Free The Cornish Heiress by Roberta Gellis

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, “