The Cornish Heiress (37 page)

Besides, now an irregular relationship was not to be thought
of. Although she was illegitimate, Meg was acknowledged to belong to a decent
family. It would have to be marriage. Philip shuddered at the thought of the
pain he would inflict on his father and Leonie. How would he ever explain that
he intended to marry the bastard of a drunken sot who had gambled away his
estate so that his daughter started smuggling to… No! And yet Meg herself was
so fine, so good. Perhaps if they met her first…

Even so, could he force Meg to leave her father and sister
to destruction? He doubted it. The estate he would inherit from his father was
adequate rather than handsome. Of course it was growing considerably as Roger
added to it from income derived from his practice as a barrister and his
government work. Still, he did not think his father would permit him to pledge
it to save lands on which he would never have a claim. And he did not know how
great the encumbrance was.

“How much is owed?” he asked, when Meg’s voice finally
trailed away. He was wondering whether he could manage to pay the interest, at
least, so that the lands would not be forfeit and Meg could quit the dangerous
game she was playing.

Although she had no notion of most of Philip’s thoughts,
Megaera understood what was behind his question immediately. She felt even more
guilty for having deceived him. Obviously Philip intended to get the money for
her, but she could not permit that. He could have no idea of the sum involved,
and he might do something desperately dangerous when he found out.

“I—I don’t know,” she stammered, never having expected this
contingency and having no better answer.

“What do you mean, you do not know?” Philip said, pushing
her away a little to look at her face.

“I—I never asked. It—it didn’t matter, did it? I knew it would
take years and years to pay back, so—”

“You little, loving idiot! Philip exclaimed, torn between
surprise at her goodness and irritation at her trustfulness. “You mean you just
hand over the money? How do you know what your sister is doing with it?”

“She wouldn’t cheat. She wouldn’t!” Megaera gasped, caught between
the devil that was her lie and the deep blue sea of Philip’s desire to help her.

“I did not mean to imply that your sister is deliberately dishonest,
only that she may be using the money for other things that she feels are equally
necessary. And those things might be more necessary to her than to you. That gown
she was wearing tonight, for example. It was not inexpensive.”

“She didn’t spend money on that. I know she didn’t,” Megaera
protested. “I helped her make it. Let it go, Philip, please.”

“No, because I think I could help.”

“My sister wouldn’t hear of it. She doesn’t know you exist.”

“She knows now,” Philip pointed out. “I accosted her at the
ball and called her Meg.”

“I can explain that, but—”

“You find out what that debt is,” Philip ordered. “And do
not take any ‘no’s’ from her, you little ninny. I know you have been made to believe
that she must always come first and have her own way, but that
must
end
now. As I told you, I must go to France again, but when I come back this time I
intend to take you away with me.”

“Oh, Philip, I couldn’t,” Megaera wailed.

“Yes, you can! Now listen to me. Find out what the full sum
is and what the quarterly interest is. Maybe I can find a way to pay part of
the interest. The rest can be made up from the rents. Probably there would not
be much left over, but your father and sister could continue to live here until
she marries again. Then—”

“No! No, I can’t let you. Don’t do anything rash. It’s my
problem, Philip, not yours.”

Philip lifted her chin and stopped her lips. “Your problems are
my problems, Meg. Love is like that. Now stop being such a goose. There isn’t any
sense in our arguing about this until I know what the figures are, but if your
smuggling is paying the piper, I might be able to swing it. We would have to
live close, no luxuries, but we could be together without the Customs men breathing
down our necks.”

Even as he said it Philip began to wonder whether he was
doing the right thing at the wrong time. He had no doubts about wanting Meg,
but it might not be wise to take her away, because it was not really likely they
could be together. He was reasonably sure this would not be the last time he
would be sent to France or even farther afield. Would it be fair to her to
force her on his parents and then leave her alone? Roger and Leonie would not
be unkind, but Meg might well guess how little welcome she and her expensive troubles
would be to them. And to face the snide remarks and nasty insinuations of the
ton
—those
who would receive her for the sake of the Stours and the St. Eyres—all alone,
that would be cruel.

In any case there was no time to marry her before he left
for France again. In London or Kent he could have obtained a special license
and married her the next day, but he knew no bishop in Cornwall and the thought
of explaining this situation to Lord Moreton—who might or might not know of Meg’s
existence—was more than Philip could face. Perce’s father would certainly try to
dissuade him from what he would consider (and Philip himself considered, except
that he loved Meg too much to give her up) a disastrous action. Perce would undoubtedly
agree with his father. Philip knew he would lose his temper, which would not
convince anyone of Meg’s sweetness, only of her hold on him. No!

Then an idea struck Philip. Perhaps he could work the deal
from the other direction and protect Meg from her vampire sister and father
through Pierre. It was the winter season anyway, and the long passage between
Brittany and Cornwall could only be made at very irregular intervals. Philip
believed he could convince Pierre not to make a run until he himself returned.
Even better, perhaps he could convince Pierre to go back to his old base in
Belgium and run lace and Dutch brandy if he could not obtain French wine. That
would keep Meg out of trouble, not do Pierre’s business any harm, and in the
short run, keep Pierre closer to Paris until he finished this job.

Megaera had not said anything when Philip said he would take
her away. She was aware that it was not a proposal of marriage; perhaps Philip,
like his father, did not believe in marriage. Nonetheless she recognized his deep
seriousness. All she could do was bury her face in his shoulder and struggle
with her tears. He was so good. Imagine him being willing to take on such a
burden only to have her. What was she to do? Every cell her body cried out to
belong to Philip forever, but how could she? Even if the debts, could somehow
be settled or staved off, there was the stupid lie she had told between them
and, even worse, how could a Bolliet live openly with a smuggler’s bastard?

Jacques d’Ursine did not learn of Philip’s new mission until
several days after he had left London. Although Lord Hawkesbury could not
believe the suspicions cast on his secretary, he had given his word that this
matter should not be discussed with
anyone
except the Prime Minister or
the Minister for War or others at that level of government—and it was not.
There is a limit, however, to what can be kept from a confidential secretary
who wishes to pry. Putting two and two together, and then looking in the places
in which the “four” might be filed, put Jacques in possession of all the facts,
except one, within three days.

Because the original plot was no secret from d’Ursine—he had
provided the clues that made Méhée de la Touche’s story fit British desires and
expectations so perfectly—he did not need the names of the conspirators or the outlines
of the plot itself. From the files he had pried into, he discovered that
“Baptiste Sevalis” a Parisian merchant, had papers that permitted him to trade
in Paris, and that those papers had been given to Philip St. Eyre.

It was highly unlikely that Philip was expected to stay in
France for any length of time, so the purpose could not be to insinuate himself
into a responsible position—as d’Ursine had done. Moreover, there were no
military secrets that could be ferreted out quickly in Paris. Then Philip was
going as a messenger. It was possible that he was merely picking up information
from spies there, but not likely. It would be ridiculous to risk a young
nobleman with Philip’s abilities and family influence as a simple messenger
boy. Thus the message was crucial and Philip’s special qualifications were
needed.

Logic then told d’Ursine that Philip was going to meet
Cadoudal. Obviously, then, Philip must be carrying the name of the “prince” who
was coming to lead the uprisings, and the time and place of his arrival so that
Cadoudal and his fellow conspirators could meet him. Unfortunately, something
had gone wrong and Hawkesbury had not asked Jacques to prepare the message.
Jacques felt a flicker of fear. Was he suspected? It did not seem so from Lord
Hawkesbury’s manner, but who could tell anything from the English who, glad or
sad, furious or joyful, even when making love, no doubt, had all the animation
of dead fish. Then he shrugged. Lord Hawkesbury would not be in office much
longer. If there was any danger, d’Ursine would simply slip away and François
Charon would arrange for his passage back to France, where he could claim his
reward.

Since d’Ursine had no entrée into the Admiralty, it was not
possible for him find out whether a naval cutter would land Philip in Normandy
or the Pas de Calais or whether Philip would make his own arrangements as he
had before. Nor did Jacques intend to use amateurs again. The debacle caused by
Jean and Henri was more than he liked to consider. He was reasonably sure he
had managed to silence Henri before his tongue wagged—imagine that fool trying
to blackmail him—but he was not taking any more chances with self-important
idiots who had neither experience nor understanding. Philip St. Eyre was more
of an opponent than he had believed originally.

Expending more care than usual, d’Ursine went to a shop that
dealt with old manuscripts and foreign books. The owner welcomed him with
restrained enthusiasm and told him he had something special in his line. They
went together into the private showroom. In a few minutes another man joined
them. He had not come through the shop. François Charon and Alexander Hilliers
were slick and believable—and both had families in France supported, protected,
and
watched
by Joseph Fouché. There was no chance either would betray
his purpose or d’Ursine, no matter what the circumstances, and both knew
several routes to France. Each carried, after d’Ursine left, full information
about Philip himself, the message d’Ursine believed he was bringing to France,
and the recommendation that Philip should be killed, as he was dangerously
adept at spying, quite ruthless, and had already brought to England information
very detrimental to France’s war.

Later that day François Charon told his English assistant
that he was going to Scotland to obtain several manuscripts that had become
available. The assistant accepted the information without surprise. Mr. Charon
did a great deal of travelling and never gave him more than a day’s warning.
Needless to say, Charon traveled south rather than north. His task was to take
the information d’Ursine had brought directly to Fouché by the quickest route
available. Usually he did not go himself, but this news was of crucial
importance. Once a Bourbon was discovered in a plot against Bonaparte, the
family could be discredited and the First Consul could take the next step in
his program and found a hereditary dynasty.

Alexander Hilliers did not need to make excuses to anybody.
He rented a chaise not more than half an hour after he left Charon’s bookshop
and set out to stop Philip in England if he could find him. This was not
impossible since d’Ursine knew that Philip met a smuggler in Cornwall somewhere
not far from Penzance. Jacques had learned that much from Henri before the
conversation had degenerated into threats and murder. Unfortunately, Henri had
not remembered the exact name of the place—that was one of the causes of the
degeneration of the conversation—so he could not tell d’Ursine. Hilliers
grunted irritably that there were ten thousand places near Penzance where cargo
could be landed; however, he did not refuse to try. His own best contact was in
Polperro, and that smuggler might know who ran a route near Penzance or where
the ship lay to.

Although Hilliers did not equal Philip’s feat in the speed
with which he traveled, he made excellent time to Cornwall. He arrived in
Polperro three days before Pierre was due at Lamorna Cove and just one day
after Philip and Megaera finished buying goods in Falmouth. The agents contact
was not in at the time, and the inn he usually stayed at in Polperro had
changed hands, so that he was eyed with suspicion. He rode inland then, to the
Punch Bowl in Lanreath, where he was well known as “safe”, and he found many
tongues there willing to wag at the glint of a coin. Unfortunately they did not
know much, only that there was a regular run from somewhere in Brittany. If he
wanted more information, the innkeeper said, he might get it at The Mousehole.

Across the room a thin, ragged, half-drunk man lifted his
head. Black Bart had not done well since he fled from the battle at The
Mousehole. The money he had carried away had not lasted long, of course, and no
one was in the least impressed by him. In Treen he had built his power with the
backing of his bullyboys. Here in the Polperro area the bully bucks already had
leaders, and his bluster, unsupported by any good connection with a smuggler,
was regarded with contempt. He had found occasional work unloading ships and
helping with large deliveries, but only as a “last and least” hired hand, and his
grumbling and whining had made him so unpopular that he had left the port and
come to Lanreath.

The name “Mousehole” had drawn his attention, and he
listened blearily to the short remainder of the talk between Hilliers and the
landlord. Somehow he got the impression that the man was carrying a large sum
of money. What was more, there was something about him that reminded Black Bart
of the two sheep turds who had queered his chance to get that bitch Red Meg. It
occurred to Bart that here was a chance to get everything back to where it had
been before the gentry mixed in and fouled the pitch.

More than a month had passed since the shooting at The
Mousehole, and not a rumor of it had come to Polperro or Lanreath. No word had
been passed that he was wanted. Likely Meg had kept the whole thing quiet
thinking she had scared him off for good. She had never been one for mixing up
with the beaks. If he hushed that fancy cull with the funny way of saying
words, there would be money, a horse, decent togs. That would make him look as
if he were up in the world. Black Bart snarled softly as he remembered how far
from the truth that was. But no more. He knew now there was no sense in
running. A man had to be in his own place. He wasn’t really afraid of the law.
When he had done Meg, he would have the money from the smuggling operation to
pay them off. Then they would dance to his piping rather than hers.

Mumbling to himself, Bart got up and staggered out. No one
paid any heed to him. He was regarded as bigmouthed and pot-valiant when drunk,
but of no danger to anyone. Even if his purpose had been guessed, no one would
have said anything. Each man was expected to watch out for himself, and, to
speak the truth, Hilliers was known to be deadly and capable and not pleased
with those who minded his business.

It was the total idiocy of the action, the total
improbability of it that made it succeed. Looking around for a suitable spot
for attack, Bart paused to piss in a dark area near the gate in the wall that
cut off the stable yard from the main entrance of the inn. Just as he finished,
the door of the inn opened, the stranger stood silhouetted against the light
for an instant, and then came directly toward Bart. As he passed Bart simply
took one step forward and stabbed him in the back.

The only part of the whole thing that was not dumb luck was
the knife stroke. That was a skill learned so well that even drunkenness did
not affect it. Hilliers did utter a cry, but Bart’s hand was over his mouth
already, and he was dead too fast to make another sound. Then Bart pulled him
back into the darkest place, somewhat alarmed, although he was too full of
brandy to be really frightened. Still he knew the grounds of the Punch Bowl
were “safe”. That is, the landlord and the men who used it were agreed that no
violence (except what was necessary to quell obstreperous drunks) was permitted
there. Men who violated the rule did not do so more than once.

Quickly Bart rifled the agent’s pockets. Then he clapped the
man’s hat on his head and drew on his greatcoat. There was a slit in the back,
but most of the blood had been absorbed by the shirt, waistcoat, and coat he
wore beneath. Still uplifted by the brandy in his belly, Bart drew the hat low
over his face, raised the collar of the coat, and shouted for “his” horse.

It was cold. The ostler glanced at the garments, recognized
the “swell” who had come in, and led out the horse. Remembering by a miracle
who he was supposed to be, Bart flipped a coin. His drunkenness favored him
again. He was unable to throw the coin straight and the ostler missed his
catch. With a curse the man turned and bent to scrabble for his tip. Meanwhile,
Bart mounted and rode out of the yard. The dead man was not discovered for some
time. By then it was far too late to wonder who had committed the crime. The
body was stripped of everything that could be of the smallest value. A little
blood on things was not going to bother anyone who frequented the Punch Bowl. A
quiet spot was found, and one more French agent disappeared without a sign.

Not being perfectly sober at the moment, Bart had ridden
straight out on the road in front of the inn. He was too drunk—and growing too
frightened—to remember he must turn right or left to go along the main road.
The track he followed led nowhere, and he found himself in open country. He
would probably have fallen into the spreading pools of the West Looes, had he
not stumbled on a shepherd’s hut. He took the horse in with him for warmth and
simply curled up and went to sleep.

It was the best thing he could have done. In the morning he
was sober, if thickheaded. For a time he regarded his surroundings and the
horse with blank amazement. Then slowly it all came back. First he plunged into
a morass of despair, realizing he was finished in the Polperro area too. Then
his drunken reason for what he had done began to take hold of him again. It was
useless to keep running. He must have a reckoning with the red bitch. If he
won, he would have the good life again. If he lost, he would have nothing to
worry about anymore.

In this mood of reckless despair Black Bart began to examine
what he had taken from the man he had killed. At first he was bitterly
disappointed. There was some money, but no extraordinary sum, which was
natural. Hilliers had only to pay for his travel (which money had been spent
already), food, lodging and passage. After that English money would not be
necessary. In France there were funds ready for him. In his fury Bart began to
tear apart the saddlebags. From between the back seams, papers fell. Bart
seized them eagerly and then cursed viciously, disappointed again. They were
all in French. Growling, he threw them into the fire he had started in the
primitive hearth.

That act of destruction, which he would have undone if he
could, checked his rising rage and made him consider what he had found in the
saddlebags more seriously. Two good pistols, plenty of ammunition, clothing.
Again he thought of the idea that had induced the murder, and it did not seem
so farfetched now. If he went back to Treen dressed like a swell and able to
fling money around for a day or two (there was enough for that), he could get
some of the men back on his side And those men, unlike the ones Red Meg
favored, wouldn’t mind a little extra, even if they had to put a few others
including the red bitch to bed with a shovel to get it.

Three days later when Black Bart rode into Treen, he found
he would have been welcomed even without the money and clothing. His men, the
ones who had run the gang under his supervision, had all been cut out by Meg.
Without a leader to direct their resentment they had done nothing, but now they
welcomed Bart with open arms and spouted wild plans for revenge. Bart was so
uplifted by this fawning attitude that he actually stopped to think before rushing
out to bash.

Having discovered when Pierre had last delivered a cargo—and
that could not be kept secret, for most of the men in the village were employed
in beaching it—Bart had a reasonable idea of when the smuggler might come
again. He gestured his men closer and began to outline a plan. Basically it was
the same as his original idea. They had to get Meg after the cargo was
delivered and before she went to pay Pierre. They could invade the cave, kill
John, and seize Meg.