Bar Sinister

by Sheila Simonson

  "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."

  Tom's eyes narrowed. "Has the duke been at you?" When his friend did not reply at once Tom said, more sharply, "Has he, Richard?"

  "No, of course not. I just don't want to give him an excuse to notice my ongoing existence. I met my mother the other day at Wilson's house, by the way."

  Tom held his breath.

  "I begin to understand why the French beheaded Marie Antoinette. I'm damned if the woman didn't try to charm me. Me, of all people."

  "Did it work?"

  "It must have done." Richard rose and regarded his friend with a dispassionate eye. "I was civil as an orange for fifteen minutes."

  Tom laughed, his amusement sharpened by relief. "What happened after the fifteen minutes?"

  "I left. Which is what I ought to do now. I'll stop by again in a day or so, if I may."

  "I wish you will, Richard. Where do you stay?"

  "Judy Cassidy's. She has a house in Chelsea."

  "Good God, what kind of house?" Judy Cassidy was the widow of a Sergeant of Rifles, and there had been rumours, never confirmed, that she had pursued the oldest profession before Sergeant Cassidy swept her off to better things. Everyone liked Judy.

  Richard smiled. "Not that kind of house. It's a grand house, thanks be to God, and everything tidy about it, including an enamelled clock from King Joseph's baggage train. Judy's a respectable householder and her son clerks at St. Katherine's Dock."

  Bemused, Tom shook his head. "I can't take it in. Give her a kiss for me if she'll let you."

  "If it came from you she might. Kissing privileges are reserved for the Rifles." Richard sketched a mock salute. "À demain."

  "Good-bye." Tom closed his eyes, tired suddenly. He was almost sure Richard had been lying to him--that the Duke of Newsham was causing trouble, and that Richard was worried.

  30

  In the next three days Tom signed innumerable legal documents, approved routine expenditures whose sum made his hair stand on end, and rose from his couch long enough to receive a call from a son-in-law of the late earl who sat in Parliament for one of the Conway pocket boroughs. Not very restful. Certainly distracting. Richard did not come back.

  When he still hadn't called by the next afternoon, Tom began to feel alarmed. "He said a day or so. It's been four."

  Bevis, who was lounging in the wing-backed chair, yawned. "I can't think why you bother. I'd as soon converse with a cobra."

  Tom rang for Sims. "Richard's a satirist. What do you expect of him, sugarplums? Sims, can you find your way to Judy Cassidy's house in Chelsea?"

  "A course. Wot for, Major?"

  "To bear a note to Colonel Falk. He's stopping there. Wait for a reply."

  Bevis rose lazily. "I'll take you in my phaeton, Sims."

  Sims beamed.

  "That's unnecessary." Tom levered himself up with exquisite care and went to the dresser he'd been using as a desk. He stared at the paper for a moment, perplexed, then dashed off an innocuous message.

  "I
t may be unnecessary," Bevis said with dignity, "but I haven't seen Judy Cassidy's house. I'm curious."

  By the time the front door slammed Tom was beginning to feel foolish, but he didn't call Sims and Bevis back.

  It was close on two hours before they returned. By that time Tom was lying down again, perforce. He held out a hand for Richard's reply. "Did you see him?"

  "Yes." Bevis cleared his throat. "Look'ee, Tom, Falk's a bit under the weather. Er, met up with a pair of footpads three days ago on a back street. They roughed him up."

  Tom's hand fell. He jerked his head round. "Damn you, Bevis, sit or stand, but do it where I can see you. What happened to Richard?"

  Bevis sat in the wing-backed chair and made a heavy business of smoothing the skirts of his coat. Blue superfine, it was, cut by Weston in the first stare. "As I was saying, they roughed him up, and he's feeling a trifle seedy. Better tomorrow, I daresay." He picked a bit of imaginary lint from one sleeve.

  "You're lying to me."

  Bevis's head came up. "Dash it, Tom, watch your language."

  "Quit footling. Out with it."

  "If anyone's lying, it's Falk," Bevis shot back, annoyed. "That was the Banbury tale he spun me."

  "Sims."

  Sims rattled the decanter. "Yes, me lord."

  "God blast your impertinence. Did you talk to Judy?"

  "I talked with Mrs. Cassidy," Bevis interjected, saving Sims's groats. "Thing is, they cut up his face somewhat with their fists and twisted his arm, but they didn't cut purse. He had a fiver and some odd coins on him, stickpin, watch fob, watch. None of 'em touched."

  "Did Richard say--"

  "That's what she said. Very shrewd woman, Mrs. Cassidy, and not best pleased with Falk at the moment. That sort of brouhaha lowers the tone of her establishment." Bevis shifted on the chair. "Falk sticks by his story."

  "You say they hurt his arm. Badly? Which arm?"

  "The right. The surgeon Mrs. Cassidy summoned bled him and strapped the arm so he can't move it. Nothing broken. No fever. Painful, of course."

  Tom gritted his teeth. There were times when Bevis's gift for stating the obvious was hard to bear. "Newsham. I knew I should have made Richard tell me."

  Bevis leaned forward, hands on his knees. "Jumping the gun, ain't you?"

  "Perhaps," Tom said grimly. "We'll see tomorrow."

  "Shall I fetch him for you?"

  "If you will, Bevis. I don't fancy the idea of a hired hack."

  "Glad to. He won't like it, though."

  Tom swore. "He'll just have to put up with it."

  Next day Tom waited for Bevis to return for a good hour, and the last half hour drove him to his feet. Pacing, in Tom's state, was an absorbing activity. When they finally came Richard followed Bevis into the room. Tom stalked over to him. Richard had a black eye and a cut lip and that was the least of it.

  "You damned fool, did you fancy you could hide that shiner?"

  "No. I meant to wait until it looked less dramatic before I paraded it in the streets, however."

  "Sit."

  Bevis pulled the wing-backed chair out for Richard. "Drove through the park. Should've thought twice about that. Old Peverel nearly fell from his phaeton staring."

  Richard sat down gingerly. His arm was strapped tight, the wrist in an obtrusive white sling. No more discreet black silk.

  Tom stood for a moment absorbing the lesser details of his friend's appearance, and when he spoke his voice rang harsher than he intended. "Tell me what happened."

  "I saw my publisher in Threadneedle Street. I took a hack as far as Chelsea Hospital and decided to walk from there." Richard shifted under Tom's gaze. "I needed to do some thinking, and I was careless. Two Mohawks jumped me from an alley. They beat on me for awhile. I blacked out. When I came to my senses they'd gone, so I walked to Judy Cassidy's. She called the sawbones."

  Tom made an incredulous noise.

  "That's it," Richard snapped. "Not an unheard-of event in that area. I should've waited to do my thinking indoors." Richard gave Tom stare for stare, quite a feat considering the black eye.

  "Not unheard of, except you weren't robbed."

  Richard's mouth hardened. "Someone has been dealing in backstairs gossip. Perhaps the gentlemen didn't like the cut of my coat."

  "Is it Newsham?"

  "I'm sure the duke has never set foot in that part of Chelsea."

  "Cut line, Richard."

  "I have told you what I know to be true," Richard said, more quietly. "Will you lie down, Tom?"

  "I'm still capable of standing for ten minutes."

  "Perhaps. I prefer not to be towered over, however. My neck's stiff."

  Tom complied with bad grace. He resumed his semirecumbent pose on the daybed with some help from Bevis. Sims entered, took in the scene, cleared his throat ostentatiously.

  "Yes, bring the decanter," Tom snapped.

  Bevis pulled up a chair for himself and sat. "Dashed good idea. Now, Falk, no more foolery. Open your budget."

  "It's possible I prefer to keep my own counsel." Richard regarded Bevis without enthusiasm.

  Bevis bristled. "Bite your dashed tongue off, for all I care, but if you've a groat's worth of decency you'll think twice before you drive Tom wild with worry."

  "Bevis..."

  Bevis glowered at Tom. "I've no idea why you feel obliged to tie yourself in knots over a care-for-nobody like Falk, but the bald fact is you do. Ain't the first time I've been tangled in his affairs, either. Open up, Falk."

  "Does your lordship have any other little commands--either of your lordships?" Richard had gone white with fury.

  Tom felt his own temper rise. "That's a foul thing to say, Richard."

  Richard closed his eyes--eye, rather. The other was swollen shut. The muscle at the hinge of his jaw jumped. "All right, Tom, I'm sorry. But you ought to recall that it was Lord Bevis's damned easy habit of confiding my business to the world at large that brought Newsham down on me this spring. I think I have some reason to mistrust Bevis's discretion."

  Tom was silent.

  "I confided in Lady Sarah in good faith, Falk. Known her all my life. What's more, she's a good sort of woman. I'm dashed if I'll apologise again for something as natural as breathing." Bevis stood up. "I didn't intend to do you an injury. If I have, I want to know the consequences. Some sense of responsibility, dash it." He turned to Tom, his fair skin red with indignation. "Servant, Tom. I'll look in tomorrow."

  "Oh, sit down," Richard said wearily. "It won't matter in the long run, and I daresay you have some right. To satisfy your curiosity, if nothing else."

  "By God," Bevis spluttered.

  Sims barged in with the replenished decanter. Sims had no tact. It was one of the things Tom liked about him.

  "Pour, Bevis." Tom was exhausted past diplomacy.

  Bevis obeyed. The indignant flush faded. He slammed Richard's glass down and brought Tom's to the occasional table that sat by the head of the couch. When Bevis had taken his own seat, Tom said, "Was it Newsham, Richard?"

  "My publisher--" Richard drew a breath. "My former publisher told me that Josiah Whatley had bought the remaining copies of my old novels, and the plates and galleys of the new one. Whatley is Newsham's man of business."

  "Good God, he can't mean to destroy them!"

  Richard's temper was now under strict control. "He told Hitchins that it would be unwise to print anything of mine in future. Politely, in indirect language." He toyed with his untasted brandy. "Hitchins took the hint. His is a small house and he can't afford to offend the Duke of Newsham. He was sorry, of course, but there it was. What else could he do?"

  Bevis snorted. "Damned pigeon-livered piker."

  "Hitchins is a prudent man. I don't think it's a coincidence that I was attacked on my way back from that interview. But of course there's no proof."

  "He's mad!" Bevis exploded. "Loads of copies already out. The duke can't hope to suppress the books entirely. Dash it, everyone's read 'em. Read
'em myself."

  Tom watched Richard start to say something rude and think better of it.

  After a moment Richard went on, in the same controlled voice. "There is no question of suppressing the books that are already in print. Newsham means to encourage me to emigrate."

  Tom's hand jerked and brandy slopped from his glass. He swore. "Explain, damn you."

  "His man made me an offer some days ago which I incautiously refused."

  "What kind of offer?" Bevis sounded bewildered, but Tom's stomach knotted.

  "What was it, Dickon?"

  "Passage to any North American port and an annuity to be settled on my children. Wilson," Richard added, dispassionate, "was of the opinion that the duke meant to acknowledge my claim against his family, and that I was starting at shadows. Wilson is a reasonable man. The duke is not."

  Tom glowered at the ceiling. "A threat."

  "I thought so at the time. It appears I was right."

  Bevis jumped to his feet and began pacing. "That's Gothick. He can't do it."

  "Newsham can do as he pleases," Richard said bleakly.

  "But the law--"

  "He is above the law, as your father would be. Or Tom, if he chose."

  "That's a vile slander."

  "If Tom and Dunarvon were men of Newsham's kidney it would be the truth. You're childish, my lord." Richard's eyes locked with Bevis's, and Bevis dropped his gaze first.

  "What do you mean to do?" There was a bad taste in Tom's mouth. Like tin.

  Richard swirled his untasted brandy slowly in the glass. "Call on Whatley tomorrow and tell him I've changed my mind, but that my health won't permit me to make the crossing until spring."

  "You can't."

  Richard looked at him. "No. I need to buy time. I'll tell him to book passage for three to Charleston in South Carolina. That's plausible. I've been there. Then, if he agrees to that, I'll instruct my solicitor to convert my assets to cash, pack up Amy and Tommy, and ship out on the first vessel bound for Spain."

  Tom made a noise of protest.

  Richard ignored him. "Isabel's brother can advise me as to which South American colony is least pestiferous. Montevideo, I think. The situation there is pleasant." He had clearly thought his escape route out. It was all terribly wrong.

  "You're mad, Richard."