The Cornish Heiress

by Roberta Gellis

  Cadoudal’s face set like stone. “He must die, of course. That is not your part nor the part of your government. We French must deal in our own way with a tyrant and usurper.”

  Megaera’s lips parted, but she swallowed and held her tongue. She saw from Philip’s frown that he, too, was not at ease with what could only be an intention of assassinating the First Consul, Cadoudal had said it was a matter for the French to deal with themselves, and there was a certain justice in that.

  All Philip said was, “Then what is my part?”

  “To obtain the agreement of General Moreau is essential. He is an honorable man, a strict Republican and regards me as an enemy, knowing that I desire above all the restoration of the true king. Thus there is no way for me to approach him. However, General Pichegru, who is now in England, having fled after Bonaparte’s coup d’etat in Fructidor, is an old and dear friend of Moreau’s. I am sure Moreau would listen to him. It is our last hope. It is also England’s best hope for preventing a long bloodbath. This is why I asked you to come, even after I learned that de la Touche is probably a traitor and I—all unwitting—have probably marked all my friends for death.”

  He covered his face after these words, but recovered in a moment and continued, “I have written to Pichegru, to Lord Hawkesbury, and to the Comte d’Artois. Will you carry these letters for me?”

  “Yes, of course,” Philip replied at once, “but is it safe for you to remain here? I have a friend who will give you passage back—”

  “I will disappear,” Cadoudal interrupted. “I can. Whoever follows me is clever Even though I knew today there must be someone, I could see no sign—but I have made it easy for them in the past. Now that I know better—we know better—we will all disappear tomorrow, after you are gone. Until then we will act just as usual. I will go to the Palais Royale, a friend will meet me there—all as usual. I hope this will be of some help to you.”

  “Do not sacrifice your safety for ours,” Philip urged. “Meg and I are prepared to go now. We will need only an hour or two to leave Paris. After that—”

  “No, no.” Cadoudal found a smile. “You are very generous, but if I am bait, I am in no immediate danger. Only tell me if there is something you can think of that will be of more help to you than my simply acting as I have all along.”

  The agent who “shadowed” Cadoudal had seen the boy who carried the note to Philip go and return, but he had been instructed never to give Cadoudal any reason to suspect he was watched. Thus the best he could do when Cadoudal set out for the Epée du Bois was to follow and send a message telling the new destination back to their informer where Cadoudal lived. He did not hurry to do this, delaying until he was sure Cadoudal intended to stay at the Epée. Often his subject moved from place to place meeting different people before he settled on a spot to dine.

  Thus Philip and Cadoudal were almost finished with their discussion when the messenger arrived at the end of the street in which Cadoudal lodged. From the corner house, with a glass, it was possible to see without ever being seen oneself. The landlord of that house who also was in Fouché’s pay, gestured the messenger upstairs and signaled that he had better hurry. He found Charon and the other higher level agent waiting with impatience. They rushed out the moment they knew where to go. It had been clear to both of them that their master would not be pleased if their quarry should escape. After a hurried conference to pass on Fouché’s instructions, which were simple enough, Charon walked into the Epée du Bois and requested a private parlor to entertain two friends who would arrive in a few minutes. They had already dined, he said, and chose several bottles of wine, which the landlord carried upstairs with him, since Charon said he did not wish to be interrupted by waiters. The three other agents entered as they started up. Two followed Charon and the landlord, the other went into the bar. At the door of the room Charon took the tray, the agent opened the door, and the three pretended to enter while watching the landlord descend the stairs again.

  None of the agents had spoken, and the landlord had got out no more than, “This room, gentlemen—” before he was silenced by a frown. However, Philip had just been reaching for the door to open it for Megaera, and he heard. He paused, listening intently. Megaera, who had just put on her pelisse, stood stiffly beside the table, one hand inside her muff clutching the two-shot muff gun. Cadoudal, who had been sitting opposite her and had risen when she did, began to back away from the table to go to Philip’s assistance.

  The tableau held only for a moment. Realizing he had not heard the door of the room opposite shut, Philip thrust his hand into his greatcoat to draw his gun, but before he could do so, the door slammed open, knocking him backward. Cadoudal leapt forward, but it was too late. All three men were in the room. Two brandished pistols, while the third stopped to turn the key in the lock of the door. Megaera uttered an inarticulate cry and toppled to the floor beside the table.

  When he saw Megaera fall, Philip cried out also and started forward, only to be knocked down by a blow from the barrel of Charon’s pistol. Disregarding the threat of the other agent’s gun, which was leveled at him, Cadoudal rushed at him. He knew he would be executed anyway if he were taken—probably after extensive “questioning”—so he had little to lose in dying at once. The agent, who knew no harm must come to Cadoudal, naturally did not fire. He managed to sidestep the rush, and the third man, who had been pulling off his neckcloth to tie up Philip, grappled with Cadoudal.

  No one gave a glance to the crumpled heap of garments that marked Megaera’s position. Fouché’s men had not given her a thought, assuming she would be equally harmless conscious and only glad that she had fainted because it kept her from screaming. But the heap of garments had not been still. With surprising alacrity it had wriggled past a chair and under the table.

  When Philip had stiffened at the door, Megaera knew instantly that they were trapped. It never occurred to her that the people on the other side of the door could be innocent visitors to the inn. For a second or two she was so frightened that vision and hearing faded and she felt that she would faint. The weakness retreated as her heart pounded harder, pushing blood to her brain. Her next fear was that she would be a danger to Philip. She knew he might expose himself unnecessarily to protect her or that she could be used as a weapon against him if she were seized.

  She had been holding the gun in her muff since she got to her feet. It was necessary to do so or it would fall out, being heavy. At first, in her terror, she only clutched it tighter, mindlessly, not understanding what she held. When her accelerated heart rate and breathing had cleared her head, however, she remembered she was not helpless and defenseless. In the small room the little muff gun was as deadly as the more accurate long-barreled pistols Philip carried. All she needed was a central position so that she would not be too far from any part of the room.

  As that idea came to her she realized she would never be given time to cock and fire her gun. As soon as she drew it from the muff, she would be either shot or seized. Fear gripped her again, her head spun, and all the thoughts jostled together. Out of the maelstrom came a plan that seized on weakness and used it to hide her strength. Thus, when the door shot open, thrusting Philip backward, Megaera did just what a proper lady should do and sank to the floor in a faint.

  After that she was too busy for the next minute or two to notice what happened to anybody but herself. By the time she had wriggled herself under the table, pulled the gun from her muff, and cocked it—all without anyone noticing—chaos had erupted in the room. The noise was behind her, but Megaera did not turn her head. Her gaze was fixed on Philip, lying on the floor with blood running down his face. Without a second thought Megaera lifted her pistol, and shot Charon in the back. He screamed and fell on top of Philip, his gun exploding harmlessly into the air.

  The other agent spun around, cursing, looking wildly for a target. His half-formed thought that another man had been concealed in the room was not quite finished when Megaera, s
wiveling around on her knees under the table, shot him full in the chest. He did not scream. Shock overrode pain. Even as he died he could not believe that the woman who had fainted with fright as they came in the door had changed into a fury, with blazing purple eyes, pointing a gun. Had he lived another minute, he would have told himself that it was a small man in disguise, or that his eyes had deceived him and a man had been hidden under the table all along and shot from behind the woman as she roused from her faint.

  Death saved him the trouble of rationalizing reality to fit his prejudices and from the further shock of seeing Megaera busily crawl out from under the table with a vicious expression on her normally sweet face. It seemed as if the first man she had shot was struggling with Philip despite the widening stain of blood on his coat. However, just as she got to her feet, firmly clutching her empty gun with the intention of hitting Philip’s attacker on the head as hard as ever she could, Philip rid himself of the corpse and rose also. The man who had been grappling with Cadoudal to restrain him was now trying desperately to get free, but it was far too late. In the next instant Philip’s long-nosed Lorenzoni was pressed against his head. He ceased to struggle, stammering a plea for mercy. Although he received no response, his terror diminished somewhat when the neckcloth he had partially undone was removed and used to bind his hands. Those of his unfortunate comrades were then used to finish the job and to blindfold and gag him also.

  Megaera, who had controlled herself nobly while there was still danger, now flew to Philip crying that he was hurt. Cadoudal gaped at the two men lying dead on the floor, looking from them to Megaera and back again. Finally Philip broke off assuring her that it was nothing, that even a small cut on the head was a great bleeder, to laugh.

  “You are getting hardened, love,” he said softly, kissing her carefully so as not to get blood on her. “You were all upset when you shot Jean.”

  “Not after I knew he was after you. And that man was going to shoot you too,” Megaera replied, trying to wipe the blood from his face with his handkerchief. She shuddered once, and then said determinedly, “Do you want me delicate and you dead?”

  That made Philip laugh again. He knew Meg was deliberately echoing the words he had used to excuse his conduct with Désirée. Cadoudal was now looking at her with mingled admiration and horror. She had said she could take care of herself, but he had not expected the proof of it to be two dead men. “So delicate a lady…”

  “It is too quiet below,” Philip said suddenly, interrupting Cadoudal’s thought and pulling away from Megaera. “Surely the shots should have brought the landlord up here. There must be more of them downstairs—or the landlord knew…”

  “Yes, but whoever is there must believe that we were subdued,” Cadoudal pointed out.

  “I agree. Otherwise they would have come up to lend a hand. That means we have a little time—I hope. I cannot believe they came here just to kill us. That one,” Philip gestured toward the bound man, “was undoing his neckcloth, and that could only have been to tie up someone.”

  He handed his gun to Cadoudal, in case there should be another attempt at surprise and began to search the corpses. On the man shot in the chest he found papers from both the Ministry of Police and Fouché. On the man shot in the back he found a wallet containing the passes Fouché’s clerk had written out and a small-folded sheet sealed with an emblem he did not recognize. He did not pause to examine that, there would be time enough later, and he did not wish to break the seal. Perhaps the message, read and passed on, could be of use to trap a whole ring of spies. On the living man was identification as Fouché’s agent, but nothing more.

  Philip considered the harvest he had garnered, then returned to Charon and searched him more thoroughly. Sewn inside the waistband of his trousers Philip found English papers of identification somewhat like his own but less sweeping in their protection. Charon was a double agent! Now he began to search in earnest. Putting aside the easily discovered belt under his shirt, heavy with French and English gold, Philip opened the man’s boots, pried at the heels, ripped the lining and seams of every garment, but found nothing more.

  While his hands had been busy, Philip’s brain had been busy too. He looked up at Cadoudal, made a sign to him not interfere, and struck the bound man on the head with the butt of Charon’s gun to knock him senseless. ”I am sorry about that,” he said, “but he must not hear what I am about to say. Meg and I must leave at once. I am sure these men were to report back to Monsieur Fouché. I deduce they were to question me—that must have been the purpose for the neckcloth to tie me up—since it would be lunatic to question you. Although what they thought I could know… Well, that does not matter. If what I hope is true, Fouché cannot expect a report for some time, assuming we would resist questioning—so we will have time to escape Paris.”

  “We must get out of here first,” Megaera said as steadily as she could. She was standing by the side of the window, where she could not be seen but where she could look out and avoid seeing the results of her determination to protect Philip.

  “Yes, but we cannot leave this man or any others who may be below stairs behind.

  “No, of course not, but I know how to solve that problem,” Cadoudal assured him. “I have friends also. If we can overcome the men below and you can give me ten minutes to summon assistance, you can leave.”

  “Good enough,” Philip agreed.

  “Wait until I load my gun,” Megaera protested, hurrying to the table where she had laid the weapon.

  “You should have loaded it right away,” Philip complained, teasingly. “What good is an empty gun? And what an idiot you are to leave it lying around.”

  “I didn’t have time to load it. I thought that man was going to strangle you. I was going to hit him on the head, and—”

  “Adding insult to injury—yes, I see. But he could not have strangled me very hard with a bullet in him. It would have been more practical to load and shoot him in the head.”

  “One cannot think of everything in a moment of crisis,” Megaera said reproachfully, and then burst out laughing.

  Cadoudal made a strangled sound of distaste at the laughter and bantering and at Philip’s seemingly callous attitude toward the woman. The English sangfroid was too much for him. Philip did not bother to explain, he did not care what Cadoudal thought. He was only glad that Meg’s eyes were clear again, the lingering shadow of horror in them gone. His seemingly casual acceptance of what she had done—which now that he thought back on it turned his insides all fluid with pride and gratitude and love—had reduced the importance of the two deaths. To scold her for so minor a failing in a jocular manner almost made an everyday matter of the affair. Megaera still kept her eyes away from the bodies, but she was beginning to equate them with the vermin she would casually order killed on her estates.

  “Do not hurry your loading,” Philip said next, pulling off his greatcoat. ”You will have time. I am going to wear this man’s coat and hat while I go down and see with how many we have to contend.”

  A babble of protest broke out from Megaera and Cadoudal, to which Philip replied briefly as he untied the unconscious man’s hands to remove his coat. When he was dressed, he took the Lorenzoni from Cadoudal and handed him the gun that had not been fired, as well as Charon’s gun, which he had loaded quickly.

  “Stop talking foolishly, both of you,” he said sharply. “Meg, tie this man up again, good and tight. Monsieur Cadoudal, follow me to the head of the stairs and come down slowly, unless you hear shots or other sounds of violence. Then do what you think best—but do it fast! Meg, when you have the prisoner secured, take my coat and hat and follow Monsieur Cadoudal.”

  He wanted to tell her to escape with the Frenchman, that Cadoudal could provide her with a guide who would take her to Dieppe, but he knew with both despair and an intense joy that he would be wasting his breath. If he ran into trouble, Meg would be right there beside him, fighting to her last breath to save him. Debt
or no debt, bastard or no bastard, he would have her as his wife, even if it meant severing ties with his father and Leonie. That would hurt, but not nearly so much as losing Meg.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The tense agony Megaera endured when Philip left the room was somewhat mitigated by the force with which she hit the third man when he groaned and twitched as she retied him. Cadoudal had not quite left the room. He winced at the thonk the blow made and muttered an involuntary prayer of thanksgiving that his association with this “sweet” English lady would soon come to an end. He hated to think what might happen if he inadvertently offended her, but worse than that, he had no idea how to deal with her. How and about what did one talk to a woman who swatted men like flies?

  The period of doubt was very brief. In minutes Philip had called to Cadoudal to come down. Megaera was on his heels, her gun drawn. If the Frenchman thought her vicious, she thought him weak. Neither was correct, but the misunderstanding was not significant since their association was not to be renewed. They found Philip holding the last of the agents and the entire staff of the Epée, whom the agent had conveniently assembled in the kitchen. There had been no trouble at all. The agent had not even had his gun in hand. He did not need it. No more was needed to quell the staff of the Epée than to show his credentials and tell them that what happened was none of their business and was sanctioned by Monsieur Fouché.

  All the male members of the staff were summarily bound, and Philip watched them while Cadoudal went out for the agreed ten minutes. Actually, the time stretched to twenty, and Megaera was frightened to death, thinking they had been abandoned. However, Cadoudal did return, and Megaera had spent the time usefully in removing all traces of blood from Philip’s face, finding a clean shirt and neckcloth for him among the landlord’s clothing, and in general removing any trace of the conflict from her own as well as Philip’s outer garments.

  They returned to the Milles Colonnes, told the landlord that they would stay another day since they had met friends, and walked out carrying only the small parcel of silks Megaera had purchased—which were wrapped around the breeches, shirt, and jacket she had been wearing when Philip abducted her. The garments had been cleaned while they were at Monsieur Luroec’s farm and packed with Philip’s clothing in case they should need to make a run for it. Over his arm Philip carried the greatcoat he had taken from the agent, which concealed Megaera’s boots.