The English Heiress (4 page)

Louis had been clever, but he underestimated Leonie. She knew what love was—the giving without thought of recompense. She knew what honor was also. She knew a man worthy of love did not ask nor expect payment for dangers voluntarily undertaken out of sympathy or justice, more especially when those favors were bestowed on someone utterly helpless, utterly within one’s power. Nonetheless, she agreed without much argument to what Louis wanted, fearing if she did not that her parents and young brother would suffer for her resistance. Leonie knew she had neither maidenhead nor reputation to protect, and she had no feeling of “wrong” attached to sexual promiscuity. Her cooperation was a matter of survival.

Later, Leonie came to realize that she had benefited from Louis’ selfish desire for a cost-free and delicate bedmate. Simply to be out of the fetid atmosphere of her family’s cell had helped her resist the soul-killing despair that destroyed her mother and brother. In addition, coupling with Louis had removed from the act itself the taint of torture it had held after she had been raped. Louis was not a good lover. He was far too indifferent to his partner’s needs. However, he liked comfort. He had no intention of forcing or frightening his bedmate so that she would be stiff and inflexible or would struggle against him. Thus, he was gentle if not considerate. He did not bother to try to wake Leonie’s desire, and he never brought her to climax. Yet he made intercourse simple and acceptable, a thing not to be feared or avoided.

Leonie could not help smiling. Louis had explained how and what to do to arouse a man. Leonie enjoyed that part so much that she invented new devices that produced quite dramatic results. The pleasure she derived came from reducing so self-possessed and calculating a creature as Louis to a sighing, moaning mass of quivering flesh. More importantly, instructed by Louis’ total selfishness as well as by his lust, Leonie had learned that her body could be a valuable trading device and weapon.

Not that she tried to trade with Louis for anything beyond what she knew he was willing to give anyway. Not even lust could divert Louis from his own purposes. However, Leonie knew that most other men were different. Louis had taught her that too, laughing about the weaknesses of others, at the gifts his companions gave their women, at the things they did for them. Leonie listened with downcast eyes, a model of dullness and docility, smiling inside herself at the weakness Louis displayed. Because he needed to boast of his own powers, of his own growing influence and importance, he had told her a very great deal.

Jean-Paul’s grip on Saulieu was no longer as strong as it had been when he first seized power. There was serious unrest in the town that was being repressed with fiercer and fiercer measures. So far no one had been executed, but it was only a matter of time. Louis had grinned when he told Leonie that the previous night, and that grin had given her serious food for thought. Although he still retained only his position of night watch in the Hôtel de Ville, Louis was now one of Jean-Paul’s confidants. Leonie suspected Louis was only waiting for Jean-Paul to go a little too far, shake the faith of those who still followed him just a little more, and then topple him and seize power in his stead.

No consideration of past service or friendship would save anyone Louis decided to sacrifice to gain that power, and that was what made Leonie gaze at the door of her prison with such fixed attention. She was convinced that Louis’ grin, when he mentioned execution, signified that the sacrifice he planned to use to overthrow Jean-Paul was the execution of herself and her father. After the shock of Jean-Paul’s take-over had subsided and dissatisfaction had begun to grow, Marot had used Papa to pacify the people, bring him from his prison, cleaning him and dressing him well, and forcing him to say that he was in comfortable quarters, well cared for. There was no danger that Papa would not do as he was told, not while she and Mama and François were in Jean-Paul’s power.

However, Jean-Paul had not been able to use Papa that way for more than a month. The signs of grief and deprivation were too strong. No amount of cleaning and elaborate clothing could hide the effects now. Thus, Leonie thought, it might be easy for Louis to convince Jean-Paul that Papa and she had outlived their usefulness, except for being an object lesson. Some accusation could be trumped up, they could be executed, and Louis could use the anger and resentment caused by their executions to overthrow Jean- Paul.

It was a large assumption to build on the small ground of a grin and sly expression, but it was too dangerous an idea to neglect. Yet it was dangerous to act, too. Leonie had begun to hope that enough unrest would develop to topple Jean-Paul. His fall would almost certainly lead to freedom for herself and her father. No one else had cause to hate them personally, and even if the new leaders were “of the people” and did not want Henry de Conyers, the aristocrat, near Saulieu, Papa could promise to leave for England.

Unfortunately, it seemed too late for that now. At least, Leonie was not willing to take the chance of waiting any longer. It might be difficult to rouse Papa to the need to escape, but she had an idea that might work. If it did work… Leonie’s eyes danced. She would use the weapon she had so long and so laboriously fashioned—Louis’ belief that she was dull and docile, loving, inventive only of sexual variations to please and delight the man she adored. Slowly, patiently, she had drawn and filled in that picture of herself until Louis was convinced—convinced enough to permit himself to sleep in her presence after making “love”.

First it had been a bare closing of the eyes. Later had come a time of testing, when Louis lay limp and snoring. Leonie had not known he was testing her. She had made no move to harm him or to escape because her brother was dying and her mother already sick. Nothing could have convinced her to leave—even if Louis had offered to help her escape, she would have refused because it would have meant leaving those she loved behind. She had in fact, innocently convinced him that she had no intention of harming him or escaping by acts of dishonesty. While Louis was “sleeping”, Leonie had stolen a few little things she did not think he would miss—a few crusts of bread, a leftover piece of cheese, a candle stump, a flint and tinder to light the candle. Thus, Louis felt he understood her completely, and he relaxed his guard in her presence. Then he slept naturally, silently curled into a fetal ball. Leonie recognized her mistake and her victory at the same time.

She had been careful to preserve that victory, continuing her “stealing” by taking items that, she now realized, were left out for her to take. She would not have bothered after her mother’s and brother’s deaths except that it gave her a reason to be moving around Louis’ room. She encouraged Louis’ belief in her “love” for him in every way she could, with sweet words and anxious care. Once or twice for instance, after a particularly satisfactory climax, Louis had overslept. Dutifully, Leonie had woken him at the time he usually returned her to her cell, saying she was afraid she would get him in trouble. Oh yes, time and time again Leonie had proved herself careful of Louis’ welfare. He still did not leave weapons where she could get them, and he still secured the keys to the cellar around his neck, where Leonie could not steal them without waking him, but within the bounds of reasonable caution he trusted her.

Leonie grinned as nastily as Louis ever could She had long since worked out a way to get the keys and immobilize him… Then the nastiness went out of the grin. Her device would do no harm, and she was certain he would be able to work his way free and escape himself—or work out some good story that would protect him from punishment. However, whatever Louis’ fate, time was running out, Leonie was sure. The very next time Louis wanted her for the night, she had better make her move. That meant she would have to make Papa aware of their danger.

Chapter Three

The lift of spirits that had seized Roger St. Eyre when he left his father’s house to embark on the rescue of Henry de Conyers persisted, although the drive to London was hot and the news Compton had for him was all bad. As the man of business had written Sir Joseph, Henry’s last letter had arrived in April, addressed to his brother William. Since William was dead and Joseph had told Compton to open all correspondence, Compton had read the letter. He produced it now for Roger, who groaned as he read.

The headlong enthusiasm of the man about the reforms to be made in France and the benefits to be reaped by all was at once appealing and appalling. Roger wondered briefly whether Henry simply did not want to be torn from his wonderful political experiment and had therefore ignored Compton’s report of first one brother’s death and then the other’s. A moment later, Roger shook his head at himself. There was not only enthusiasm in Henry’s description of the work finally produced by the National Assembly but also a strong streak of practicality in the analysis of the effects of the various constitutional provisions. There was also warmth. After a second reading, Roger had no doubt that Henry de Conyers was a man of strong affections and a strong sense of responsibility. Whatever his enthusiasms, he would not have ignored notice of his brothers’ deaths. Nor would he have sloughed off his responsibility for the estate, no matter how enthralled he was by social and political developments in his adopted land.

As he reread the personal news at the end of the letter, Roger became aware of a sharp prick of anxiety mingled with excitement. “Through this difficult time,” Henry had written, “Marie has been as steadfast as any ancient heroine, supporting me with her love and understanding. I cannot tell you how often my spirit faltered when irresponsible orators like Desmoulins whipped the ignorant into a frenzied mob crying for blood, and when that blood was spilled, horribly. Many times I bade her take the children to you in England, but she perceived how very unwilling I was to part with her and them. Leonie and François also set up a terrible protest and begged me not to force them to leave their country in her hour of trial.

“Now that all is over,” the letter continued, “I am glad I did not permit my fears for their safety to overpower me. They would never have forgiven me, I think, if I had deprived them of this experience, of seeing the creation of a great new nation, dedicated to the right of all men to be free and equal. In any case, we are all perfectly safe now. My work is done and I have been freed to return to a quiet private life. There is no chance that I will be called upon to meddle with the government of France again. I was agreed that we of the National Assembly could not succeed ourselves. No deputy to the National Assembly is eligible to be elected to the Legislative Assembly that will soon convene.”

It was obvious to Roger that Henry had guessed wrong. They had not been safe. Had things gone as de Conyers expected, he surely would have responded in some way to Compton’s news. The lack of response could only mean that he—that the whole family—was dead, driven into hiding or perhaps imprisoned. Whatever had happened had obviously happened to the whole family. If Henry had been accused of some political crime and imprisoned or even executed, his wife Marie would have responded to Compton’s letters. Thus, the strongest possibility seemed to be that the family had been threatened or attacked and driven from their home. In that case, de Conyers would never have received Compton’s letters.

Roger laid down the letter he had been reading and chewed gently on his lip as he reflected. It was odd that if Henry had been driven off his estate, he had not made his way to England. Perhaps he had not had sufficient money. He could have been afraid to stay in one place long enough to receive an answer to an appeal for help from England. Even so, would Henry not have written and requested funds to be sent to a place where he could pick them up? France was still in turmoil, but most of the banking houses were still functioning. In fact, Roger realized, Henry would not have needed a bank nor have needed to wait for help. An appeal to Lord Gower, the English ambassador, would have solved all his problems.

Excitement quickened Roger’s breathing. The letter he had read had not been written by a fool or a coward. If Henry had not answered Compton or appealed for help from his family or the English embassy, it was because he could not. For some reason Roger did not bother to investigate, he would not believe that Henry and his entire family had been executed. He was, quite unreasonably, sure that they were under house arrest or restrained in some other way from communicating with their friends. An unholy light came into Roger’s bright blue eyes.

Compton cleared his throat uncomfortably. Long years as a man of business for aristocratic families had given him a quick recognition of a “gentleman” about to indulge his fancy. What threw him off balance was the unexpectedness of seeing such an expression on the face of Roger St. Eyre.

“Mr. St. Eyre,” Compton protested faintly.

Roger raised one peaked brow. Compton cleared his throat again. He had seen that expression reduce witnesses, juries and sometimes even judges to stammering incoherence. It bespoke more than seven hundred years of uncontested “getting their own way” for the St. Eyres—a habit this particular scion of the stock was not about to change. Compton had no quarrel with Roger’s ability to quell witnesses, jurors and judges. It was one of the reasons he, as a solicitor, had briefed Roger to try difficult cases before recalcitrant justices. In fact Compton knew Roger only as a staid, sober and remarkably clever barrister—which was why he had been so shocked at the devilish mischief that had shone in his eyes a few moments earlier.

“My father has empowered me to look into the matter of the present whereabouts of the Earl of Stour,” he said. “Do you have some objection to that, Mr. Compton?”

The voice was all it should be, rich, smooth, with just the faintest hint of surprised arrogance. The face was grave enough to convince anyone of the sobriety and reasonableness of Roger’s character. Only the glint in the eye betrayed the inner emotions—a mixture of laughter and excitement. Compton looked into those brilliant eyes and shook his head. He had not risen to his present affluence and influence by being faint of heart.

“None, sir,” he replied with asperity, “unless it results In finding that you, as well as his lordship, have disappeared.”

A remarkably astute individual, Roger thought, stiffening just a trifle. Then the humor of the situation struck him, and he smiled. “You have a choice of me or my father,” he said wryly.

Compton goggled. “Your father? Surely Sir Joseph would not consider… Good God! But how could he even think… The fatigues of such a journey at such a time…the…”

“Yes, you perceive the difficulties, but, unfortunately, Sir Joseph does not.” The light in Roger’s eyes grew brighter, and Compton had a horrible notion that Sir Joseph’s would look just the same. “He says,” Roger continued, “that, having lived so long, it is unlikely a little exertion will kill him and that he does not wish to see Stour’s land fall into decay while the inheritance is in the courts.”

“Neither do I,” Compton snapped, “but I do not see that it will help to have me—or you, or Sir Joseph—swallowed up in France too. The area must be in considerable disorder. I wrote to the Honorable Henry’s, I mean the present earl’s, solicitors in Saulieu, and received no reply from them either.”

Roger nodded. “I suspected as much. I didn’t suppose you would overlook so obvious a move. That is why I don’t propose to attempt to find him through my usual French correspondents. Since I have nothing immediately in hand and the long vacation is just about upon us, I feel this is a peculiarly propitious time to investigate the matter personally.” Roger saw the objections forming on Compton’s lips and rose to his feet. “There is really no sense in arguing about the matter. Either I go or we remain in ignorance—and my father will not accept the latter course.”

“We could send someone else,” Compton said dryly. “There are—”

“No,” Roger interrupted firmly. “A junior clerk in your office perhaps? Don’t talk nonsense. Such a person would know neither enough French nor enough about France and would not be the slightest use. And please have the goodness to call off any inquiry agents you have hired, if you have hired any. It would be asking for trouble to have anyone openly looking for Stour under what I fear are the present circumstances.”

“Fortunately I haven’t gone so far,” Compton said, tacitly agreeing that if Roger were to go, the less interest shown in Henry’s whereabouts the better. “I intended to suggest that method of approach to your father and obtain his approval for hiring such agents. I still believe—”

“No,” Roger interrupted again. “Such men are either stupid or unfit for an inquiry in a foreign country. If Stour and his family are still alive and in the area, I fear that they are under restraint and circumspection will be necessary to free them.”

“I fear so too,” Compton said a little grimly. Then he sighed. “Mr. St. Eyre, I think what you are doing is very unwise from your own point of view, very dangerous, but there is nothing I can do to stop you. From my point of view, if I can’t dissuade you from taking such a risk, I can only be most grateful.”

On that pleasant note they parted. Roger could have repaired to his club for a leisurely and elegant luncheon and a chat with his friends, but he was seized with a restless energy that drove him to quite uncharacteristic activity. The rest of the day was remarkably busy. Roger settled all the unfinished business that he could and committed the remainder to the hands of a competent associate. At least, he hoped he had settled his business, because his mind was half on Henry de Conyers. By the time he was ready to inform the clerk of his chambers that he would be away for a while, something the young man had already guessed without difficulty, Roger had a full plan of action outlined.

His next move was to visit his banker, where his request produced knowing glances and a slight puzzlement. Had the high-level gentleman Roger dealt with any idea that the sum Roger drew was for himself, he might have had to endure some protests. Roger was a valued client, nearly a friend, and an attempt like Compton’s might have been made to save him from himself. However, Roger’s banker was well accustomed to obtaining funds in foreign currencies for him rapidly. The banker was a little puzzled only because he had heard of no current scandal and no one who needed to leave the country in quiet haste. The only hesitation was caused by Roger’s demand for gold and silver. It would take time to gather the coin, Roger was told but he might have it late that afternoon or in the early evening.

From the bank Roger hailed a hackney and told his groom to take his own curricle and horse back to the stable. He had driven himself, expecting to need to transport the chests of money, but he did not want to fret his excellent team by the start-and-stop pattern his next move would entail. Roger realized that for a stranger to come into a relatively small town in France and stay there would require some explanation. In ordinary times it would have been enough to say he was an English tourist—but these were not ordinary times. An itinerant tradesman would be the least remarkable figure. Since Roger knew nothing about any trade at all, he had at first dismissed this notion. Then it returned to him. He knew guns! Not only was he an excellent shot but he had always been fascinated by the mechanisms themselves. He could be an itinerant gunsmith! All he needed was stock.

The rest of the afternoon was spent on a round of the major gunsmiths’ shops, where Roger’s purchases did raise protests. Some protested he was stripping them clean of parts, which were hard to obtain. Others wanted to know, laughing, whether he intended to set up a shop in competition. Finally however, Roger accumulated what he felt would be an adequate stock in trade—as many old and foreign weapons as he could obtain together with a few newer but worn pieces.

Finally, having returned to his chambers, Roger wrote his father a full account of what he intended to do. It erred a trifle on the side of lightly dismissing all the problems involved and presenting the expedition in the vein of a long-needed holiday The odd thing was that Roger was not intentionally deceiving Sir Joseph. No matter how he tried to curb himself with a mental recital of the difficulties and dangers he would be facing, Roger felt as if he were going on holiday. His letter was a very accurate rendition of his own feelings.

The sensation of having cast off a heavy load, of being free and light, was so strong as to be irresistible. Although it was already very late in the day when two small but heavy strongboxes were delivered from the banker to Roger’s chambers, he did not lock them in his safe and go to his club as he had fully intended. He was aware that he would be unable to make ordinary conversation. Either he would be too silent, inducing his friends to exhaust their inventiveness—which was considerable—in efforts to entertain him and make him forget his bereavement, or he would talk about his plans, which would be even worse. Half his cronies would insist on accompanying him and the other half would try to argue him out of going.

The solution that accorded best with Roger’s mood was an instant escape. He had his curricle brought around and the strongboxes loaded. If he grew tired, he could stop at a posting house on the way. If not, he could drive through the night. It was cool and clear and the moon would be almost full.

The impulse was most fortunate. When Roger arrived at his own estate, Dymchurch House, he found that Pierre had actually been in the alehouse at Kingsdown when the groom had brought the message and had sailed his chasse-marée around the next day. He had discharged his cargo earlier and was anchored openly in a nearby harbor, his men ostentatiously making minor repairs. It had been an odd chance, Pierre told Roger at dawn the next day, but he had thought it worthwhile to stop because he did not expect to be back in England for several weeks. Cargoes were getting harder and harder to come by, he complained bitterly. The whole country seemed to be going mad.