Bar Sinister (27 page)

My dear Tom,

I have just come from my brother-in-law Wilson, who tells me Lord
Clanross is dead and you have succeeded. It sickens me that you should be dealt
such a blow. Fate governs with a malign sense of humour, and nowhere more
clearly than in this instance. I am sorry, Tom. If I can be of any use to you at all,
pray command me.

Your servant, as always,
R.F.

P.S. This is probably my last right-handed scrawl. In future I shall be
thoroughly and finally sinister.
Richard.

Tom Conway, tenth earl of Clanross, Viscount Brecon, Baron Breccan of Breccan, set the
letter on his cluttered desk and walked slowly over to the narrow window of his makeshift study.
The window overlooked the single pinched street of the Lancashire village in which he had now
lived for more than a year. It was evening and the cottage windows flickered with friendly light.
The village was not a beautiful place, but Tom had begun to feel at home in it.

He had deciphered Richard's scrawl with difficulty. Now, staring into the dusk, Tom
thought of the other letters he had received in the days since he had learned of his elevation to his
cousin's lands and dignities.

Some of his friends had expressed conventional condolences. He didn't resent that,
though it was mildly comic. Tom had disliked what he knew of Lord Clanross, had loathed being
patronised by his wealthy kinsman, and had never met any of the Conway family. He felt no
personal sense of loss at all.

Other friends had been gleeful--what a honeyfall! That was more realistic and as such
more painful. Tom admitted to himself that in other circumstances he would have felt some
pleasure in falling heir to one of the great estates. An unlimited income was any penniless
subaltern's dream. But he was no longer a penniless subaltern, and he did not at all like the notion
of being translated to the House of Lords.

As Tom watched, a black cat, tail erect, stalked into and out of the light from his
window.
Seven years' bad luck, or is that mirrors?
He did not have seven years. That was
what turned everything to ashes. Worse, he knew his engrained sense of duty would compel him to
deal carefully with the legal difficulties attendant upon so unexpected an inheritance, and his
conscience would compel him to see to the well-being of Lord Clanross's family and dependents.
All that would take time, and he did not have time.

Two months before, he had suffered another surgery. The attacks were now more
frequent, the pain barely manageable. What Tom chiefly felt was a vast dull resentment that he
could not, in the brief time left to him, continue the absorbing work he had found. If his absorption
was dogged, at least it was genuine, something more than mere distraction. Something productive.
Richard had been right in that, as his letter was also right, a feat of pure imagination.

"'Ere, Major--beg pardon, I'm sure. 'Ere, me lord. Wot about the lamp?" Sims brisked
in, huge and blessedly unimaginative.

"Yes, light it." Tom smiled at his man. "I've had a letter from Richard Falk."

Sims was unimpressed. "Scribbling away again, is 'e? Good luck to 'im." He trimmed the
wick and lit the lamp with a spill from the fire.

"He's not doing very well, if his handwriting's a symptom. It's barely legible."

Sims snorted. "'E should 'ire a sectary. Plump in the pocket now, ain't 'e. Colonel and all.
Chevalier
of France. Pah." The back of Sims's neck expressed his disdain of French
orders.

"He's been pensioned."

"Chelsea ticket?"

"Yes."

"Humph. Was you 'ungry, me lord?"

"Confound you, no."

Sims looked injured. "I 'ave to get used to the ruddy title, 'aven't I then? Me lord."

"Don't be difficult. We're going to London."

Sims turned from the fire which he had been poking. "It's too bloody soon, Major. That
last attack..."

Tom said wryly, "Or too bloody late. No time is a good time."

Sims scowled but forbore to protest further. When he left the room Tom returned to the
desk and took up his friend's letter once more. "Sinister." Tom smiled,
idiot.
He took out
a sheet of paper and began to write.

Less than a week later he was lying more or less in state in his new
pied-à-terre,
a set of fusty rooms in St. James's Place that had once belonged to the late earl's deceased
brother. It had only taken two days to reach London and two more to reach the high pitch of
recuperation he now enjoyed. He regarded the ornamented ceiling and listened to Lord Bevis's
account of their friends with the occupation forces in France and decided he wasn't dished yet. "I
beg your pardon, Bevis."

"Expecting callers?" Bevis's head cocked.

Tom listened to the noise in the hallway. "Richard Falk, I think. I writ him I was coming
to Town." He turned his head to look at Bevis, who was grimacing.

"Falk? I'm leaving."

Tom contented himself with a small grin. Richard had torn strips from Bevis's hide in
their last encounter, or so Bevis insisted.

Richard's voice could now be heard. Bevis rose. "Shall I pop in tonight on my way to
White's?"

"If you like."

Sims stuck his head in at the door. "Colonel Falk to see you, me lord."

"Tell him to come in, and don't lordship me to death." Tom craned his head
gingerly.

When he entered, Richard noticed Bevis's presence first.
Richard always looks as
someone might jump him from behind,
Tom reflected, holding out his hand. "I'm under orders to
be still, so I won't rise. It's good of you to come, Richard. I hope you didn't make a special
journey."

"No. Had to see my publisher." Richard shook hands awkwardly, left-handed. His right
reposed in a black silk sling. Tom had not seen his friend since Rye, two years before, and he
looked Richard over narrowly.

The brown coat was better cut than the obnoxious French jacket that had offended Tom
in their last encounter, and Richard wore his hair longer. The reason for that became apparent as he
turned to greet Bevis. The scar of the head wound, jagged and new enough to show purple, scored
the left side of his brow. A wing of thick brown hair covered it when you faced him straight on.
Sidewise it was just visible. Richard looked about ten years older than Tom remembered, but he
moved with the same contained energy, like a cat. That was reassuring. Tom let out a long
breath.

Hesitating only briefly, Bevis offered Richard his hand. Left hand. Very tactful. After
Water-loo Bevis's duties had taken him directly to Paris, whilst Richard sweated out his injuries in
Brussels, so they had not met since. Bevis said something congratulatory about the Order of St.
Lewis, and Richard looked sardonic.

"Oughtn't to have refused a knighthood, Falk. Dash it, great honour."

"Certainly," Richard said politely. "I've been kicking myself ever since. It would sound
impressive. Sir Richard F--"

"Restrain yourself, Dickon," Tom said, glancing at Bevis, who turned scarlet. Tom bit
back a grin. In moments of exasperation Richard's subordinates had been used to refer to him by an
inglorious cognomen very like his own adopted surname. Richard would have picked up on it.
There was very little he did not pick up on.

Now he apparently decided he had tormented Bevis sufficiently, for he asked a question
about the disposition of troops in the Parisian suburbs and allowed Bevis to master his confusion
under cover of military technicalities. Very shortly thereafter Bevis left. He still looked
ruffled.

Richard sat and stretched his legs out, admiring the sheen of his boots. "Sorry. I shouldn't
do that."

"Bedevil Bevis? No, you should not. He's a good chap."

Richard leaned against the high-winged back of his chair, eyes closed. "The mail coach
was delayed at Clapham last evening. The driver made up for lost time. Wonderful thing, his
majesty's mail."

"Jostled?"

Richard opened one eye and grinned. "At least I had the wherewithal to ride inside this
time. Squinched between a corn chandler and the Wife of Bath."

Tom smiled. "It's good to see you, and more or less in one piece, too."

Richard grimaced. "It marches. I seem to be obstinately right-handed, however. Did you
know that a left-hander drags his sleeve across the wet ink as he writes? I must invest in a supply of
paper cuffs."

"Sims says you ought to hire an amanuensis."

Richard's mouth quirked. "Your translation."

Tom nodded. "Why not hire a secretary?"

"My dear Tom, can you imagine me saying some of the things I write aloud? I'd blush like
a maiden. I'm much ruder on paper than I'd ever dare to be in speech."

Tom laughed. "That I cannot credit. Shall you write another novel?"

"I'll have to. As usual I've backed myself into a corner."

"And mean to write your way out of it. I wish I could write my way out of this mess I've
fallen into." Tom forced a smile.

"Tell me," Richard said quietly.

So Tom did.

It was an act of trust, and not easy. He was not a man who was used to displaying his
feelings. Richard listened, the slight habitual frown between his brows, without comment or
interruption.

Tom told him of Clanross's death by drowning. Easy, because factual. Of the Conway
solicitor's visit. Of other people's condolences and congratulations. It took a long time for him to
put into words what really troubled him.

"Did you ever think of killing yourself?" He looked away from Richard and went on,
groping, "I don't mean in a moment of emotion, but soberly, as a rational solution?"

Silence extended. "Yes."

Tom licked his dry lips. "But you didn't."

"Why not?" He made himself look at his friend.

Richard's mouth twisted in a smile. "Why not, you idiot?"

"You know I didn't mean--"

"Hush. It's a hard question to answer. Do you believe in Hell?"

"I...No."

"Neither do I. We make that here." Richard shivered. "I don't know why I didn't kill
myself. I would think it through and be convinced, then somehow the time for it would pass and I'd
be tangled up in living again. I never could think of a way of doing it without creating a mess
someone else would have to clean up. I did try to step in the way of a French ball a couple of times,
but you know the Frogs. Rotten marksmen."

An unwilling smile tugged at Tom's mouth. "They did well enough for both of us in the
end."

"Half measures," Richard said lightly. "Very untidy." He looked Tom straight in the eye.
"You're not asking for advice, are you?"

"No."

"Good. I'm fresh out of inspiration." He looked down at his hands, the right skeletal, the
left clenched in a fist. He flexed the left, unclenching it deliberately finger by finger. "You'll do
what you have to do."

"That's comforting."

"I know well it's not," Richard shot back, half angry. "There are loads of people who
wouldn't know their plain duty if it sat up and bit 'em, but you're not that sort." The brief gust of
anger blew itself out. "Just don't let the lawyers convince you to do more than you must. Sign their
damned papers and let your man of business deal with the rest of it."

"Would you?"

"I'm unlikely to inherit an earldom or anything else," Richard said drily, "but yes, since
you ask, I should. You owe Clanross's family nothing. Nor is there any reason why you should have
to enact a charade in the Lords. What can they do to you if you don't take your seat? Cashier you?
Unfrock you?"

Tom smiled. "De-belt me."

Richard hewed to his point. "When does Parliament sit?"

"After Michaelmas."

"Tell 'em you're ill. It's the truth. Put 'em off. The House of Lords will dodder along very
well without you. It has done since the thirteenth century."

"True." This time Tom's smile was unforced. "I think you
have
advised
me."

Richard flushed. "I beg your pardon, Tom. I was trying to imagine the difficulties."

"I've followed your advice before with good results. I may just take it again. I wish I could
stay in Lancashire."

"Then stay there. Tell the lawyers you have an obligation to Dunarvon."

"I have," Tom said ruefully.. "A large obligation. I must also find a replacement."

"Good. Take your time. And you can tell Dunarvon you have to train your replacement.
Put 'em all off."

"You have a nefarious mind."

"So I've been told. How did Dunarvon respond to the news of your elevation?"

Tom chuckled. "Furious. He wasn't half as angry as I was, however." He sobered. "You
know, Richard, Clanross never so much as warned me where I stood. I'd no idea--" He felt his old
anger stir and broke off. No point in going into that. "I think my outrage deflated Dunarvon's. Or
deflected it. He's taking it out on Bevis at the moment, for inducing him to hire me in the first
place."

"Good. Let him."

"Poor Bevis."

Richard made a rude noise. "I daresay he thinks it's a splendid joke."

"Well, yes. And it is, in the abstract."

"We don't live in the abstract."

"No." Tom drew a long, ragged breath, and wriggled his shoulders experimentally
against the supporting cushions. "It's been a hellish fortnight. You were the only one to see what a
blow this business would serve me."

Richard, head bent, did not reply.

Time to change the subject. "Have you seen your publisher?"

Richard looked up, blinking. "What? Oh. No, not yet. He has some mad notion of
reissuing the Don Alfonso books with my name on the title page. I'm not anxious to see him, but I
daresay I must."

"Why is that a mad notion? It's time you took credit for Don Alfonso."

"Or blame?" Richard's smile went wry. "Just the thing to drive Newsham into a stew.
No, I thank you. I've had enough notoriety for one year."