Bar Sinister (29 page)

"I have. I am."

"You'll break her heart."

Richard went over to the window which gave on Albemarie Street and stood staring
down at the fashionable passersby.

"You can't do it," Tom repeated.

Richard turned. His face was pale, but quite composed. The bruises stood out like
brushwork. "I'll have to. Neither Newsham nor his father ever showed any regard for bystanders.
Emily Foster is a widow with a minor son."

It passed through Tom's mind how easily a house might be burnt or a carriage
overturned. "There must be another solution."

"No," Richard said with weary finality. "If there were I'd have thought of it. I'm sorry
you had to learn of this, Tom. Why the devil did you send for me? If I thought you'd oblige me I'd
beg you to put this...this stupid melodrama out of your mind. I'll write you from Spain. Servant,
Bevis." He went out of the room and presently Tom heard Sims hailing a hack from the front
steps.

Bevis, who had listened to the later exchanges with an expression of bewildered horror
on his features, came to life. "I'll fetch him back, Tom. Good God."

"No. Wait, Bevis. I have to think. Damn it, man, sit down."

After four years of campaigning Bevis could no more sleep the morning out than Tom
could. Tom took his friend's protests at being rousted out at an unfashionably early hour with a
grain of salt and despatched him early next morning in the phaeton to find Richard. Tom and Bevis
had spent the evening laying wild plots over a snug dinner and a noggin of brandy. With due
respect to Richard's tragic dilemma, Tom had enjoyed the scheming. He was pleased with himself
and feeling amazingly cheerful when Bevis and Richard returned.

Richard was not cheerful. He looked underslept and blue-devilled, too blue even for
anger. He said without preamble, "I must call at Whatley's rooms before noon."

"Yes, of course. Richard, are you set on South America?" In spite of himself Tom could
not entirely leash his elation and he knew that
was
the wrong note.

Richard said quietly, "Don't."

Tom paused. Heavy persuasion called for. "What if you and the children and Mrs. Foster
were to give Newsham the slip in England?"

"He'd stumble on us sooner or later. Mrs. Foster's son is a landowner, after all. Matt
can't disappear without arousing a hue and cry." Richard forced a smile. "I daresay you've
constructed any number of plots worthy of the Light Bobs in winter quarters. D'you remember
when Browning impersonated the
duque del Infantado?"

"I remember," Tom said gently. Doña Isabel had been induced to teach the
counterfeit
duque
the fandango in a hilarious dress rehearsal. "Hear me out,
Dickon."

Richard sat on the chair by the daybed. "Very well."

Tom decided that Richard being patient was worse than Richard snapping and snarling,
and gave Bevis a cautionary glance. "I have a manor in Cornwall, or so I'm told. I've not seen it. It's
remote, snug, furnished with discreet servants, and about as far as it can be from Newsham's
principal seat. It's called Treglyn and it's not occupied." He outlined the skeleton of his plan
quickly.

Richard listened without interrupting.

Tom awaited the inevitable refusal.

Richard just shook his head.

"Why?"

"It won't work."

"That's feeble."

Richard drew a ragged breath. "Feeble is what I feel. Look, Tom, it's kind in you to
trouble yourself, but I've fought Newsham too long. I don't want to fight anymore."

"You want to run."

"In a nutshell. And pray don't bother to question my courage. I won't bite. Retreat is in
order."

"There are retreats and retreats. I'm offering you a strategic withdrawal in place of a
rout."

Richard frowned down at his clenched left hand. His black eye was turning a handsome
shade of green.

Tom pressed on. "The first time I saw Emily Foster I proposed marriage to her."

Richard looked up, startled.

"She's an admirable lady, Richard. She deserves better than to be abandoned."

"Damn you, you know very well she'll be safer when we've gone. Cut the fanciful
analogies."

"She may be safe, but she'll be wretchedly unhappy without your children."

Richard's mouth set. "I've admitted that."

"Then I wonder you won't at least try to work out an alternative. You owe her a
debt."

Richard's good eye clenched shut. "For Christ's sake, I know it. Let be, Tom."

"Perhaps you're hesitating because you think I'll stick my spoon in the wall in the middle
of this campaign. I don't think I shall. Even if I do, there are ways to--"

"You don't need to take on my problems. You've an estate to settle."

"Yes, and very boring I find it." With some effort Tom contrived to look wistful. "I think
you might allow me to indulge myself one last time..." He allowed his voice to trail off in an
affecting and dramatic way.

Richard stood up so abruptly Bevis started, spilling his coffee. "Here, I say!"

Richard ignored him and stalked over to Tom. "Don't ever do that to me."

Tom sighed. "Sorry. I thought I'd just give it a try. You're devilish hard to persuade,
Richard."

Bevis was still swabbing at the coffee on his breeches. "Upon my word..."

"Hush," Tom murmured. "Richard objects to emotional blackmail. What a pity, Dickon.
I was just thinking a spot of blackmail--the real thing--was the answer to your prayers. You've
nothing to lose by my plan."

"If it works."

"We'll see that it does. You'll see to it. You've nothing to lose but a few months at worst,
and a great deal to gain. Mrs. Foster's peace of mind, among other things. Go to Whatley and
persuade him you're too ill to leave until March or April. From the look of you that shouldn't be
difficult. Then come back here, and we'll iron out the details."

"There is no way Mrs. Foster will agree to go into hiding."

"She will if you tell her the alternative."

Richard looked profoundly skeptical.

"When you've conveyed the children and Emily Foster safely to Treglyn, you will sit
down in some quiet spot, your cottage perhaps, and write an exposé, a thinly disguised
account of your situation."

"I can't write a
roman à clef,"
Richard exploded.

"Yes, you can. It need not have literary merit because it will probably never see the light
of day."

"No, indeed," Richard said with awful sarcasm. "My dismembered corpse will be found
floating in the Thames well before I finish it."

Bevis muffled a crack of laughter.

"I can't do it." Richard's jaw set obstinately.

"Nonsense. You're not a temperamental artist, you're a hack. How many times have you
told me that?" Perilous ground. Tom hurried on, "Stop creating bogus obstacles."

"I can't write at all."

"Hire a secretary," Tom snapped. "I'm surprised at you, Richard. If I didn't know better
I'd fancy you eager to drag your children off to some Latin American plague spot. Well?"

"It's a taradiddle and doomed to failure."

The protest was weaker and Tom knew it. He pressed his advantage. "When your
manuscript is adequate to the purpose we'll have half a dozen copies printed privately--one for your
solicitor, one for the duke, and one for yourself. You will then send an extra copy to Sir Robert
Wilson with a full explanation of what has happened. If he's the man I take him to be, Wilson will
bring Newsham to his knees."

"Your blasted plan is as full of holes as a
tirailleur's képi."
Richard was
looking thoughtful.

"The sketch of a plan, merely." Tom experienced a twinge of doubt. He suppressed it.
Not the time to be thinking of failure. "I'll leave you to work out the details."

"Two copies unaccounted for," Bevis interjected. "You said half a dozen, Tom."

"One for you and one for me."

Bevis grinned.

"It's still blackmail." Richard shifted in the chair.

Tom shook his head. "A bluff, Richard. It will work very handily."

At least Richard was thinking. He rubbed the scar on his forehead. After a long silence he
said slowly, "I'll go to Whatley now. For the rest, I wish you may convince me. It's not a game to
me."

"I know that, clunch. Bevis will drive you to the City."

"Happy to be of service." It was a tribute to Bevis's amiable nature that he didn't sound
sarcastic.

"No, thank you." Richard looked at Bevis for a considering moment. "I'll take a hackney.
I'll look far more abject without the cavalry at my back."

Bevis had stiffened at the refusal but Richard's oblique reference to his regiment mollified
him.

Tom breathed a sigh of relief. "Off with you, then. Sims can find a hack for you."

By the time Richard finally returned Bevis had gone off to his club. Tom was lying in the
high-ceilinged apartment, pretending to read a scientific journal and letting his thoughts drift.

Tom liked the flat better than the shrouded Conway town house, all marble and staircases
and Chinese porcelain. The suite of rooms had been hired for the Hon. William Conway, a
deceased brother of the late earl, on a ninety-year lease. Tom scandalised Mr. Brown, the Conway
man of business, by bivouacking in it.

Tom liked the faintly shabby masculine furnishings and the aroma of ancient snuff. He
would have loathed living alone in the vast town house and being waited on by phalanxes of
disdainful servants. Here there were only a tweeny and an aged cook-housekeeper, and Sims dealt
with them. And with everything else.

Now Sims ushered Richard in. "Colonel Falk, me lord."

Tom threw the journal at Sims's head.
Me lord, indeed.

Sims fielded the journal imperturbably. "'Ere you are, Colonel, sir. 'E's feeling a trifle
testy."

Richard didn't enter into the badinage. He looked exhausted and rather green, and he sat
in the wing-backed chair without invitation, as if his legs would hold him upright no longer.

"Leave us, Sims, if you please." Tom shifted on the cushions. "Bad, I take it?"

Richard said quietly, "If there's one thing I hate worse than a hypocrite, it's a
sanctimonious hypocrite. That jumped-up hedge lawyer expected me to
be
grateful."

Tom waited.

"I was, too." Restless, despite his evident weariness, Richard got up again and went to
the window. "I abased myself."

Tom closed his eyes.

Richard gave a short laugh. "A convincing performance, if I say it. The place reeked of
Newsham's money and Newsham's purposes." His voice thickened. "I was afraid."

Tom said gently, "Why should you not be?"

Richard did not answer the question. After a moment he went on. "I shall certainly give
Whatley a prominent role in my memoir." That sounded more like Richard.

"You mean to try my plan?" Tom held his breath. Richard slowly crossed the room and
sat down facing Tom. "I don't know. The devil--yes. I'm a damned fool. I don't think it will work.
I'll probably wind up making a run for it in the dead of winter, but if there's an outside chance of
embarrassing Newsham I'll take it. You're sure this manor of yours is secure?"

"You can make it secure," Tom said happily. "Hire a regiment, if necessary."

"A division at least will be required to move Emily Foster to Treglyn." A gleam of
amusement lit Richard's eyes. "Not to mention Aunt Fan."

"I daresay you ran into a doorpost." Emily inspected the magnificent bruise which
surrounded Richard's eye. Indignation and fright made her voice shrill.

Richard began to laugh. "No, I ran into an old friend." He was seated in Emily's
bookroom, where they were safe from intrusive children.

Emily watched him succumb to the whoops without any impulse to join his mirth.
Something was wrong--again. "Tom Conway," she uttered when she thought she would be
heard.

"Who else?" He was still chuckling.

"I refuse to believe
he
has taken up pugilism." Richard's amusement faded.
"No, nor have I. Tom's health is not good, but he is otherwise very much himself. He asked to be
remembered to you and your aunt. Emily--"

"You'd best just tell me the whole without roundaboutation." Emily folded her hands in
her lap. "Begin with the black eye."

"I was jumped by a pair of footpads."

"Ah." She waited.

"It's going to sound Gothick."

"Thanks to you, I'm enured to the Gothick."

His mouth twitched in amused appreciation. When he had finished what she felt sure was
an understated account of the fortnight's events, however, she felt no amusement at all, and
wondered that he could.

Frozen between fear and fury, she could not speak. It was an index of her changed state
of mind that the loss of Richard's publisher weighed with her almost as heavily as the implied threat
to the children's safety, but for Emily the chief horror lay in the word
emigrate.

When she could command her voice, she leaned toward him. "What do you mean to do?
You cannot go off to America." Conscious that he was watching her, she forced herself to speak
calmly. "You cannot. It is not to be thought of."

"But it must be thought of. It was the only solution I could come up with." He described
for her in careful detail his appalling South American plan. "I still believe a complete disappearance
the only course a prudent man would take."

"Oh God, no!"

"What other choice have I?"

Emily's mind skittered from one impossibility to another. She wanted to tell him that
wherever he went she would follow, but she could not. Her first duty was to Matthew. Matt's place
was in Hampshire. The Wellfield estate was Matt's birthright. She could not leave her son behind to
follow Richard. For another woman that course might be possible. For Emily it was not. She also
knew she could not drag Matt off into permanent exile. His grandparents on both sides would very
properly object.