The Cornish Heiress (11 page)

“If ‘e knows where you live—” Pierre began.

“No—and I have more than one hidey-hole,” Meg said, most
untruthfully. “I’m not going back to the place he knows. I’ll warn the men in
the gang, too. One of them can take over everything Bart did. He’s a decent
man, has a wife and children and every reason to avoid trouble. Don’t worry
about me. I can take care of myself.”

Megaera hoped the assurance carried more conviction to
Pierre than it did to her. The truth was that she was miserable and frightened.
She desperately wanted someone to talk to, someone who would help and protect
her, but she knew that Pierre had his own affairs. Besides that, it was very
dangerous for him to be in England. Nor did she dare confide in any of the
local men. Sooner or later a close association of that type would expose the
connection of Red Meg with Mrs. Edward Devoran, the daughter of Lord Bolliet.

Philip rode to The Mousehole three days after Pierre left.
He had no trouble finding the inn, which was the only building larger than a
miserable hut. Not that the inn was much better. It was very old and sagged
crookedly, as if the spirits served in it for centuries had permeated the beams
and made it drunk. The plaster between the beams was cracked and peeling the beams
themselves ashen gray with lack of treatment. The thatch looked near as old as
the house itself, flattened, ragged, covered with some gray-green lichens or
moss that could withstand the salt air and salt spray that came in from the
sea.

Inside, the place looked less ready to collapse but no less
aged. The ceilings were low, black with accumulated soot from the fires and
smoking oil lamps, which, Philip suspected, made darkness barely visible at
night. Even on this fresh October morning one could hardly see enough to avoid
the large, rough-hewn tables and benches. The windows were few and grimed with
years of dirt. Although accommodation had been far more Spartan than Philip was
accustomed to since he had passed Exeter; the inns on the main road had been
decent and clean.

“Yes?”

The landlord, who had come out from behind the scarred,
greasy counter, was no more inviting than his inn. He was big and the dark eyes
in his craggy, gray-stubbled face were hard. His voice, though raised in
question, rejected an answer, implying the visitor had made a mistake by
entering and should leave at once. At first Philip was affronted. He was
accustomed to an eager welcome from landlords, and the poorer the inn the more
eager the welcome, usually. Before he made the mistake of showing his
resentment, however, logic and his sense of humor came to his rescue. In a
smugglers’ den strangers could scarcely be a pleasant surprise.

“I want Restoir,” Philip said without preamble. Ignoring the
fact that the landlord was already shaking his head in denial, he went on. “Six
feet or thereabout, maybe fourteen stone, black eyes, gray hair—what’s left of
it. He’s the captain of a
chasse-marée
—a fishing boat, I mean, the
Pretty
Lucy
or
Bonne Lucie
. Never mind, saying you do not know him. I do
not care whether you do or not. All I want is to leave a letter for him.”

Philip reached into his pocket and drew out the folded sheet
together with a golden guinea. He flipped the coin toward the landlord, whose
hand flicked out to snatch it from the air with a speed that warned he would be
a bad opponent. The coin disappeared and the hand went out again to take the
letter.

“You can leave it,” he growled. “I never saw the man nor
heard of his boat, but if he ever comes in, he’ll get the letter. What do you
want him to do?”

“Nothing,” Philip lied blandly. “He wants me. I will be
around for a month or so. I have business here anyway. If he still wants me, he
will know where to find me—and if he does want to find me, it will be well
worth your while that you passed the word.”

The landlord shrugged. “Like I said, I never heard of him or
his boat—but all kinds of people walk into The Mousehole. I’ll spread the word
you’re around, if you want. What business?”

“Restoir knows, and that is all that counts. My name is
Philip St. Eyre.”

He left without another word, hoping he sounded like an
illicit customer for Pierre’s goods rather than a Customs agent or any other
officer of the law. He was almost certain the landlord would pass on the
letter. Pierre had told his father he could be reached through the inn called
The Mousehole, so Pierre must have warned the innkeeper that there might be
messages for him.

The denials meant nothing. It was not likely that the
landlord would admit knowing a French smuggler in these times even if the man
was hiding behind the counter or sleeping off a drunk in a room upstairs.
Besides, Philip was sure he had seen a flash of recognition in the man’s eyes,
even as he was shaking his head in negation. Now there was nothing to do except
wait and pray that the weather would not suddenly turn nasty and prevent Pierre
from coming across. Usually he made about one trip a month, so the time limit
Philip had set should be adequate.

If the weather played him false, Philip thought as he rode
up the miserable track that was all the road there was to The Mousehole, he
would have to visit the inn again and reinforce his payment. He hoped sincerely
that it would not be necessary, as a repeat visit, too much interest on his
part, or the appearance of being willing to wait beyond the time he had already
stated might make the landlord suspicious. No, it would not matter, he decided.
Suspicious or not, he would pass the letter. There could be no danger to him in
that—or to Pierre.

Filled with pleasurable anticipation, Philip kicked Spite
into a canter as he headed back toward Penzance. According to the instructions
he had been given, it was necessary to go back to the second fork in the road
and take the right-hand turn this time. About a mile on, that would bring him
to another road where he must go left. At Drift, someone would be able to
direct him to Moreton Place near Sancreed.

This information was quite correct, and just as the family
were sitting down to tea, Philip pulled the bell. At this point his carefully
constructed plan almost went awry. A week on the road had done his outer
garments little good and the Moretons’ well-trained butler was not accustomed
to young men traveling without baggage or a valet. He therefore looked most
coldly on Philip when he asked to be announced.

“If you will give me your card, sir,” he said disdainfully,
“I will carry it to his lordship.”

“I do not have a card,” Philip said impatiently. One does
not, after all, carry English visiting cards when one is about to embark on a
career as a spy in France. Philip was rather annoyed with himself. He could
have brought
one
card along, but he had carefully divested himself of
anything that could be used to identify him. “I am a friend of Lord Kevern’s,”
he added. “My name is St. Eyre, Philip St. Eyre. Lord and Lady Moreton know me
quite well.”

“If you say so, sir,” the butler responded with patent
disbelief, beginning to close the door in Philip’s face.

It was infuriating, and Philip barely restrained himself
from pushing in by force. That would scarcely be polite behavior, however, or
calculated to please Lord and Lady Moreton. Philip was just resigning himself
to a ride all the way back to Drift, when the rattle of wheels drew his
attention to a fine sporting curricle bowling up the drive. He hoped it would
be a member of the family rather than a visitor, and he grinned with relief
when the butler said, “Here is Lord Kevern now,” obviously expecting Philip to
cut and run.

When he stood his ground, the butler began to look worried. He
did not open the door any wider, but he stepped out himself. “I am very sorry,
sir, if—”

“Perfectly all right,” Philip replied, smiling. “I am a
little travel-stained, I know. And it was foolish of me to forget my cards.”

Before he could say any more, Perce Moreton rounded the
corner of the house nearly at a run, then drew up short to gape. “You didn’t
ride that ugly bonesetter all the way out here, did you?” he asked in
amazement.

“Ah—yes, I did,” Philip replied, “but I think we had better
go in before we discuss it any further.’’

“Butler closed the door in your face, eh?” Perce said next,
mounting the flight of wide, shallow steps. “Don’t blame him. Wouldn’t let you
in m’self, only that I’ve known you so long.”

“What do you mean, butler?” Philip asked, diverted from a
defense of his appearance that he had intended to make by blaming the roads and
inns of Cornwall for his soiled and wrinkled clothing. “Do you not know the
name of your own butler?”

“Course I know his name, you fool,” Perce exclaimed, but without
heat. “That’s it.” He paused to consider this statement, then wrinkled his
forehead and laughed. “Been with us so long, never thought about it, but it’s a
bit confusin’ I guess, to have a butler named Butler.”

“You mean Butler is his name?” Philip asked, his voice
rising a little.

“Er—yes.”

Philip shook his head sadly. “It is just like you, Perce. I
cannot think of anyone else who would be silly enough to have a butler named
Butler.”

As soon as Lord Kevern had addressed the
disreputable-looking visitor in terms of familiarity, Butler had stepped back
and opened the door wide. He listened to the lunatic conversation about his
name with a perfectly unmoved countenance, although once when the young men’s
eyes were locked together he had raised his own to heaven. Two of them! No one
at the Rich Lode ever believed him when he said Lord Kevern was the worst devil
of all m’lord’s sons. And it was true enough that the capers he cut were
usually very clever. Looking at his blond, bland face with its vacuous expression
and listening to the nonsense he talked, Butler could see the reason why people
discounted him. That was a mistake.

Meanwhile, Perce had propelled Philip through the now wide
and welcoming door, protesting, “He ain’t
my
butler. M’mother hired him
you know, or maybe he was in the family—” He stopped and turned to the butler.
“Who hired you, Butler?”

“I came as pantry boy in your grandfather’s time, my lord,”
Butler replied, his face properly wooden but a smile in his eyes. “Master Ives
employed me by recommendation, and I worked my way up through footman.”

“There!” Perce exclaimed, steering Philip through the
entrance hall and thrusting him through a doorway on the left into the library.
“Can’t keep a good man down just because of his name. Must reward merit and
ambition you know.” His face changed as he shut the library door, and he said,
“Trouble, Phil?”

“Ah—yes and no,” Philip answered. “As you know I was jigging
a little too fast. I—ah—tripped a couple of times and my father lost patience
and suggested a—a long trip into the country.”

Philip swallowed. It had sounded amusing to him when he told
Roger he would blame him for his excursion into Cornwall. Now, however, he was
suddenly, achingly aware of how good and loving his father had always been, how
uncomplainingly he had paid for his son’s stupid excesses. The words stuck in
Philip’s throat It was one thing to tease his father, another entirely really
to blacken his name.

“You mean your father pushed you out?” Perce asked, his face
blanker than usual.

Unable to speak, Philip nodded.

“For good?”

“No, of course not. Just until—until my debts are paid.”

“Cut you off with a shilling, eh?” Perce’s blue eyes might
well have been marbles, they were so glassy and emotionless.

“Yes,” Philip grated.

“Come off it,” Perce said sharply. “I know your father. Know
your stepmother, too. She’d kill him if he ever thought of such a thing—which
he wouldn’t.”

“Damn you!” Philip exclaimed, grinning. “Why the devil did
you make me say all that when you knew… I cannot tell you anything else,
though. I know your tongue will not wag, Perce, but it is not my secret.”

“That’s all right,” Perce agreed instantly. “Pretty sure I
know anyway. Nothing else could’ve hiked you out of the ‘slough of despond’ you
were in. Never mind that. What’re we going to tell m’parents is more to the
point. How long will you be staying here?”

“I do not know, perhaps a month—six weeks, even, if the
weather turns very bad. Perhaps only a few days. But there is something else. I
may have to return, possibly several times.”

Perce thought that over, looking more and more like an idiot
the faster his mind moved. “Then we have to use that story. M’father won’t
believe it—he sits in the Lords and knows your fa—but I can tip him the wink
and he’ll be mum. M’mother will swallow it whole, which is all right. You’ll
suffer for it, though. She’ll sigh all over you and ‘poor boy’ you to death.
Serves you right, m’lad. It’s all to the good, anyway. At least she won’t shove
m’sisters down your throat. Dreadful muffin-faced things they are.”

Since Philip knew that Perce was quite fond of his
sisters—he was forever buying trinkets and lace and ribbons and dispatching
these items to them—Philip did not take his description too seriously. He
appreciated the gentle warning in what his friend said, however. This was no
time for him to become interested in a woman or to permit one to become
interested in him. Obviously Perce had guessed immediately that he would be
engaged in some kind of venture in France. Philip could only hope it would not
be as obvious to anyone else.

He was delighted with the way things had worked out, since
Perce took charge of explaining his unannounced arrival and the possibly
erratic nature of his visit, thus freeing him from the necessity of maligning
his father. Perce also supplied horses, extra smallclothes, stockings, and
shirts. Unfortunately Philip could not cram his broad shoulders into the
willowy Perce’s coats, but that troubled neither of them since it was an
excellent excuse to avoid the round of visits to the neighboring gentry that
Lady Moreton might otherwise have enforced. One could not present one’s son’s
friend when he had only one tatty coat and a soiled greatcoat and no money to
buy another.

Instead, Perce took Philip all over the countryside, from
Land’s End to Saint Michael’s Mount both by road and over field and barren
upland ridges. Philip did not ride Spite, and he wore one of Perce’s hats,
which altered his appearance surprisingly. These peregrinations were remarkably
useful. Philip learned that The Mousehole was less than four miles away, if one
climbed a stony headland instead of going another five miles around by the
roads.

They did some hunting with a pack owed by Mr. Levallis of
Treewoof, but it had not much in common with the long, smooth runs of
Leicestershire, where, only hedges, ditches, and stone walls were obstacles.
The countryside was wild and rough, and the sport was more exciting from the
immediate danger of precipitous rises and unseen cliffs than from wild gallops
and soaring jumps. It was devilishly frustrating, in one way—there were so many
earths for the foxes that it was rare to get one to run more than half a mile.
On the other hand, there were a devilish lot of foxes, and when one was lost
another turned up almost immediately. As far as Philip was concerned, that was
perfectly satisfactory. He didn’t care if they never killed a fox. He was only
interested in the thrill of the chase.