himself. You know he has been to France many times. I should have told you, but I didn’t know you were worried. Roger is quite all right. We’ve had letters. I was only worried because of the war, you know, that he might not have a way to get home.”

  Shannon’s face lightened. “Oh no. If ‘e can find Monsoor, ‘e’ll take ‘im ‘ome.”

  “Er—” Sir Joseph did not want to alarm Shannon again, but it was obvious to him that Roger’s problem was that he could not reach Restoir. Perhaps, however, if the bond between Roger and the smuggler were as close as Shannon thought, Restoir could reach Roger. Certainly it was worth a try. “It could be just as well—an insurance, as it were—to let Restoir know Roger is still in France,” Sir Joseph went on. “He might not know that. Is there any way to reach the man?”

  “Yessir. I could take a note to the Soft Berth—that’s the alehouse where ‘e stops to—well, I’m not supposed to say, but it’s safe with you, sir, I’m sure—where ‘e does business. But with this war—I dunno. It wouldn’t be safe for ‘im to come to town. I ain’t sure, even, when ‘e’ll be back.”

  “Nor am I, and I certainly wouldn’t want to put Roger’s friend in danger. However, it could do no harm to leave a letter for the man. He can read? Oh yes, you said Roger sends a note. Go down to the kitchen, Shannon, and get your supper. You can ride over to the alehouse tomorrow morning. Then, about once a week or so, ride up there and find out if he’s come. If he hasn’t, make sure they haven’t thrown the letter away. Grease them in the fist each time—I’ll give you some money—to be sure interest is kept up, and promise a golden boy if Restoir will leave a note behind to say he had my letter.”

  Shannon nodded eagerly. He could do that, he told Sir Joseph. Roger’s horses needed exercise anyway, and it would give him something to look forward to. It might be many weeks, however, even months, before Pierre came again. He believed that, war or no war, the smuggler would come sooner or later. Sir Joseph nodded agreement. Prices of French wine would soar now that war was declared. Restoir would not miss out on that. If he could dodge the swift, sleek revenue cutters, he was not likely to be worried by a lumbering warship or two. Perhaps it was ridiculous to place any faith in that kind of person, but somehow the thought of the smuggler knowing Roger’s problem was very soothing. Sir Joseph pulled a sheet from his writing desk and began to detail the whole story in careful French.

  Roger had to tell Leonie about the war, but he said nothing of his fears, and she seemed quite content to remain in Paris now that they were well away from the meeting hall of the convention. Their new location had one major drawback. It was very near the Temple, where the royal family were held prisoners. During the September massacres the mob had invaded this area also, to taunt and terrify the king and queen, but Roger considered the matter and dismissed it. The king was dead, and the likelihood of any further demonstrations around the Temple was much reduced. No matter where one was, he thought, there would be something.

  This house was not as pleasant as that near St. Roche. The rooms were meaner and there was no garden, so that Leonie was forced to walk with Fifi or let her run alone in the street. However, the little bitch was clever at avoiding horses and wheels and well trained. She would not permit anyone to approach her whom she did not already know as a “friend”. This required a formal introduction with the specific use of that word. Fifi would run and hide even from customers who were often in the shop and whom she knew quite well.

  Roger had hoped his move would reduce his business, since there was no helpful Lefranc to recommend him in this area and he believed his past customers would not bother to come so far. In this he was quite wrong. They soon found their way to him, berating him for moving without giving notice and making them go to the trouble of inquiring at the Section headquarters what had become of him. Worse, because it was a long walk they stopped in the local cafés to rest and drink, and often ended spreading the word of Roger’s skill. Soon the commissioners of the Temple, who guarded the royal family, became his clients. Roger cursed his luck and tried to give the impression of having an irascible and taciturn nature so that he could speak as little as possible to conceal his accent.

  Nonetheless, trouble started very soon after h
e and Leonie were settled. One of the commissioners, François Toulon, a passionate revolutionary who had played a conspicuous part in the deposition of the king on August tenth, came in with a pistol that was jamming. The shop had been empty, and Leonie was playing with Fifi in the kitchen, talking to her volubly. Toulon cocked an eye at Roger.

  “Your wife speaks a fine French,” he said.

  “She was lady’s maid to Marie de Conyers,” Roger replied.

  “She was fond of her mistress?”

  Roger kept his eyes on the gun he was examining, pressing his hands down on the counter so that they would not be seen to tremble. “She was fond of eating,” he growled. Then he shouted, “Leonie, be still.”

  The chatter stopped at once, but Fifi, alarmed by the sudden undercurrent of tension and the odd tone of Roger’s voice, dashed out into the shop to see what was wrong with her god that had upset her goddess. Toulon looked down at the dog and raised his brows. He was of good family himself, but from Gascony, where even the high nobility were poor as church mice. Nonetheless, he recognized the quality of the dog. Roger slid one hand under the counter where the loaded pistol lay ready.

  “That is a noble little animal,” Toulon remarked neutrally.

  “Not anymore,” Roger growled. “It is a common bitch like any other, now that it lives with us.”

  Toulon laughed. “How right you are,” he said in an odd voice. “Well, can you fix my gun?”

  “Yes. It is no great matter, but I need my glass.”