The Cornish Heiress (7 page)

Just as Philip passed out of London proper, a young man was
shown into the library of Roger’s house. He bowed with a flourish but received
only the curtest of nods in reply. Roger did not like Jean de Tréport. It
seemed to him that this young scion of an
émigré
house had encouraged
all of Philip’s less endearing habits. The marks of dissipation on his face
made him look much older than Philip, although he was actually two years
younger. His reputation, aside from the drinking, whoring, and gambling—which
were accepted as normal in the circles in which he traveled—was good. He was
honest in his play and paid his debts and his share.

“I’m sorry to trouble you, Mr. St. Eyre,” Jean said.

He had hardly any trace of accent, less than Philip, because
he made a conscious effort to eliminate it. His parents had fled to England
shortly after the Revolution began in France. Jean had been only a boy then,
and he said he had few pleasant memories of his native land. Thus, when the old
people died, he refused to go back even when the option was offered by the
amnesty. He was more Englishman than Frenchman by now, he claimed, and besides,
there was nothing to go back for. His father had sold everything he had before
leaving. There were no lands to reclaim.

“No trouble,” Roger replied civilly but without enthusiasm.
“What can I do for you?”

“Is Philip—is Philip in trouble?” Jean asked hesitantly. “We
had an engagement for dinner last night, and he did not come. His servant told
me he had gone off the day before in a violent rage, not saying where.”

Roger set his jaw with distaste, but he knew this was the
opportunity for which he had been waiting. “I have refused to pay his debts
again,” he said coldly. “I do not know whether you consider that trouble. And I
have told him to stay out of Town.” To Roger, as to all Englishmen, “Town”
without the article meant London.

“He is gone then?” Jean asked anxiously.

“I have no idea,” Roger replied, “but I think not. If he is
not back in his rooms, try Dymchurch House or Leicestershire. I warned him to
stay away from those country houses where the play is high. Whether he will
take my advice or not, I cannot say.”

“I see. Thank you.” Jean bowed himself out, on a wave of
slightly incoherent apologies.

Outside, he walked swiftly around the corner. “He is gone,”
he said to another young man.

“Are you sure?” Henri d’Onival asked. “The note said he was
supposed to leave for Leicestershire tomorrow.”

“He is gone, I tell you. His father acted as if he had not
seen him since Tuesday, but we know they were together this morning. St. Eyre
told me to try Dymchurch if Philip was not in his rooms here. Thus Philip must
be already gone and
not
toward Leicestershire, which his father also
suggested to me—most innocently.”

“You mean we are suspected?” Henri asked nervously.

“No, I am sure not. Old St. Eyre is a sly beast, even if the
son is a fool. He will say no more to anyone. I think he wants the story of his
refusal to pay spread about. It would explain Philip’s absence from his usual
haunts. Naturally, he does not want questions asked.”

“But if he is not going to Leicestershire, where is he
going? And how can we find him if he has left already? No, I do not like this.
It is one thing to go with him as friends and find a way to search his things
to remove these lists and passes, but to follow him elsewhere… No. Even, if we
could find him, he will be suspicious.”

“Yes, getting the papers will be more difficult, but you
know we were also supposed to discover who it is that he plans to meet. And we
do
know where he is going. St. Eyre let that slip before he thought his son would
be involved. Hawkesbury told Jacques that whoever it is has his base in
Cornwall. Now, I do not think Philip will skulk along back lanes. There is no
reason for him to do so, and he would not wish to put up with the accommodation
in country inns. There are only two toll roads to the west; one runs to Bath
and the other to Exeter.”

“You mean we should each take one? I don’t think that’s
wise. We had better report that the plans were changed—”

“No,” Jean contradicted sharply. “Do you wish to return the
money we were paid?” A significant silence answered him, and he went on. “I
don’t think we should separate. I’m almost certain he won’t take the road to
Bath. There’s too much likelihood of meeting people he knows—his family and
friends—returning from there. Let’s at least try the Exeter road.”

“Very well,” Henri said.

He was beginning to regret having mixed himself into this
business. It was one thing to spend his time in the company of young army and
navy officers and pick up a piece of information here and there. The money was
useful. Unfortunately, the costs of mixing were high and his parents’ income
was limited. Now there was almost nothing left. Insensibly, as his allowance
dropped Henri continued to spend until it was more than he had—only a little at
a time, he was no reckless debauchee—but now he was deep in debt.

Regret or no regret, he had to go through with it, Henri
decided. He had not realized that tradesmen’s debts were protected by law in
England, and he had to have what had been promised when be came back with the
papers and the name of Philip’s contact. The alternatives were too horrible—debtors’
prison or flight—and to where could he fly? No, he must steel himself to do
whatever was necessary.

Jean did not have the small qualms that disturbed Henri. He
had lived on his wits for years. His parents had left him enough to exist on a
modest scale if he were careful. Had he felt inclined toward a profession or
trade, he could have lived comfortably. Since he was inclined to nothing but
drink, cards, and women, his income was not sufficient. Jean was no fool,
however. Mostly he lived at little cost to himself, a welcome guest who
enlivened dull country sojourns. In addition, he had been supplementing his
income for years in ways he found pleasant and amusing. Discreetly he led
“flats” to gaming dens. Later he received a percentage of what they had been
fleeced. He was on the payroll of many a “madam” also. No one lost on that, for
the houses to which he introduced his friends were delightful, if costly, and
he had his entertainment free of charge.

This excursion into espionage was something new, but it paid
well enough so that Jean welcomed the experiment. He had a vast contempt for
those he lived on. It had delighted him to be able to refuse invitations he had
previously accepted, knowing that his hosts would now need to scrabble about
for an extra man. He was sure he would be welcomed back next Season with relief
after the fools they would need to invite in his place. Not that this adventure
was his first. It seemed to be the most serious, however. What he and Henri had
been given in advance to cover expenses was handsome. What was promised for the
future, on successful completion of the mission, was munificent. Jean wondered
where it came from. Perhaps when he returned from Cornwall he would squeeze
d’Ursine a little and find out.

“I will meet you at the Sun, where we can rent a carriage
and horses,” Jean pulled out his watch and snapped it open, “in an hour. That
should be time enough to gather up what little we need. Remember, you will not
need evening clothes, and do not bring a million neckcloths as if we were going
visiting in a grand house.”

Philip had done exactly as Jean predicted. He did not really
expect to be followed, but despite his avowal of caution he would have been
rather pleased if he were. At this point he was eager to taste the joys of
being a hunted man, and it seemed highly unlikely that his adventure could
really begin until he arrived in France. So he took the most open, obvious
route and stopped for tea at a well-known posting inn. His promise to his
father, that he would do nothing wild restrained him from giving his name or
doing anything special to draw attention to himself, but he could not resist
riding on into the dark before he finally stopped.

This marked him as a man in a hurry, but to his
disappointment no one seemed interested. Philip ate well and went up to bed
early, wondering if Spite’s even disposition and strength could make up for his
uneven gait. He was not looking forward to the morrow. As he undressed, Philip
eyed his boots uneasily. They were dusty and in excessive need of polishing.
Moreover, it would be remarked if he did not put them out for cleaning—and that
was not the kind of notice Philip wanted. He might be hungry for adventure, but
he did not wish to endanger the success of his mission.

Having picked up each boot, examined and flexed the area
that had been opened and found it sealed tight and capable of bending without
giving away what was hidden, Philip put his boots out to be cleaned with all
the others. It was, in his considered opinion, the safest thing to do, and he
was right. Although concern—that the paper would crackle or the bootboy notice
the slight bulge or the seal open owing to rough handling—stole into his dreams
and made him restless, Philip found his boots and their contents intact in the
morning. The fatigue of restless sleep only compounded the discomfort of
Spite’s rough gait. By teatime on Friday, Philip was very ready to linger on a
comfortable chair in a private parlor of a large posting house. He was even
tempted to ask for a chamber and go no farther, but conscience drove him on.

Outside of Salisbury, however, it began to rain, and Philip
had had enough. He stopped at Wilton, quite unaware that the fast post chaise,
which had passed him outside of Stockbridge, was now behind him. It had stopped
in a small lane until he rode by, and then traveled at a discreet distance along
the relatively empty road, turning off into side roads to wait and leave the
road behind Philip empty for a while each time it drew close. In Salisbury the
chaise was much closer, close enough to see which hotel he stopped at—if he
stopped, but he did not. On the road the distance was allowed to widen again.

The chaise went right through Wilton, but it was soon
apparent that Philip was not on the road ahead. Back it came and stopped in the
innyard. Jean hopped out and, to the ostler’s amazement, walked into the
stable. A quick glance told him what he wanted to know—that a still-damp, rawboned
gelding was munching contemplatively on a fine display of oats. Before the
ostler could speak, Jean pointed out two stalls near the door and said that his
horses should be settled in them because he intended to leave very early the
next morning. He stayed to see the animals unhitched and bestowed in the spots
suggested and to criticize the rubbing down.

It seemed unusual for a man to be so attentive to the
comfort of rented horses, but they were a good team and the postilion did seem
to be unusually stupid. The ostler accepted Jean’s behavior without thinking
much about it. Obviously the man intended to use the same team the next
morning, and he wanted to be sure they were in peak condition.

That deduction was true, but it was not the reason for
Jean’s lingering in the stable. He knew Philip and Philip knew him well, and he
was taking no chance on running by accident into his intended victim. There
could be no believable excuse for him to be on this road and stopping in the
same inn. It was too much of a coincidence. However, Philip did not know Henri.
It was therefore quite safe for him to enter the inn, make sure Philip was
there, and rent a private parlor to which Jean could go directly and not leave
until Henri had determined that Philip had gone up to bed.

The plan worked very well. Henri did not even need to ask
where Philip was. The landlord, apologizing for providing only a small room for
Henri and his companion, mentioned that his larger room had been rented less
than a half hour earlier by a single gentleman. “A busy night,” he remarked,
rubbing his hands together and smiling. His inn, less than five miles from
Salisbury, did not often have so much “gentle” custom, the upper-class
travelers preferring to stop at the larger, better appointed inns and hotels in
Salisbury. This meant three expensive, special dinners as well as the rent for
both parlors and extra bedchambers—and the gentry did not examine bills with the
same care that merchants or other tradesmen gave to them.

The bad weather brought dark even earlier than usual in
October. Philip was not in the least sorry. He was sick of his own company and
doubly tired owing to his restless night and a full day of Spite’s
bone-crushing movement. As soon as he had eaten, Philip went up to bed. This
time the fact that he had set his boots out did not cause him any qualms. In
fact, even if he had been worried, it would not have kept him awake. He was so
tired it was doubtful that a full-scale war outside his window could have
disturbed him.

Certainly the quiet snick of his latch opening did not wake
Philip. He did not even sigh or turn his head as Jean, his face hidden by a
neckcloth raised over his nose and mouth, slipped into the room. Henri,
similarly masked, hung back uncertainly until Jean stuck his head back out of
the door. It was too dark in the inn corridor to see Jean’s glare, but Henri
knew what his face must look like, and entered. This was totally out of Henri’s
experience. He was frightened half to death. If they were caught, it would mean
prison.

Jean closed the door softly behind his unwilling companion
and moved silently toward the bed. Mentally he swore obscenely. He had had no
idea how dark it would be. It was possible to see darker shadows that denoted
the room’s furnishings but, the bed was a heap of indistinguishable shapes. It
was impossible to tell where Philip’s limbs lay under the blankets or what was
his head rather than a curve of the several pillows furnished by a thoughtful
landlord in his best bedchamber.