The Cornish Heiress (33 page)

“I see,” Philip said, and now he understood why he had been
brought to speak to the Comte d’Artois.

“Yes, well.” Hawkesbury cleared his throat awkwardly and
Philip looked at him with surprise.

“Yes, my lord?”

“We need someone we can rely on to deliver our message and to—to
assist Cadoudal to return,” Hawkesbury went on, “Very frankly we are—there have
been several leaks, aside from the trouble you reported.”

“From your private offices my lord?” Philip asked sharply.

“No! No, indeed!” Hawkesbury replied, looking affronted. “There
has never been any problem—you are not accusing poor Jacques, are you?”

“I am not accusing anyone, my lord,” Philip assured him. “I was
only trying to pinpoint the place.”

“I promise you we are working on that, and particular care
will be taken—very particular care—if you are willing to accept this charge.”

“Me?” Philip gasped inelegantly, and then felt stupid.

Whatever the purpose for bringing him to d’Artois,
Hawkesbury would not have told him that long story unless he needed to know it.
Because he was still in the throes of pounding head and heaving stomach, Philip
had somehow just accepted resignedly that Hawkesbury was talking to hear his
own voice. Now he realized that, however much the Minister of Foreign Affairs
enjoyed his own conversation, he would scarcely have chosen for pleasure a
subject that showed his own organization in so poor a light.

“We were most pleased with your speed and ingenuity, and
even more with your ability to gather extraneous information, Philip. And then
there is the matter of a contact to bring Cadoudal back to England. It is so very
difficult to arrange for a British ship to call for him. We hope that you will
not need to engage in any particularly hazardous—”

“Oh, forgive me, my lord,” Philip interrupted, “I did not
mean to sound unwilling. I will be delighted to go. I was only surprised
because I thought someone with more authority would be necessary. I do not know
Monsieur Cadoudal. Will he believe me? I mean—“

“I am afraid you will have to carry letters that would be
rather incriminating if you were caught…”

Lord Hawkesbury’s voice drifted away and be had the grace to
look a little embarrassed after his somewhat less than candid remark about the
lack of hazard.

Philip laughed and was immediately sorry he had done so. He raised
a hand to his head and massaged a throbbing temple. “That does not matter, only
please do not tell my father. He worries, you know.”

“Wouldn’t he worry more if you simply disappeared?”
Hawkesbury asked.

This time Philip restrained himself to a smile; laughter was
too painful. I did not mean not to tell him I was going to France again. I will
have to do that, of course. I meant about the papers. And, my lord, now that we
speak of papers, I never returned the pass—”

“Keep it by all means. It may be useful and I am sure it
will not be misused,” Hawkesbury interrupted. “I am very glad you are willing
to do this, but I’m afraid it will mean getting to Paris in something of a
hurry.”

“It makes no difference—” Philip began.

“Well, I thought we could have you put ashore at a more
convenient spot.”

“Good God, no!” Philip exclaimed.

His violent rejection of Hawkesbury’s proposal was not owing
to any suspicion but because it would rob him of the opportunity of seeing Meg
before he left for France. He could scarcely say this to Hawkesbury, however,
and it was absolutely necessary to respond in some way to the surprised
question in the Foreign Minister’s face. In view of their past conversation, it
was not difficult.

“If you do not mind, my lord, I prefer to find my own way
into France. I know you said speed was important, but I deem it far more
important that I
get
there and that no one is waiting to pick me up when
I arrive. Then, in spite of his still-throbbing head, Philip’s mind really came
to grips with what he had been saying just as an excuse “However, I will need
new identity papers. I do not like to use the same ones twice.”

“Yes, of course, that is already arranged.”

Philip nodded with satisfaction. He had no intention at all
of using those papers, and they would serve very nicely to confuse his trail if
there was a leak from Hawkesbury’s office. Pierre would provide him with a new
identity, or he could go back to being a Customs official, this time one who
was stationed in the provinces and had come to Paris to visit relations.

“And one thing more, my lord. You were so good as to warn me
that there may be a—a source of information coming from the Foreign Office.
Since my life will hang on this, would you do me the favor of writing whatever
is to be carried to Cadoudal with your
own
hand and not permitting
anyone at all—none of the secretaries nor even your assistants to see it?”

“You are suspicious of Jacques!”

“I am suspicious of
myself
, of everyone and
everything, my lord. However, it would make my mind easier if nothing were
written that was not essential and that no one except you and I know where,
when, and how I am to meet Georges Cadoudal. In fact, I will not discuss that
either in your office or in your home. We can do it now, in the carriage, or
take a walk on a later day.”

“I assure you that Jacques has been thoroughly in
investigated,” Hawkesbury said angrily.

“I am sure he has been,” Philip agreed. “And very likely
your faith in him is completely justified. However, it is
my
life that
hangs in the balance.”

That was, of course, a telling truth. Hawkesbury frowned.
“But I don’t have the seals and forms that are necessary to preparing identity
papers. To tell the truth, I haven’t the faintest idea—“

“No, no. Those can go through the normal channels. France is
settled and peaceful now. There is not much chance I will be asked to show my
papers. I rode all along the north coast without being questioned once.”

That was natural enough, since most of the time Philip had
been in uniform, but he did not mention that. Plainly Lord Hawkesbury was much
annoyed by Philip’s lack of trust in his secretary, but he agreed at last that
no one should know the contents of the letter or to whom it was to be
delivered, or even that he had ever written such a letter. All the reports
could be made
after
Philip’s mission was completed. He pointed out,
after he agreed, that there were already a number of high-level officials who
knew a good deal about the plot.

“As long as they do not know the time and place of my
leaving or arriving or meeting with Cadoudal, I do not care,” Philip said
calmly.

He did not imagine any part of the plot was a secret from
the French. It seemed to Philip that there was more chance that Méhée de la
Touche had been sent to England with the tale he told than that the man was
self-deceived. However much Philip disliked d’Artois, he did not believe the
prince would not recognize utter stupidity in an informant, and to Philip’s
mind only utter stupidity could misread public opinion in France. None of that
would affect him, Philip decided. It was plain from what Lord Hawkesbury had
said that part of the plot (the French plot, not the English) rested on a
Bourbon coming to France. That meant that the conspirators would not be accused
or arrested until d’Artois or some other Bourbon close to the throne arrived—or
until it was certain none would ever arrive. Thus if no one knew the contents
of the message Philip carried or to whom he was bringing it, there should be
virtually no danger, particularly if d’Ursine—or whoever else was the double agent—had
mistaken information about the identity Philip would be using.

By evening, when he was explaining all of this to his father
and stepmother, Philip was nearly euphoric. “
Ce sera très amusant
,” he
said enthusiastically. “This time there cannot be anything to worry about. I am
not seeking information nor is it even necessary for me ever to meet Cadoudal,
as I understand. I will have a token, which will be meaningless to anyone
except him.” Philip uttered that final lie blithely. It was in a most excellent
cause.

“If it is necessary, it is necessary,” Leonie said with
apparent calm, but her golden eyes were dark.

“It’s better than the West Indies,” Roger agreed with a wry
smile. “You wouldn’t like some company, would you? My French is pretty good.”

“We will make a family party, then,” Leonie remarked
brightly. “Yes, why not?”

“No!” Roger and Philip roared in chorus.

“
Petit chou
,” Leonie said, eyeing Roger determinedly,
“without me, you do not go. You like French women too much. Two French wives.
Next you will bring home—”

“I don’t like French women!” Roger exclaimed.

“Then why did you marry me?” Leonie asked, pretending
affront.

“Because like
un âne
, I promised your father I would
take care of you.”

“Then you cannot leave me to languish alone in a foreign country…”

Philip smiled benignly at them and addressed himself to his
dinner. Having had no appetite for most of the day, he was now ravenous. There
had never been anything serious in his father’s offer to go, although Leonie
might very well have meant what she said. Roger was too deeply involved in the
government now to disappear on an unnecessary venture. He had spoken only out
of the feeling of frustration that chokes a man of action when he is tied to a
desk. The half-laughing squabbling between Roger and Leonie, the teasing
references to precious shared experiences—were an anodyne to fear. They had
lived through worse dangers than Philip would face, they were telling each
other. Surely he would be safe and escape as they had done.

As Megaera prepared her gown for the masked ball and planned
cutting things to say to her “faithless” lover, Philip at last freed himself
from London traffic and sprang his horses in the direction of Cornwall. He was
making no effort to conceal the fact that he was leaving this time. He intended
to outdistance rather than elude pursuers. Thus he drove his own light, racing
curricle with his groom sitting beside him, and he whipped his horses to the
best speed they could make. Under these conditions Philip could not expect to
get much mileage out of each team, but that did not trouble him. He was
prepared to change horses every time those he was driving began to flag. It was
a very expensive way to travel, but it was fast.

Waking early and driving until it was too dark to see,
Philip arrived in Moreton Place on the morning of the fourth day after he had
set out. This time Perce was expecting him, Philip having sent a letter express
as soon as he arrived home after speaking to Lord Hawkesbury. Perce raised one
fair eyebrow as Philip came up the steps to shake his hand.

“Not in any hurry, I see,” he remarked, looking at the
steaming, trembling horses. “Your groom looks like something you dug up and
reanimated. Have a pleasant trip, Pajou?”

The groom, who looked almost as exhausted as the horses,
shuddered. “M’sieu drive, like you say, to the inch,” he sighed loyally.

“Um, yes—to within an inch of your life, I think.”

Philip laughed. “I
was
in a hurry, rather. Pajou,
take the horses round to the stable. Tomorrow morning you can drive the
curricle back to Dymchurch House by easy stages. I won’t need you out here.
These roads are better for horses than for carriages. Spite is still here, is
he not?” he asked Perce.

The groom muttered something under his breath that made Philip
laugh again. “He doesn’t think much of your Cornish highways,” he said.

“I don’t know that I’d care much for them myself at the pace
you must have been going. Do you know your letter only came yesterday? Yes,
Spite’s still here. I’ve exercised him a bit, but his gait—ugh! I’ll tell you
something else. Don’t be surprised if Fa kisses you on both cheeks or kneels
down and salaams. I don’t know what you did, but it must have been
interesting.”

“It is no secret now—at least, not from you, but I did not
do anything. It was—er—someone else’s idea, and the rest was all luck. Look, I
will tell you the whole later, but I must go out now for a little while.”

“Go out?” Perce walked to the long window of the library, to
which he had led Philip, and looked out.

“There’s going to be a beauty of a storm. I’d say it was
going to snow. M’mother will have the vapors. We’ve got a masked ball tomorrow
night.”

“Masked ball?” Philip sounded horrified. He had hoped to be
with Meg the following night.

“Yes, and you’re on the dinner list. Unless it will cause a
genuine national emergency, you had better be here.”

“Yes, of course.”

The Moretons had been too kind for Philip to distress his
hostess by disrupting her dinner arrangements. It might be very difficult, in
the limited society available to her, to find another single man if Philip did
not appear. A moment later Philip smiled more genuinely. He could slip away
from the masked ball. All he need do was to tell Meg he would be at the cave
late—after midnight.

“Yes, I will surely attend,” he repeated, “but I
must
go out now. I must leave word for my friend.”

“Philip, don’t be daft!” Perce exclaimed. “If your friend
comes by ship, he isn’t going to come tonight. If you nearly killed yourself
and your horses to meet a boat, I assure you it was useless. No ship will make
harbor in any of the smaller coves for several days. I know Cornish waters.”

Philip smiled. He was not sorry to learn that Pierre could
not possibly show up for several days. He had been killing his horses to arrive
well before Tuesday so that he could have a few days with Meg, but he knew it
was possible that Pierre’s day had been changed. If, by accident, it coincided
with his arrival, he would have had no time with her at all.

“No, I did not expect to meet a ship tonight or tomorrow,
but I must leave word that when it comes it should wait for me. Also, there is
something else I may need to do that will necessitate going to Falmouth—not
before your mother’s party. I know it is dreadfully rag-mannered to use your
home as a way station, but—“

“Don’t think of it. I told you Fa’s delighted. You can have
anything you want here, anything at all. Mother thinks you’re a little odd, but
she blames your unhappy childhood. Tell me—no, go ahead and leave your message,
and if you’re drowned on the way, don’t blame me.”

Philip was not quite drowned, but he was soaked through by
the time he returned from the cave. He had been praying that Meg, by some twist
of fate, would be there, although he knew perfectly well that she almost never
was during the day. Fate was not kind, and Philip could only leave a note full of
joy and love and longing. Even as he wrote it near the edge of the cave for
light, the rain broke, falling in torrents. Philip cursed, but he knew Meg would
not deliver in such a downpour. That meant there would be no point in returning
that night. Since she couldn’t know he was back, she would have no reason to
come to the cave. The best he could do was tell her he would come, despite hell
or high water, the next night after midnight and each night thereafter by eight
o’clock.

Despite his regret at not being with Meg the time did not
drag. Each time Philip had told his story, he had to edit it carefully. He did not,
for example, think the incident with Désirée suitable for Leonie’s or Lord
Hawkesbury’s ears (although he would have told Roger if he could have gotten
him alone long enough), and he had modified other adventures so that his father
would not get the idea that he was reckless. With Perce he could tell the whole
thing just as it happened.

“It was all luck,” he ended. “Someone is cheering for our
side. I mean, what I did was right and should have worked, but all the extras—Bonaparte
at the dockyard and the rank riders or smugglers on the way home from that
bordello—that was just luck.”

“Not to mention Désirée herself—”

“No,” Philip said, wrinkling his nose with distaste. “I
meant about as much to her as a dildo. My only advantage over it was that I
moved by myself.”

“You didn’t used to be so fine,” Perce remarked. “Is there
so much difference between being a dildo and a pocketbook? If I had a choice, I
suppose I’d rather be ‘loved’ for my rod than my gold.” Then he began to laugh.
“It just goes to prove that the specialist has it all over the dilettante.”

“I do not specialize in—”

“Oh, but you did, Philip m’boy. You spent a hell of a lot of
time and money in Corinth’s or with convenients while I was wasting my time at
Almack’s. Lucky I didn’t get caught fooling around the marriage mart like that.
But you’d better be careful, Phil. You sound like a man ripe for settling down.”

There had been the slightest hesitation in Perce’s voice
over that phrase “Lucky I didn’t get caught.” Philip suddenly remembered that he
had thought at one time that Perce was really interested in Sabrina, but she
always seemed to treat him exactly as she treated Philip, and nothing had come
of it. In any case, that was nearly a year ago, and Sabrina was married now.

“Maybe,” Philip said, pushing Perce’s problem, which was completely
insoluble, if it were real, out of the way. His own was bad enough. “But I’ve
got a devilish problem. I met—”

The door opened and Philip broke off. He could not discuss Meg
in the presence of anyone else, particularly not Perce’s mother and sisters, who
joined them. No other opportunity presented itself, even after the ladies went
up to bed at night, because Lord Moreton made some delicate inquiries that led
to still another expurgated version of Philip’s adventures. The next day did not
provide any opportunity for private conversation either. Both Perce and Philip were
kept well employed by the female members of the household, running errands in
preparation for the ball.

The weather had improved—at least for land travelers. It was
no longer raining bucketsful. Instead the wind was howling with such ferocity
that the ornamental trees in the garden were bowed almost to the earth. This
did not distress Lady Moreton and her daughters, however, since it would not
prevent her guests from traveling. Inside their closed carriages, with fur rugs
and heated bricks to keep them warm, the gentry would not be dissuaded from
attending a ball by a little wind. If the coachmen, footmen, and horses had had
any say in the matter, the decision might have been different, but they did not
and the ladies of Moreton Place felt no dissatisfaction about the weather. They
hardly paused in their arrangements of the decorations and other details to
tell their brother/son and his guest not to be such complainers when they came
in nearly blown to pieces from fetching something from the village or some
other errand.

Philip could only hope the tempest would die down a little.
If it did not, Meg might not go to the cave and would not get his note and he
would not see her until the following day. This was drawing things a bit fine, since
he needed to buy a cargo—or at least some items of cargo—for Pierre that would
be suitable for public sale at a port from which the road to Paris was short.
This meant going to Falmouth, and Philip could hardly bear to think of going
alone, not to mention that he would need the support of a good English ‘“wife”.
Anti-invasion hysteria was no calmer in spite of the news Philip had brought, and
a man with a French accent trying to buy what might be thought supplies for the
army or navy might be misunderstood. It was much less likely that an
émigré
with an English wife would be suspect.

With regard to the weather Philip got his wish, although Perce
warned him that the eye of the storm was passing and it would start up again.
This did not trouble him, but he was beginning to worry about whether he would be
able to slip away before the ball was over. On this second visit Lady Moreton seemed
to have put aside her attempt to treat Philip as the adult acquaintance of her
adult son. He was again, as he had been when they were at school, Perce’s
little friend—never mind that he towered head and shoulders over the small, plump
matron—and was being treated very much as a convenient second son in the
household. He could see that Lady Moreton planned to use him as ruthlessly as
she used Perce to be sure that no wallflowers would exist at her ball.

This dismal prognostication became horribly true as the
dinner guests—those who had to travel twenty miles or more and would be
accommodated overnight at Moreton Place—began to arrive. Philip and Perce were
sternly ordered to make themselves pleasant to the blushing maidens who accompanied
their parents, and Philip was seated between two sweet and simpering misses
whom he labored (with, unfortunately, great success) to entertain. He knew he was
successful because of the approving looks he received from his hostess, although
he might not have guessed from the behavior of his dinner partners, who did little
besides blush and giggle, no matter what subject he introduced.

Philip had begun, to think that marriage to Meg—which would
exclude him from polite society altogether—might be a salvation rather than a
damnation. This idea took firmer hold after the party had gone up, changed into
their ball clothes, and assumed their masks, after which he was shooed into the
ballroom to keep the young ladies occupied until the guests invited only for the
ball, who were now arriving, should pass the receiving line and the dancing could
begin.

Rebelliously, Philip went instead to join a group of young
bucks, but he was wrenched away from a conversation about the speed with which he
had arrived in Cornwall (specially to attend this affair, he said) by the start
of the first dance. Here it was his pleasant duty to lead out the eldest of Perce’s
unmarried sisters. As she was neither muffin-faced nor simpering and was safely
engaged to one of the youngest captains in the navy, Philip had a breather and enjoyed
himself. In fact, to his surprise, he continued to enjoy himself. The donning
of masks seemed to release the inhibitions of the young ladies to a very great
extent. Philip thought it was silly. He recognized each girl he had met
previously, and he was reasonably sure they recognized him. Nonetheless, with
part of their faces covered they were willing to talk and laugh in a much more
natural fashion.

For the first hour of the ball Philip was too busy doing his
duty among the shy, awkward, or ill-dressed girls to look around at those who were
more popular and did not need his assistance. On his way back from fetching one
of his least attractive but nicest partners a glass of orgeat to quench the
thirst engendered by a particularly energetic country dance, Philip’s eyes were
drawn to a group of men all earnestly soliciting a lady’s attention. Curious,
Philip slowed down to catch a glimpse of the haughty beauty, thinking that the
advantage of squiring the less attractive ladies was that one’s attentions were
at least received with gratitude.

The lady must have made her decision at that moment, because
there were laughing cries of protest while the circle of men broke up to let
her pass. Philip’s heart stopped. Meg! Surely it was Meg! It was her hair, her sweet
mouth, her little round chin so delicate and so determined at the same time.

She passed without seeing him or without recognizing him in
his eighteenth century finery and mask. Whatever made her do it, he wondered? She
was mad to take such a chance! She would slip and give herself away, be shown
out with cold, haughty sneers, perhaps publicly embarrassed, scolded…
I will
kill them
, Philip thought, then realized he was being ridiculous. He was fond
of the Moretons, and Meg should not have done such a thing.