The Cornish Heiress (6 page)

“I understand,” Philip assured him.

Before he could say more, d’Ursine rose and brought the
documents to Lord Hawkesbury. He examined them and nodded. “This will cover
most eventualities. You have an identity as Baptiste Sevalis, a Parisian
merchant. It is the best that can be done if you will not be more specific
about— No? Very well, then.”

He drew a seal from a locked drawer; d’Ursine tipped wax
onto the paper and Lord Hawkesbury applied the seal to the passes. The identity
papers had been previously sealed with forged French seals. When all was dry,
he passed the sheets to Roger, who read them and passed them on to Philip. With
a nod of approval Philip did not bother looking at them. He would have plenty
of time to examine everything later. He folded the sheets carefully and stowed
them in a pocketbook, which he placed in an inner breast pocket.

A few more words were exchanged, but it was obvious that
Philip was not attending and was all but visibly quivering with impatience.
Hawkesbury smiled and asked if he was eager to be on his way.

Philip laughed and looked shocked. “Not today. If I am going
first to my friends to divert suspicion I must take clothing and my servants.
All this must be arranged if I wish to go early tomorrow. If you will give me
leave, my lord?”

“Of course.” Hawkesbury stood and came around the desk to
shake hands with him. “Good luck, my boy. You have those passes, your identity
papers, and that list of our men in that area of France. But be wary. Not all
of our agents are to be trusted completely.”

“I will not go near any of them unless I am at my last gasp,
my lord—and I cannot think why I should be.”

Roger stood up also, but Hawkesbury had reminded himself of
something else. The funding for the venture had not gone through the
complicated channels yet, but the draft could be forwarded to Philip anywhere
if he wished to leave an address. Roger said hastily that he would advance the
funds to be repaid when Philip returned and that Hawkesbury should hold the
draft. Ungratefully, Philip was almost audibly grinding his teeth with
impatience, and Hawkesbury’s secretary obviously felt the same way. Regardless
of the fact that his employer was still speaking, d’Ursine bowed silently and
left the room by a side door. Roger and Philip were not so fortunate. Before
Hawkesbury had finished his thanks, regrets, warnings, and promises, d’Ursine
had had time to write and dispatch two brief notes.

One of these reached François Charon, an
émigré
who
dealt in foreign books and manuscripts. When he had perused the note, he
circumspectly burnt it and rewrote the pertinent information—that a “Parisian
merchant” named Baptiste Sevalis was in reality an English spy—on a thin spill
that eventually came into the hands of Joseph Fouché. The other was delivered
to the house of a young gentleman, also an
émigré
, whose valet hesitated
for some time before deciding to wake him. Jean de Tréport was not the easiest
master to work for.

Outside of Lord Hawkesbury’s house at last, Philip flicked
his whip and the boy who had been holding his horses’ heads sprang away. The
animals surged forward, just a little too fast, as if sensing their master’s
eagerness.

“Are you going first to Leicestershire?” Roger asked.

“No, of course not. I intend to do exactly what we planned.
But listening to Hawkesbury gave me the pip. That man has flatulence of the
mouth. Moreover, that secretary of his sounds a little mad. He is just the type
to run all over town telling people how we are going to discover all
Bonaparte’s secrets.”

Roger laughed. “I suppose d’Ursine
is
a bit
unbalanced, but he is not a fool for all that. And as for Hawkesbury’s talking,
it’s necessary in the Foreign Office. Look at the mess Cornwallis made of the
peace because Talleyrand talked circles around him.”

“You are not thinking that Hawkesbury would have done
better, are you?” Philip asked, turning his eyes from the street and in his
astonishment nearly running down an innocent, crossing sweeper.

“Watch where you’re going!” Roger exclaimed, but he had to
laugh at Philip’s protest.

“Unfortunately not. I don’t think there’s anyone in our
government that can match Talleyrand for sly cleverness. But Hawkesbury might
have exhausted him—or put him to sleep—so that a few reasonable provisions
could be slipped in.”

Philip shrugged. “All right for diplomatic conferences, but
he still talks too much for my taste. I can just see him mentioning to a small,
select group the latest effort to discover Bonaparte’s intentions about
invasion. Then one of them will mention it to a friend, a wife, a secretary.
Pretty soon we might just as well have published what we are going to do in the
Court Calendar.”

That was just what Roger feared. He bit his lip. “If you’ve
changed your mind, Philip—” he began eagerly.

“God, no!” Philip exclaimed, grinning. “I have not enjoyed
myself so much since Perce and I took that boat out and nearly drowned. I would
just like to escape the consequences this time.”

The light remark sent a chill down Roger’s spine. He had
caned both boys for their disobedience and ill-judged daring, but the
consequences this time might be more permanent than a few welts. Then he said,
“That Perce! Oh, Lord!” because he suddenly connected the boy with the friend
of Philip’s who had hung around Sabrina for a while. He hadn’t given him much
thought because he had realized that no one had much chance once Lord Elvan
entered the field, but if he had then remembered the tall, fair stripling with
a cultivated expression of vacuity and a devil of mischief in his pale eyes, he
might have…

No, it was Sabrina’s right to marry whom she chose. Roger
prayed he was wrong about Elvan for Sabrina’s sake. She was so precious to
Leonie, the last of her father’s family, the only one saved from the shipwreck
that had drowned her Uncle Joseph, his wife, and his son. It had been thought
that the two little daughters were also lost, but a strong Irish maid had been
holding the little girls when Lady Alice and her son had been swept off the
lifeboat trying to save Joseph. The small boat had been driven north by wind
and current and had come to ground at last on a tiny island west of Scotland.

The people were poor and rather primitive, they had done
what they could for the survivors, but Sabrina’s elder sister and the maid had
died and Sabrina herself had been sick for a long time. None of the other
survivors had known her, and she knew her name, Sabrina Evelina Alice de
Conyers—but that was all. To the ignorant people of the island the name was no
clue to where or how to inform Sabrina’s relatives, if she had any. They knew
she was “a lady”, but that was all. No, Roger thought, life had to come right
for Sabrina. It was a miracle she was alive; it was by a second miracle she had
been found; surely a third miracle would make her happy.

The ride was not long, and Roger brought his attention back
to Philip, offering a few practical suggestions about the kind of behavior that
would attract the least attention on the road. Once home, Philip ran upstairs
to his father’s dressing room to change into the riding clothes that been laid
ready earlier. He exchanged his white nankeen pantaloons for rather stained
buckskins, his Hessian boots for a pair with tan, turned-down tops and spurs.
Philip did not ordinarily use spurs, his horses being lively enough without
encouragement, but extra effort might be required from a tired animal on this
journey. In any case, he wanted to look more like a country squire’s son and
less like a dandy.

His linen was rather too fine for his purpose, but he could
buy a shirt or two, or Pierre could supply him with more appropriate wear when
they met. He put on the plainest shirt he had, tied a wipe around his neck in
place of an elaborate neckcloth, added a buckskin waistcoat and a long-tailed
black coat over all. The worst problem was his greatcoat. It was a delicate,
fawn color with too many shoulder capes. Fortunately the weather was mild and
he would not, he hoped, have to wear it on the road. He looked around the room,
but the roll of extra shirts and underlinen, a pair of knee breeches, striped
stockings, and slippers for evening wear was gone. Leonie must have had it all
attached to his saddle.

The last thing he did was to straighten the tops of his
boots and feel around the inner edge until he found where Leonie had opened the
stitching that held the inner leather lining to the outer shell. He slipped one
of the documents d’Ursine had prepared into one boot, the list, of British
agents in northern France into the other, noticing that Leonie had redone the
stitching so that there was no visible sign that the boots had ever been
opened. The identity papers he left in his wallet. They might cause some
confusion if they were seen by local authorities in England, but Philip wasn’t
worried about that. A touch with the glue pot and a moment or two to make sure
that the openings of his boots were sealed, and the hiding place of the
sensitive papers was secure.

The door opened just as Philip looked around the room one
last time. Roger came in and silently handed over a two-shot, tap-action muff
pistol, small enough not to make a suspicious bulge in a pocket. It was, of
course, rather inaccurate and useful only at close quarters—five or six feet—or
as a threat. The long-barreled Lorenzoni quick-loading pistols in their fine
case were something else again. They were old but immaculately kept, as
accurate as fine Manton dueling pistols, and had the advantage that a dozen balls
and powder charges were carried inside each gun itself so that paper cartridges
or a powder flask and balls were not necessary. Last, Roger handed Philip an
arm sheath carrying an eight-inch-long, razor-honed dagger that could be
strapped to a forearm or slid down a boot.

“I must say,” Philip remarked, “that there are advantages to
being the son of a gunsmith.” That was a reference to his father’s adventure in
revolutionary France, but did not produce the usual laugh, and Philip raised
his brows. “Do you expect me to need to hold off an army?”

“Hopefully not, but it never hurts to be prepared,” Roger
said, keeping his voice steady with an effort. “There is another pair of
pistols, good Parkers in the saddle holsters, cartridges in the flaps, more
cartridges in the saddlebags. Keep the Lorenzonis hidden. They’re a good
surprise to anyone who thinks you don’t have time to load. You remember how to
use them, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Philip replied, stowing away the muff gun and
sliding the knife down his boot. “They were the greatest joy of my misbegotten
youth. I thought I would
never
get old enough to be allowed to use
them.” He paused, then said awkwardly, “I wish you would not worry. I guess I
have been behaving like a dreadful ass recently, but my brain is not yet
pickled. I know this is important. I swear I will not act the fool and—and I
will pay strict attention to what Pierre tells me.”

Roger didn’t answer that because he couldn’t command his
voice. He merely clapped Philip on the shoulder and they went down the corridor
toward the back stairs. At the foot Leonie waited. She was dry-eyed and
smiling, but her brunet skin was sallow with pallor. She embraced her stepson
and kissed him on both cheeks, saying, “
Reviens bientôt, chéri
. We will
be waiting.”

To Philip’s relief neither followed him out the door. He
understood that his father and stepmother were worried, but he was not. Thus he
found their emotion irritating even while he was warmed by the knowledge of
their love. In the alley beyond the servants’ entrance was a rawboned bay
called Spite. The name was a family joke. Spite had the sweetest disposition
ever bestowed on a horse, but he had an odd habit that made him look vicious—of
laying back his ears and showing his teeth. Philip never thought about that
habit, he was so used to it, and in other ways the gelding was ideal. He had
speed, stamina, took fences standing or flying, and would burst his heart going
if it were asked of him. Last and best, he was not a handsome animal, and his
description would fit about two thirds of the common hacks in the country.
Philip stowed what he was carrying in the saddlebags, noting that there was
just room for the pistol case. When he went up into the saddle, it was with a
curious sense of release, as if the motion were a dividing line in his life.
Technically he had been a man for years, living his own life in his own rooms—in
London or at Dymchurch House. His income was assured and his own to manage as
he saw fit. Nonetheless, he had not felt like a man. Although his father did not
intrude in his life, he was there—a firm bulwark ready to offer support or
advice in any crisis.

That was over. Philip blushed briefly as he wheeled Spite
out onto the street and headed toward Hyde Park. What a fool he had been for
the past half year. But it was partly his father’s fault. Philip had known he
could go his length, and come out scatheless. Mentally he shrugged. It was not
worth thinking about now. He was really on his own. Pierre would help all he
could, but Philip realized that once in France, Pierre probably could not do
much. He was too obviously what he was—a Breton fisherman, and not young. Not a
likely person to be wandering around military installations.

First things first. He had to get to Pierre. How real was
the threat that someone would be warned that he was on his way? A possibility,
but not a strong one, Philip thought. In any case, not a thing he needed to
worry about while he was in London or the nearby towns. There was so much
traffic on the roads near London that it would be impossible to determine
whether anyone was following him or was just an innocent traveler going in the
same direction. On a lonely stretch of road it might be worthwhile to look
around, but not here. He rode contentedly, regardless of Spite’s one real
drawback, a bone-jarring gait that made long hours in the saddle painful and
exhausting for the best of equestrians.