The Cornish Heiress (Heiress, Book Two)

by Roberta Gellis

  Now, of course, Pierre mostly took on his cargo publicly. Since Bonaparte had taken over the government of France, things had changed a great deal. In a sense they were better. Bonaparte had no objection at all to smuggling wine and brandy and tobacco into England. He needed money to continue his wars. He needed good English woolen cloth for overcoats and uniforms and blankets for his army and good English leather boots to put on his soldiers’ feet.

  Pierre was delighted with the new system—but that did not mean he approved of Bonaparte. Other things were not as satisfactory. All controls on everything had been tightened. There was not a port a ship could sail into, not even a simple chasse-marée, that it was not boarded and examined. This annoyed Pierre on principle, although it did him no harm. He had far more tricks for hiding his ill gotten profits than all the Customs men in France could uncover. Sometimes a layer of fish was stuffed with gold pieces, sometimes the guineas were nailed to the hull of the Bonne Lucie well below the waterline.

  Often Pierre did not sail into a port directly. There were as many lonely coves on the rocky Breton coast as in Cornwall. A brief trip in the ship’s tiny boat and the loot was hidden safely to be picked up when convenient. Of course, the gold Pierre carried home was only a small part of his total profit. Most of it went in purchase of those British manufactures Bonaparte desired.

  These Pierre brought openly into port, showing bills for about one third higher than he had actually paid. Since the value of his outgoing cargo was often known, at least approximately, and Pierre willingly opened his strongbox to show what remained between what he had been paid and the cost of his cargo (there were never more than five or ten English guineas there), the bills looked legitimate enough. He got his money plus the legal profit allowed, which gave him a most respectable earning ratio and, equally important, the pleasure of cheating the government that was trying to control him.

  The only real problem Pierre had was the purchase of the English goods he needed. During the spring and summer immediately after the declaration of war, the English factors who had been dealing with him had been willing to continue selling to him direct. As feeling against Bonaparte rose with the threat of invasion and news of French victories, however, the merchants in Falmouth had become afraid someone would report them for dealing with the French and accuse them of treason.

  Pierre had been wondering whether he could ask Meg to do the buying for him. She was English and might be able to purchase the relatively small quantities of material Pierre carried without question. This was no time to add any problems to those she already had, Pierre decided. Perhaps she would have thought over his advice and found a more normal assistant than John to help her by the time he returned. If she had, he would see what could be worked out. If not… Wait and see, Pierre told himself as he escorted Megaera to the stable and offered to ride home with her if she felt she needed more protection than John could afford.

  Impulsively Meg raised herself on tiptoe and kissed Pierre’s cheek. You’re a dear. No, I’ll be all right. No one followed us—I’m sure of that. I was nervous as a cat and watching carefully. So I’m sure I’ll be all right.”

  “If ‘e knows where you live—” Pierre began.

  “No—and I have more than one hidey-hole,” Meg said, most untruthfully. “I’m not going back to the place he knows. I’ll warn the men in the gang, too. One of them can take over everything Bart did. He’s a decent man, has a wife and children and every reason to avoid trouble. Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

  Megaera hoped the assurance carried more conviction to Pierre than it did to her. The truth was that she was miserable and frightened. She desperately wanted someone to talk to, someone who would help and protect her, but she knew that Pierre had his own affairs. Besides that, it was very dangerous for him to be in England. Nor did she dare confide in any of the local men. Sooner or later a close association of that type would expose the connection of Red Meg with Mrs. Edward Devoran, the daughter of Lord Bolliet.

  Chapter Six

  Philip rode to The Mousehole three days after Pierre left. He had no trouble finding the inn, which was the only building larger than a miserable hut. Not that the inn was much better. It was very old and sagged crookedly, as if the spirits served in it for centuries had permeated the beams and made it drunk. The plaster between the beams was cracked and peeling the beams themselves ashen gray with lack of treatment. The thatch looked near as old as the house itself, flattened, ragged, covered with some gray-green lichens or moss that could withstand the salt air and salt spray that came in from the sea.

  Inside, the place looked less ready to collapse but no less aged. The ceilings were low, black with accumulated soot from the fires and smoking oil lamps, which, Philip suspected, made darkness barely visible at night. Even on this fresh October morning one could hardly see enough to avoid the large, rough-hewn tables and benches. The windows were few and grimed with years of dirt. Although accommodation had been far more Spartan than Philip was accustomed to since he had passed Exeter; the inns on the main road had been decent and clean.

  “Yes?”

  The landlord, who had come out from behind the scarred, greasy counter, was no more inviting than his inn. He was big and the dark eyes in his craggy, gray-stubbled face were hard. His voice, though raised in question, rejected an answer, implying the visitor had made a mistake by entering and should leave at once. At first Philip was affronted. He was accustomed to an eager welcome from landlords, and the poorer the inn the more eager the welcome, usually. Before he made the mistake of showing his resentment, however, logic and his sense of humor came to his rescue. In a smugglers’ den strangers could scarcely be a pleasant surprise.

  “I want Restoir,” Philip said without preamble. Ignoring the fact that the landlord was already shaking his head in denial, he went on. “Six feet or thereabout, maybe fourteen stone, black eyes, gray hair—what’s left of it. He’s the captain of a chasse-marée—a fishing boat, I mean, the Pretty Lucy or Bonne Lucie. Never mind, saying you do not know him. I do not care whether you do or not. All I want is to leave a letter for him.”

  Philip reached into his pocket and drew out the folded sheet together with a golden guinea. He flipped the coin toward the landlord, whose hand flicked out to snatch it from the air with a speed that warned he would be a bad opponent. The coin disappeared and the hand went out again to take the letter.

  “You can leave it,” he growled. “I never saw the man nor heard of his boat, but if he ever comes in, he’ll get the letter. What do you want him to do?”

  “Nothing,” Philip lied blandly. “He wants me. I will be around for a month or so. I have business here anyway. If he still wants me, he will know where to find me—and if he does want to find me, it will be well worth your while that you passed the word.”

  The landlord shrugged. “Like I said, I never heard of him or his boat—but all kinds of people walk into The Mousehole. I’ll spread the word you’re around, if you want. What business?”

  “Restoir knows, and that is all that counts. My name is Philip St. Eyre.”

  He left without another word, hoping he sounded like an illicit customer for Pierre’s goods rather than a Customs agent or any other officer of the law. He was almost certain the landlord would pass on the letter. Pierre had told his father he could be reached through the inn called The Mousehole, so Pierre must have warned the innkeeper that there might be messages for him.

  The denials meant nothing. It was not likely that the landlord would admit knowing a French smuggler in these times even if the man was hiding behind the counter or sleeping off a drunk in a room upstairs. Besides, Philip was sure he had seen a flash of recognition in the man’s eyes, even as he was shaking his head in negation. Now there was nothing to do except wait and pray that the weather would not suddenly turn nasty and prevent Pierre from coming across. Usually he made about one trip a month, so the time limit Philip had set should be adequate.

  If t
he weather played him false, Philip thought as he rode up the miserable track that was all the road there was to The Mousehole, he would have to visit the inn again and reinforce his payment. He hoped sincerely that it would not be necessary, as a repeat visit, too much interest on his part, or the appearance of being willing to wait beyond the time he had already stated might make the landlord suspicious. No, it would not matter, he decided. Suspicious or not, he would pass the letter. There could be no danger to him in that—or to Pierre.

  Filled with pleasurable anticipation, Philip kicked Spite into a canter as he headed back toward Penzance. According to the instructions he had been given, it was necessary to go back to the second fork in the road and take the right-hand turn this time. About a mile on, that would bring him to another road where he must go left. At Drift, someone would be able to direct him to Moreton Place near Sancreed.

  This information was quite correct, and just as the family were sitting down to tea, Philip pulled the bell. At this point his carefully constructed plan almost went awry. A week on the road had done his outer garments little good and the Moretons’ well-trained butler was not accustomed to young men traveling without baggage or a valet. He therefore looked most coldly on Philip when he asked to be announced.

  “If you will give me your card, sir,” he said disdainfully, “I will carry it to his lordship.”

  “I do not have a card,” Philip said impatiently. One does not, after all, carry English visiting cards when one is about to embark on a career as a spy in France. Philip was rather annoyed with himself. He could have brought one card along, but he had carefully divested himself of anything that could be used to identify him. “I am a friend of Lord Kevern’s,” he added. “My name is St. Eyre, Philip St. Eyre. Lord and Lady Moreton know me quite well.”

  “If you say so, sir,” the butler responded with patent disbelief, beginning to close the door in Philip’s face.

  It was infuriating, and Philip barely restrained himself from pushing in by force. That would scarcely be polite behavior, however, or calculated to please Lord and Lady Moreton. Philip was just resigning himself to a ride all the way back to Drift, when the rattle of wheels drew his attention to a fine sporting curricle bowling up the drive. He hoped it would be a member of the family rather than a visitor, and he grinned with relief when the butler said, “Here is Lord Kevern now,” obviously expecting Philip to cut and run.

  When he stood his ground, the butler began to look worried. He did not open the door any wider, but he stepped out himself. “I am very sorry, sir, if—”

  “Perfectly all right,” Philip replied, smiling. “I am a little travel-stained, I know. And it was foolish of me to forget my cards.”

  Before he could say any more, Perce Moreton rounded the corner of the house nearly at a run, then drew up short to gape. “You didn’t ride that ugly bonesetter all the way out here, did you?” he asked in amazement.

  “Ah—yes, I did,” Philip replied, “but I think we had better go in before we discuss it any further.’’

  “Butler closed the door in your face, eh?” Perce said next, mounting the flight of wide, shallow steps. “Don’t blame him. Wouldn’t let you in m’self, only that I’ve known you so long.”

  “What do you mean, butler?” Philip asked, diverted from a defense of his appearance that he had intended to make by blaming the roads and inns of Cornwall for his soiled and wrinkled clothing. “Do you not know the name of your own butler?”

  “Course I know his name, you fool,” Perce exclaimed, but without heat. “That’s it.” He paused to consider this statement, then wrinkled his forehead and laughed. “Been with us so long, never thought about it, but it’s a bit confusin’ I guess, to have a butler named Butler.”

  “You mean Butler is his name?” Philip asked, his voice rising a little.

  “Er—yes.”

  Philip shook his head sadly. “It is just like you, Perce. I cannot think of anyone else who would be silly enough to have a butler named Butler.”

  As soon as Lord Kevern had addressed the disreputable-looking visitor in terms of familiarity, Butler had stepped back and opened the door wide. He listened to the lunatic conversation about his name with a perfectly unmoved countenance, although once when the young men’s eyes were locked together he had raised his own to heaven. Two of them! No one at the Rich Lode ever believed him when he said Lord Kevern was the worst devil of all m’lord’s sons. And it was true enough that the capers he cut were usually very clever. Looking at his blond, bland face with its vacuous expression and listening to the nonsense he talked, Butler could see the reason why people discounted him. That was a mistake.

  Meanwhile, Perce had propelled Philip through the now wide and welcoming door, protesting, “He ain’t my butler. M’mother hired him you know, or maybe he was in the family—” He stopped and turned to the butler. “Who hired you, Butler?”

  “I came as pantry boy in your grandfather’s time, my lord,” Butler replied, his face properly wooden but a smile in his eyes. “Master Ives employed me by recommendation, and I worked my way up through footman.”

  “There!” Perce exclaimed, steering Philip through the entrance hall and thrusting him through a doorway on the left into the library. “Can’t keep a good man down just because of his name. Must reward merit and ambition you know.” His face changed as he shut the library door, and he said, “Trouble, Phil?”

  “Ah—yes and no,” Philip answered. “As you know I was jigging a little too fast. I—ah—tripped a couple of times and my father lost patience and suggested a—a long trip into the country.”

  Philip swallowed. It had sounded amusing to him when he told Roger he would blame him for his excursion into Cornwall. Now, however, he was suddenly, achingly aware of how good and loving his father had always been, how uncomplainingly he had paid for his son’s stupid excesses. The words stuck in Philip’s throat It was one thing to tease his father, another entirely really to blacken his name.

  “You mean your father pushed you out?” Perce asked, his face blanker than usual.

  Unable to speak, Philip nodded.

  “For good?”

  “No, of course not. Just until—until my debts are paid.”

  “Cut you off with a shilling, eh?” Perce’s blue eyes might well have been marbles, they were so glassy and emotionless.

  “Yes,” Philip grated.

  “Come off it,” Perce said sharply. “I know your father. Know your stepmother, too. She’d kill him if he ever thought of such a thing—which he wouldn’t.”

  “Damn you!” Philip exclaimed, grinning. “Why the devil did you make me say all that when you knew… I cannot tell you anything else, though. I know your tongue will not wag, Perce, but it is not my secret.”

  “That’s all right,” Perce agreed instantly. “Pretty sure I know anyway. Nothing else could’ve hiked you out of the ‘slough of despond’ you were in. Never mind that. What’re we going to tell m’parents is more to the point. How long will you be staying here?”

  “I do not know, perhaps a month—six weeks, even, if the weather turns very bad. Perhaps only a few days. But there is something else. I may have to return, possibly several times.”

  Perce thought that over, looking more and more like an idiot the faster his mind moved. “Then we have to use that story. M’father won’t believe it—he sits in the Lords and knows your fa—but I can tip him the wink and he’ll be mum. M’mother will swallow it whole, which is all right. You’ll suffer for it, though. She’ll sigh all over you and ‘poor boy’ you to death. Serves you right, m’lad. It’s all to the good, anyway. At least she won’t shove m’sisters down your throat. Dreadful muffin-faced things they are.”

  Since Philip knew that Perce was quite fond of his sisters—he was forever buying trinkets and lace and ribbons and dispatching these items to them—Philip did not take his description too seriously. He appreciated the gentle warning in what his friend said, however. This was no time for him to
become interested in a woman or to permit one to become interested in him. Obviously Perce had guessed immediately that he would be engaged in some kind of venture in France. Philip could only hope it would not be as obvious to anyone else.

  He was delighted with the way things had worked out, since Perce took charge of explaining his unannounced arrival and the possibly erratic nature of his visit, thus freeing him from the necessity of maligning his father. Perce also supplied horses, extra smallclothes, stockings, and shirts. Unfortunately Philip could not cram his broad shoulders into the willowy Perce’s coats, but that troubled neither of them since it was an excellent excuse to avoid the round of visits to the neighboring gentry that Lady Moreton might otherwise have enforced. One could not present one’s son’s friend when he had only one tatty coat and a soiled greatcoat and no money to buy another.

  Instead, Perce took Philip all over the countryside, from Land’s End to Saint Michael’s Mount both by road and over field and barren upland ridges. Philip did not ride Spite, and he wore one of Perce’s hats, which altered his appearance surprisingly. These peregrinations were remarkably useful. Philip learned that The Mousehole was less than four miles away, if one climbed a stony headland instead of going another five miles around by the roads.

  They did some hunting with a pack owed by Mr. Levallis of Treewoof, but it had not much in common with the long, smooth runs of Leicestershire, where, only hedges, ditches, and stone walls were obstacles. The countryside was wild and rough, and the sport was more exciting from the immediate danger of precipitous rises and unseen cliffs than from wild gallops and soaring jumps. It was devilishly frustrating, in one way—there were so many earths for the foxes that it was rare to get one to run more than half a mile. On the other hand, there were a devilish lot of foxes, and when one was lost another turned up almost immediately. As far as Philip was concerned, that was perfectly satisfactory. He didn’t care if they never killed a fox. He was only interested in the thrill of the chase.