The Cornish Heiress (2 page)

“You will do nothing of the sort,” Roger said sharply.
“Nasty, ungrateful whelp that he is. And don’t think he’s angry with
you
—because
he won’t come today. I sent him off to Dymchurch with a flea in his ear.”

Leonie said nothing for a moment, looking down at her hand
held tight in her husband’s clasp. In ways she knew Philip better than Roger
did. She understood his fury. It was the natural outlet for a child’s
frustration, but Philip was no child. Leonie understood that he would be
sickened by his own behavior as soon as he recognized it. In retribution he
would meekly pay his debts and stay at his father’s estate until he was
released—but that was no solution to the problem. In fact, it would only make
it worse.

“We must do something,” she said in a constricted voice. “If
he felt he were part of a real effort in the war, he would be willing to take
orders. Why cannot one join the navy as a man? Philippe knows well how to sail.
All summer he is in that boat of his, and he used to go with Pierre. Do they
not need men who know how to sail?” Her beautiful eyes dimmed. “I would be
afraid for him,
bien sûr
, but—but I am growing afraid more and more of
what will happen if he does not find—find—whatever it is for which he seeks.”

“I, too,” Roger agreed, “but the navy is not the answer.”

“Pierre!” Leonie exclaimed suddenly. In her desperate
attempt to find a solution, she suggested Roger should ask Pierre Restoir to
tell Philip he needed help aboard the
Bonne Lucie
. Pierre was a Breton
smuggler, an old friend of Roger’s, who had been responsible for getting Roger
and Leonie out of France in the days when the guillotine was claiming its daily
victims. He had saved their lives; perhaps, Leonie was thinking he could save
Philip’s.

“I can’t go to Pierre,” Roger replied. “Don’t think I haven’t
considered it myself. The trouble is that if Pierre gets caught he’d only be
interned as a prisoner of war—and I could probably get him paroled into my
custody. If Philip got caught they’d hang him as a traitor. Well, maybe I could
save him from that, but he’d be ruined for good, Leonie.”

Still the idea lingered in Roger’s mind. Although Pierre was
nearly sixty now, and a rich man from the years of successful smuggling, he
still engaged with enthusiasm in his illegal trade. He had weathered the Terror
by moving his base of operations to the Low Countries, and during those years
he and Roger met frequently. Though Pierre was not a spy, he would bring Roger
what information he heard, particularly any new word of French ship movements.
When the Netherlands was overrun by the French, Pierre returned to his native,
Brittany and from there, succeeded in making contact with a smuggling gang in
Cornwall.

During the Peace of Amiens, Pierre had visited Roger and
Leonie once or twice just for the pleasure of seeing them. He told them he had
made a most satisfactory connection in Cornwall with, believe it or not, a
woman. “She drives a devilish, bargain,” Pierre had complained, shaking his head
at the paring of a profit he did not in the least need but felt obliged to make
as large as possible on principle. However, she was honest, he insisted, which
was more than two other groups he had dealt with before. Roger had choked over
the word “honest” in connection with smuggling, but, he did not argue. He knew
what Pierre meant. Smuggling was illegal, but if you did not overcharge and
fulfilled your commitments as to quantity, and quality it was not, in Pierre’s
opinion, dishonest.

Since the renewal of the war Roger had not seen his friend,
but he knew where to reach him. West of Penzance on the rocky Cornish coast was
an alehouse called The Mousehole. There messages could be left, as they had
once been left at the Soft Berth in Kingsdown. The trouble was that The
Mousehole was three hundred miles from London rather than about seventy. If it
had not been for that, Roger thought as he made his, way to his legal chambers
the next morning, he would have been inclined at least to ask Pierre’s advice.
He
was
at his wits’ end regarding what to do about Philip.

* * * * *

When Roger arrived at his office on the morning of October
8, he found a message requesting that he call in at the Foreign Office at
eleven o’clock. Roger looked at it blankly and then told his clerk to cancel his
appointments from ten-thirty on, unless he could handle the problem himself.
Actually, Roger was somewhat relieved. His mind was so full of Philip that he
doubted he would have been much good to either a legal or a political client.

The meeting at the Foreign Office, on the other hand, would
probably not require any serious thought. Lord Hawkesbury liked to hear himself
talk, but he liked an audience too. There would probably be a group among whom Roger
would be lost. By and large Lord Hawkesbury’s ideas were harmless, so Roger did
not feel obliged to do or say anything beyond a nod now and again. He was somewhat
surprised, therefore, to find his lordship alone and to be waved to a seat on
the opposite side of his desk.

“I am given to understand that you know France and the French
very well,” Hawkesbury began.

“I have done business with them for many years,” Roger
replied cautiously. “Both my wives were born in France I have visited many
times and from 1791 through 1794. I lived in France. Whether that means I know France
and the French, I am not sure.”

“You know that Bonaparte was assembling a fleet at Boulogne
to invade England just before the peace, and that work was resumed on that
fleet with enormous energy when war was declared again.” Hawkesbury touched a file
of papers. “Some of the information seems to have come from you, but we have other
information that implies that work on that fleet was never completely
discontinued.”

“I do not believe the latter can be true,” Roger remarked. “A
friend—the one from whom I obtained the other information you mentioned and,
er, whose name I prefer not to give, told me that the craft already built were lying
unprotected and were decaying from neglect. This was some time in May, shortly
after the declaration of war. I have no reason to disbelieve him, as we have
been friends for nearly thirty years and he has risked his life for mine more than
once.”

Hawkesbury looked at him. “Yet a man may do things for his
country that he would consider below mention on a personal level.”

“You mean he might have lied for the sake of
la belle France
?”
Roger smiled. “No, he is not French and does not love any government at all. He
regards governments as useless and oppressive organizations designed solely for
the enrichment of those who govern.”

Lord Hawkesbury sputtered with indignation, and Roger had to
fight an urge to laugh aloud. Often since he had become a member of Parliament
he had found himself in agreement with Pierre. However, there was no sense in offending
Lord Hawkesbury, who was personally an honest man if not a brilliant one and
who, for once, really seemed to need and want information.

“Do you mean, St. Eyre, that you do not think a fleet is building
at Boulogne?”

“Not at all. I am sure one is being built now. During the
peace, I renewed many of my old contacts, and I have reason to believe
Bonaparte is obsessed with the notion of invading England. There might be some
reason, however, for wanting us to think the work was more forward than it is in
reality.”

“Were your French contacts reliable?”

“Oh, yes,” Roger said dryly. “One of them was a cousin of
Joseph Fouché, who is—as much as any man could ever be—in his confidence.”

Hawkesbury pursed his lips thoughtfully. Joseph Fouché, like
the astute Talleyrand, had managed to survive the Terror, keep his balance
and
his influence through the unstable Directories, and was one of those involved
in the coup d’état that had placed Bonaparte in power. Unlike others who had
done favors for the First Consul, Fouché was neither imprisoned nor exiled. In
fact, as head of the Ministry of Police, it was on his advice that others were removed,
temporarily or permanently, from circulation. He seemed to be suffering a brief
eclipse, dating from 1802, which was when Roger had met him again on a very short
visit to France, but there was considerable evidence that Bonaparte still
listened quite closely to that efficient and totally unfeeling gentleman
Everyone assumed that Fouché would soon be back in office.

“Can you still reach this man?”

“No, Maître Fouché died quite suddenly a few months after my
visit, but even if he were alive I would not try. Maître Fouché was an old friend
and a fellow barrister, but he was also a loyal Frenchman and would have told nothing,
even if he knew anything to tell, which I doubt. His daughter is still alive
but being Fouché’s cousin would be no protection to her. If anything, it would
be a danger. If Joseph learned his cousin had contact with the English, he
would throw her to the wolves in a moment—provided, of course, he thought it
would do him some good.”

“I see.” Hawkesbury frowned. “That is not much help. We have
problem that I hoped you could solve. Receiving intelligence from France is not
difficult. There are many
émigrés
who profess themselves eager to serve England
as their adopted country. However, since the amnesty Bonaparte offered, it is
growing more and more difficult to determine which of our agents are loyal furthermore,
those whose loyalty, cannot be doubted, like poor Jacques d’Ursine, are so bitter
that their opinions cannot be trusted. If one were to believe Jacques,
Bonaparte must drink babies’ blood, have twenty million men under arms, and be capable
of appearing in five places at once.”

“I have heard him,” Roger said dryly He did not like Jacques
d’Ursine, who suffered too much from self-pity for his taste, and he did not
think it wise to have a monomaniac around the Foreign Office, even if the man’s
mania was enmity to Bonaparte. However, d’Ursine was Hawkesbury’s personal
secretary, and it was none of Roger’s business whom he chose to employ.

Hawkesbury shook his head. “Yes, poor Jacques. Well, what with
one thing and another, it is almost impossible to weed out what is true from what
is deliberately planted—like the information that hundreds of seaworthy craft are
ready for launching at Boulogne.”

“My dear Lord Hawkesbury,” Roger exclaimed, “that maybe true,
for all I know, although it sounds unlikely. My information is from May. I have
no idea how quickly such ships could be repaired and built if sufficient men and
materials were available.”

“Neither do we,” Hawkesbury said dryly. “That is, we have
most contradictory reports as to what is happening. Unfortunately, until we are
sure how forward the enterprise is, more of our ships of the line than the Admiralty
likes are committed to the Channel.”

He passed across the desk from the file under his hand a
copy of a report from Lord Keith, Commander in Chief in the North Sea, on which
some lines were heavily marked. Roger read, “A fleet or squadron may get out of
Brest unperceived and watch for an opportunity for running up to the Downs or Margate
roads, in which case it might be superior to our squadron long enough to cover
the landing of any extent of force from the opposite coast.”

“You spoke of a friend who seems to have knowledge of condition
of the fleet at Boulogne,” Hawkesbury said when he saw that Roger had read the
marked passage. “Do you think—’’

“He is not in that area any longer,” Roger interrupted, “and
he is not the kind one can pay to spy. He would tell me if he knew, but I doubt
he would be willing to interrupt his business to find out. Nor could I reach
him quickly or surely. His English base is on the Cornish coast, but,” Roger
smiled ruefully, “I’m afraid his business is quite illegal—”

“I gathered as much from your reluctance to use his name or
give any other particulars,” Hawkesbury said with dissatisfaction, then sighed.
“Do you have
any
suggestion as to how we could check on this matter?”

All the time they had been talking Philip lay heavily at the
back of Roger’s mind. When Lord Hawkesbury brought up the subject of Pierre
acting as a spy, the two things clicked together. Pierre would not be bothered
with deliberately gathering information, but he could be relied upon to carry
Philip into France and back again to England. In fact, he would do much more for
Philip. He would doubtless be willing to introduce him to the whole chain of
smugglers and corrupt officials with whom he was connected, and he would protect
him in any way possible.

Roger looked across at Lord Hawkesbury and bit his lip. “I
am not sure,” he said slowly. “I do have an idea, but I—I am very reluctant… It
is my son, you see—”

“Your son? My dear St. Eyre, how could a young Englishman
gather information in France? He would be betrayed by his speech and manners—”

“Not Philip,” Roger interrupted. “You may believe me when I say
he can pass as French easily. He will not even have the problem that your
émigré
spies have. Their accent is aristocratic. Philip’s is pure Parisian and a bit
coarse, since it comes mostly from his servants. However, I am not sure he will
be willing and—and I am not sure, my lord, that
I
am willing to broach
the matter to him. It is very likely that if he is caught, he will be executed out
of hand. Bonaparte is not as particular as we are to observe the niceties.”

Lord Hawkesbury made no answer to that for a moment and then
rose to pull a bell rope that would summon a footman. Seating himself again, he
drew a sheet of blank paper toward him. “I am writing to see if Mr. Addington will
receive us,” he remarked to Roger as he scrawled the request. “I think he can
better convince you of the urgency of the situation. I can understand your feelings,
St. Eyre. This is not the same as agreeing that a son enter one of the
services. Any particular ship or army unit might never see action at all,
whereas in this case you, personally, would be sending your son into great peril.
It is my opinion that we must ask this sacrifice of you, but let us hear what
Mr. Addington has to say.”