“How convenient,” Philip murmured, kissing her on the ear as he began to button her sleeves.
After a moment he started to wonder who did up all the tiny buttons if Meg found them difficult. In fact, those on the right sleeve must be almost impossible to do with the left hand alone. Surely it was necessary to hold the, sleeve together with one hand and button with the other? Could Meg have a maid? Nonsense, Philip told himself. It was ridiculous. The buttons were only difficult for him because he was unused to such tiny things so close together. Women knew how to manage from long practice, and the only reason Meg had asked him to help was, no doubt, that she was in a hurry to use the jakes.
When Megaera returned they breakfasted, Philip substantially and Megaera lightly, then went out to complete their round of the warehouses. Neither had ever been so comfortable or content. The underlying tension of the preceding day—the desire and uncertainty—was gone. Passion remained, but both knew it would be satisfied at a proper time and place, and it gave a warm, heady spice to the day’s doings rather than making them nervous. Deep back there was a shadow of course, but it did not come forward to cloud the mind and heart while one was busy and happy.
At last they came to the end of Pierre’s gold. Philip was relieved that two carts would not be needed. A really large one with four horses plus loading the carriage with as much as it would hold should be sufficient. Philip spent the afternoon picking up from one warehouse after another, then arranged to have the loaded wagon stored in a strong locked shed so that the goods would not be stolen overnight. He said he was exhausted, for he had helped load and was not accustomed to that kind of work.
Megaera received that statement with more sympathy than Philip expected and promptly urged that they should have dinner in their room again rather than dining out. She did not ask whether Philip was revived by the rest or by her presence or had perhaps pretended to be more tired than he was to encourage just the decision she had made. Megaera did not know and did not care. Any of the suppositions were flattering to her, and she had intended to find an excuse of her own to stay in if Philip had not provided one. She told herself she was trying to avoid the danger of meeting someone she knew in the town, but she certainly made no effort to avoid Philip’s advances. In any case his fatigue—if he was fatigued—did not affect his sexual performance. It was Megaera who had to remind him, reluctantly that they were to be called at first light It would take much longer to draw the heavy wagon mostly uphill toward Bolliet than it had taken to drive the light carriage down to Falmouth.
For Jean and Henri the weeks, since they had lost Philip had not been nearly as pleasant as they had been for their intended victim. It had taken far longer to fix the carriage than could have been expected. Jean believed that the wheelwright put off working on their job whenever any other work was offered to him, because he was prejudiced against the French. This added to the fury Jean felt over Philip’s escape. His first impulse to abandon the project disappeared, and as his rage increased, it made him more determined to catch and kill St. Eyre.
When at long last the carriage was repaired and Jean had grudgingly paid the charges, they resumed their journey. Because Jean did not wish to leave a trail of inquiries about a man who soon would be found dead, they took the chance of driving directly to Bodmin. There Jean sent Henri to ask the questions. Perhaps he would be able to be rid of two problems at once by having Henri associated with Philip.
Once St. Eyre had been killed, Henri could be killed also. The weapons could be left, one in each dead hand. A duel in which both had died would explain both deaths without any need for further investigation, which might be embarrassing. It would clear up the problem of how to be rid of Henri without suspicion falling on himself. All he had to do was appear as little as possible. This was not difficult. Jean allowed Henri to question ostlers, stableboys, and innkeepers while he did the heavier task of unstrapping the luggage and following the servants up to inspect their room.
After Bodmin their progress was slow because it was necessary to stop at every inn where Philip might possibly have spent the night. Henri became rather overfull of tea and coffee, but he did pick up Philip’s trail. He had made no effort to conceal it, of course, but it would have made no difference if he had. Henri remembered how he had identified Spite in Exeter. Although more than a week had passed and many innkeepers and servants had forgotten Philip, the ostlers and stableboys remembered Spite’s frightening if harmless habit.
At Penzance the trail ended. They tried St. Just first, then St. Ives, then all the towns that were well-known havens for smugglers. Henri had a reasonably logical story now. They were on the trail of a French agent, a man who pretended to be either born of a noble English family or an émigré loyal to the country that had provided a haven for him. This man was trying to escape via a smuggling ship, with stolen papers that would protect either himself or another spy and was also carrying out important information.
To support this tale Jean had prepared some papers with large seals stamped on red sealing wax. Since most of the people to whom Henri spoke were illiterate, these seals were sufficiently impressive. A few could read, but even they were ignorant people. Jean took good care to direct Henri to avoid anyone who might have authority or knowledge enough to realize the documents were only a crude sham.
They were not ill received. Cornishmen might be sympathetic to smugglers, but they were as opposed to “Boney” as any other Briton. Along the roads questions about the “French” stranger were answered with alacrity and honesty—no one had seen him in any inn past Penzance where he had asked the road to Drift. But at Drift no more had seen a “Frenchman” riding a horse that laid back its ears and showed its teeth.
If Henri had asked for Mr. St. Eyre in Drift, he would have been directed to Moreton Place. Everyone in the town knew Philip, but they knew him as Lord Kevern’s school friend. What was more, he had never stabled Spite in Drift nor, after the first time when he asked directions to Moreton Place, had he ever ridden Spite into town. He had been resting his hard-worked mount and taken a rest from Spite’s cruel gait himself by riding Perce’s horses. Thus, whatever Philip’s accent and however close his features to Henri’s description, no one connected the two. Lord Kevern’s friend, who escorted the Misses Moreton and was so elegant and polite could not possibly be in any way connected with this French spy who was being sought.
Two days later—in fact Philip and Megaera were about halfway to Falmouth at the time—Perce stopped at the Rich Lode in Drift. Naturally enough the landlord told him of their one bit of excitement.
“What did they say this man looked like?” Perce asked. It was a likely story, and Perce wanted to spread the word among his own friends.
The landlord obliged with a description of Philip and Spite. Perce himself did not recognize the description of Philip particularly—there were a large number of dark-eyed, black-haired, dark-skinned, tall, athletic men in the world—but the moment the landlord mentioned the rawboned bay that put back his ears and showed his teeth, Perce had all he could do to keep his mouth from dropping open.
“Why didn’t you send the man along to m’father, Felton? Surely the one to help catch a spy is the JP. What did he look like? What did he say his name was?”
“I didn’t see him myself, my lord,” the landlord replied. “He talked to Jemmy the ostler. To tell the truth, I didn’t think about it ‘til now but it’s a bit odd he didn’t come in and speak to me. As to Lord Moreton, I just supposed he had been at the Place and his lordship told him to come down here and ask.”
“I’ll check that, but I don’t think he was. I don’t like this either, Felton. That horse they mentioned is Mr. St. Eyre’s mount.”
“Mr. St. Eyre?” Felton echoed. “But surely that must be a mistake. Mr. St. Eyre isn’t a French spy.”
“Of course he isn’t! Went to school with him! I’ve known him since we were boys and he hates Bonaparte worse than we do. What I don’t like is this man snea
king around asking about him. If you want information for an honest purpose you go to the authorities. Now, it may be a coincidence, but if it’s Philip he wants—well, I want him first. Do you mind if I have a talk with Jemmy?”
“No, of course not, my lord. Do you want me to have him in?”
“No. He’ll think he’s done something wrong and forget half of what he knows out of fright. I’ll go out to the stable. But if that man shows up again or if anyone asks for Mr. St. Eyre by name or by description, send him up to the house. Mr. St. Eyre isn’t there anymore—but don’t you say that. I want to know why someone is looking for Philip and who it is.”
Having received the landlord’s assurances, Perce went out to the stable. Jemmy was by no means an idiot; indeed, he was very clever about horses, but there his mind stopped. All Perce could ascertain was that Jemmy had been shown a paper with a big red seal on it. This had so fixed his mind that he had no idea what his questioner looked like. He could describe the carriage and the horses minutely; however, this was not much help since both were the commonest kind of rented article. Jemmy would even be able to recognize them again, but it was unlikely from his lack of articulateness that anyone else could.
There was nothing more to be discovered, Perce decided at last, tossing Jemmy a coin and telling him that he must tell Mr. Felton at once, at once, if anyone came around showing papers like that again. Also, Jemmy was to tell anyone who showed him big red seals to go up to Moreton Place, where his questions would be answered better. Perce was just turning away, much disturbed, when Jemmy dredged one more fact from his memory.
“They wus two,” he announced.
“Two?” Perce repeated, puzzled.
“Niver give me t’orses t’old. Summon in t’chaise ‘eld ‘em. Niver come out, though.”
That did not make Perce any happier, but he thanked Jemmy, took his own horse, and rode slowly home. Never in his life had he been at such a loss. He had no idea what to do. It was clear enough to him that the men who were hunting Philip had simply reversed the situation to some extent. They must be French agents. Whether the talk of the papers and information Philip was carrying was true or not was irrelevant. Someone was trying to stop him from getting to France. Perce cursed so long and so viciously that his horse picked up his pace, sensing his master’s rage.
He could not warn Philip because he had not the faintest idea where Philip had gone. There was a chance that he was already in France, which would solve part of the problem, but Perce did not think so. Philip had said that he would send or bring Spite back to Moreton Place before he left. It would be safe enough to leave him there where there were so many other horses that Spite would be lost in the crowd.
However, even if Philip was safely across, these men should be apprehended. They were a danger in themselves, being spies. In addition, they might lie in wait to catch Philip on his return. Perce had no idea when this would be. Philip had implied a few weeks but admitted this was only a wild guess and it might be considerably longer. In fact Philip had said that he might not be returning to Cornwall at all. In that case, Perce was to bring Spite back to London when he came to Town for the Season.
What impeded Perce was the fear that any action on his part might endanger his friend or expose him. What was necessary was to spread the word that the spy hunter was really the spy. Perce gave this matter considerable thought and decided that French agents, although not welcome, would scarcely raise the same passion in Cornwall as Customs inspectors. Yes, that was it! That would work!
Perce decided he would pass the word that the man or men claiming to be seeking a French spy were really Customs inspectors attempting to obtain information on the smuggling gangs through this device, that the person they said they were seeking did not exist. The only trouble was whether the tale would spread fast enough. Unfortunately Lord Moreton was of a sufficiently ethical nature that he would have no dealings with smugglers. He did not carry these principles to any ridiculous lengths, of course. He bought his wine and brandy from the “gentlemen”—although at present it seemed to be a “lady” who was delivering the goods—just like everyone else. Nor did Lord Moreton go looking for evidence of smuggling. However, he would not out of hand acquit a man against whom evidence was brought, and he would not ignore evidence concerning smuggling if a complaint was made.
Thus, the “gentlemen” did their best not to provide evidence around Moreton Place. Aside from actual deliveries, the gangs avoided Drift, Catchall, and Sancreed. If any of the tenants on Moreton lands were employed by smugglers, they kept it secret. Ordinarily this was an agreeable arrangement all around. The smugglers were safe as long as no one complained, and Lord Moreton was not forced to choose between offending his neighbors or his conscience.
In this case, however, Perce was at a marked disadvantage. He did not have the direct leads to any gang that many members of the gentry had. He would have to pass the word through his friends, who could pass it along to their tenants who were involved with smugglers. On the other hand, word that came out of Moreton Place would carry considerable weight. Lord Moreton would not support the smugglers, but no doubt people would believe that he would resent “foreigners”—that is, Customs inspectors from London or any area outside of west Cornwall—who invaded his territory.
As a first step Perce rode home and warned the head groom and Butler about anyone who came inquiring about Spite or Philip. Such a person should be held, without violence, if possible, but any way if strong measures were needed, until Perce or Lord Moreton had seen and spoken to him or them. Then he told his father, who was not in the least surprised, having guessed—as Perce had known he would—the truth. Lord Moreton approved his son’s plans, although in fact he had not expected Perce to bother making any. After he had absorbed the full impact of the working of Perce’s mind, he had something to add.
“Perhaps we can take it from both ends, Perce. You pass the word among the young bloods, and I’ll pass it among the local Customs men.”
Perce burst out laughing. “By God, Fa, that’s clever. I never stopped to think the thing all the way through. But wouldn’t they think it’s odd that the inspectors didn’t go to them first?”
“Of course not! They’re all so corrupt that they expect both periodic investigations and undercover attempts to catch them and the smugglers they protect. What I will suggest is the truth—that the men are not investigators but French agents. The locals may not believe that, but they’ll jump at the chance to use that excuse to seize them and bring them to me, which will expose what they really are.”
“Yes…” Perce drew the word out, frowning. “But I think you’d better make it damn clear that whoever catches them must hand them over. After all, Fa, we don’t want these men knocked on the head and dropped off the nearest cliff. Not that they’d be any loss, but I think they should be questioned.”
“Yes, indeed. Good gracious, Perce, I never knew you had even a thread of social conscience. I’ll have to revise my view of you. Would you like a seat in Parliament?”
“I might some day, but not yet, Fa. The trouble is, I don’t know what I want. If I thought I’d be a shade of use, I’d have asked for a pair of colors, but I can’t believe that another inexperienced subaltern would be any real advantage to our army. I’d do as a staff officer, but—”
“For all his fat and bluster, York is a good man, Perce. He loves the service—”
“No! I know, Fa, with Fred on the Royal Sovereign and Robert in India you aren’t too eager to have me in the mess too. That’s why I haven’t plagued out your life, but I—I don’t know how much longer I can bear to do nothing. Aide-de-camp to York won’t do. I know his good points, but his ADC’s aren’t among them. He does the work with the men at the Horse Guards and keeps the ADC’s around to play cards with him.”
“I didn’t know, Perce. I’m ashamed to admit it, but you had me completely fooled. I kept thanking God that you were content to… Dammit, boy, that face of yours is like a wa
x mask. You could—“ Lord Moreton’s voice broke off abruptly. “That face must be worth a fortune at a gambling table—and it would be at a diplomatic conference, too. Possess your soul in patience for a little longer, Perce. We’ll see what turns up.”
With that Perce was reasonably content. His father was a sensible man, what could be called a real downy bird, and would neither forget nor suggest another palliative like the Duke of York’s staff. Perce knew his responsibilities as his father’s heir. He could also see that the struggle against Bonaparte was likely to be a long business. He could wait to deliver a telling blow against his country’s enemy in a way that would not be too likely to leave Moreton Place without a master. For a moment he fixed his attention on doing what he could to help Philip along with his bit.
Unfortunately, as far as laying hands on Jean and Henri, Perce was too late. Although the people in inland towns answered questions willingly enough, those in smuggling centers were deaf, dumb, and blind. Having made inquiries at those coastal villages they could reach and drawn a blank—no one had ever seen or heard of a smuggler, or a stranger either, on the entire coast of west Cornwall, as far as they could tell—Jean and Henri had returned to Penzance. Henri again proposed abandoning their quest. By now, however, they had spent a good part of the money d’Ursine had given them on the task he had assigned. Jean pointed out that they had expended a great deal of time and energy, too, and they were no better off than when they first took the job. If they did not bring back the papers and the name of the ship and captain who was willing to transport English spies into France, they would get nothing for their pains.
They had been going about it the wrong way, Jean said. He should have realized no one in a smuggler’s haven would talk to an official of any kind. What they needed was someone involved in the smuggling. He could question, find Philip, and hire a gang to kill him and to discover what they wanted to know.
The Cornish Heiress (Heiress, Book Two) Page 19