Bar Sinister (33 page)

Having read the confessions with frowning attention, Richard rattled the papers and
swore under his breath. "Here. I can't fold them properly. Will you keep them for me,
Wilson?"

Surprised and moved by the trust implicit in the request, Wilson nodded his
agreement.

"Thank you." Richard's mouth quirked. "Did no one ever teach Lord George to
spell?"

Wilson laughed. Sarah smiled, too. "Tallie always swore George read backwards. Do you
remember Tallie, Richard?"

"Miss Talcott? Yes." Richard leaned against the table. "I daresay you mean to
cross-examine me about my offspring, Sarah. You might as well begin."

"Where are they?"

He glanced briefly at Wilson. "Treglyn."

Sarah looked blank.

"Lord Clanross's Cornwall estate, I fancy," Wilson murmured.

"Oh, thank God!" Sarah's relief was disproportionate, Wilson thought, puzzled.

Comprehension dawned upon her brother. "Did you imagine I had bestowed them here
in the top floor back?"

Sarah flushed. "I didn't know."

Richard was not entirely amused. "What a good idea. Pity I didn't think of it."

Sarah made a swift recover. "I'm persuaded that Emily Foster would have
objected."

That did amuse him. "When I consider the objections she raised to a journey to
Cornwall, I shudder to think what she'd say to this rookery. I have a letter of her. Do you care to
read it?"

"Of all things--if you don't mind, Richard."

He raised his brows. "Why should I mind?"

"Manner of speaking," Sarah mumbled.

Richard surveyed the strewn table. "Where the devil did I put it? Oh, my coat." He
withdrew a sheet with a broken seal from his pocket. The paper was crossed in Mrs. Foster's neat
hand. "She says Amy and Matt have taken to running footraces in the gallery. I hope Tom's
ancestors have stopped whirling in their graves."

Sarah smiled. "I wish I might see the children."

"So do I," Richard rejoined, his voice dry. He turned to Wilson. "I mean to go down to
Cornwall tonight on the mail unless you think there's some urgent reason for me to stay in
Town."

Wilson considered. Beside him Sarah, absorbed in the letter, gave a subdued snort of
mirth. Wilson shifted on the stiff chair. "Everything is well in hand. I foresee no difficulties."

"Good. I bought our places on the coach this morning. McGrath goes with me." Richard
walked to the window again and stood looking down. "I can return when I've restored Mrs. Foster
to Wellfield House. A week, say, or ten days."

Wilson rose with a creaking of chair joints and joined him. Two curs were snarling over a
bone in the alley. "That won't be necessary. Newsham and George should be safely in exile by then.
You may make whatever arrangements you wish at your leisure."

"Exile?" Richard's brows drew together.

Wilson explained the dowager's
coup.
"I confess I did not expect that of your
mother. She is the most redoubtable lady."

"I should think it very much in her style," Richard said quietly. "Out of sight, out of
mind."

Wilson could think of no comfortable reply. He glanced back at Sarah. She was finishing
the letter and appeared unconscious of the exchange.

Smiling, she looked up at the two men. "What a delightful letter Emily writes. I can
almost see Tommy confronting the housekeeper." She sprang up. "You ought to marry her."

Wilson went cold.

"A splendid notion." Richard took the letter from his sister and restored it to his coat.
"I've already embarrassed Mrs. Foster sufficiently without flinging my liabilities at her feet as well.
Why don't you take up rescuing chimney sweeps or fallen women, Sarah," he added, well and truly
losing his temper, "and stay out of my life? It's chaotic enough at the moment without your
help."

Sarah looked as if she had been struck.

For once Wilson felt no impulse to rescue her, but he was by nature a tactful man, so he
interposed a question about the still imprisoned footpad, leaving Sarah to stare out the window in
her turn. He thought she was crying.

Richard, still ruffled, snapped an answer at random, drew a breath, and put his mind to
the problem of the footpad. He meant to see the man released and on his way out of the country
that afternoon, and had made tentative arrangements. Efficient.

"That's an expence you oughtn't to bear," Wilson said bluntly.

"I collect you ought to," Richard jeered, still angry.

"No. Lord George is the appropriate party, I fancy." Wilson held Richard's gaze. After an
explosive moment, he had the satisfaction of seeing his brother-in-law's mouth relax in a
grin.

"He'll balk."

"I think not. At the moment George is thoroughly subdued."

"
Rompré
?"

"If I understand the meaning of the term. How much, Richard?"

"Fifty guineas."

Wilson nodded. "I'll direct George to send your banker a draught at once."

"He'd be better advised to send it to Tom Conway's banker. I had to draw on Tom's
letter of credit. He banks with Coutts."

"Very well."

An indignant sniff recalled Sarah's presence to their minds. Wilson met Richard's eyes.
Richard grimaced, but he went to the window and touched his sister's stiff shoulder.

"Pax,
Sarah. I'm sorry I snarled at you, but you really must give up your
meddling ways."

"Meddling!"

"I daresay you always act from the best motives, but from my viewpoint it feels
remarkably like being overrun by heavy cavalry."

"Oh, Richard," Sarah wailed. "I'm sorry. It's all been my fault." She burst into
tears.

Richard patted her and rolled his eyes at Wilson. "Help."
In a moment,
Wilson
mouthed. He extracted a large lawn handkerchief from his pocket. When the first throes of the
storm had subsided he retrieved his wife from her brother's damp bosom and seated her once more
on the cane-bottomed chair.

Sarah blew her nose violently.

"Come, that's better, my dear. Cheer up." Wilson tidied her bonnet, which was askew.
"All's well that ends well, after all, and you'll be giving Richard a very odd notion of your
understanding if you insist on blaming yourself for Newsham's deeds."

One bloodshot hazel eye peered at him from behind the handkerchief. She hiccoughed on
a sob.

"I rather think Newsham has done me a favour," Richard ventured, eyeing his sister
warily.

Sarah gave an incredulous sniff.

Wilson squeezed her shoulder. "How so?"

"I've been rereading my novel, and it's a good thing it never reached the bookstalls. It
sounds as if I were unconscious when I writ it. I probably was."

Wilson chuckled. "Shall you look for a new publisher at once?"

"When I've revised it."

Sarah drew a shuddering breath. "I collect we're to be grateful to Newsham for saving
you from the reviewers' shafts."

"Just so."

"Ha."

Wilson, his hand still on her shoulder, felt her shiver, more from reaction, he thought
than from cold, though the room was cold enough in all conscience.

"I can't think why you chose such a miserable kennel to hide out in," Sarah muttered.
"Surely you could have found a snugger lair."

"No doubt, but few so convenient for entrapping foot-pads. Let be, Sally."

"Oh, very well. Shall we go, Robin?"

"Yes
,
if I wish to keep John Coachman's goodwill." Wilson gave Sarah his
hand.

She rose, straightening her skirts and gathering up her gloves and reticule from the table.
"Shall you call on us when the dust settles, Richard?"

He hesitated, but acquiesced with fair grace, and Sarah gave him a sisterly peck on the
cheek. Wilson and Sarah made their way down to the besieged carriage. Richard followed them
out.

When they were seated, Richard stuck his head in the door. "Good-bye, Sarah,
Wilson."

Sir Robert remembered to hold out his left hand. "Goodbye."

"Thank you." Richard's handclasp was brief but warm, his eyes grave.

The door slammed to and Richard's voice rang out on the chill air. "Hi, you lot!"

The gabble of voices from the tattered crowd devilling Wilson's coachman stilled.

"Here. A drink to the lady's eyes." Richard tossed a handful of coppers. There was a burst
of good-natured laughter and a scrabble for the coins. The horses' path cleared miraculously and the
carriage swayed into motion.

Wilson pulled down the glass. "Thanks!"

Richard gave a casual wave from the steps and disappeared into the house.

Wilson and Sarah rode in silence through the squalid streets. When the carriage turned
into the wider stretch of the new Regent Street, which was still in construction, Sarah heaved a
relieved sigh. "I'm glad you didn't allow
Maman
to come. What a dreadful place."

"I ought to have forbade you to come, too, Sal."

"Well, you couldn't."

"I know." He smiled at her. Sarah was still ruffled, red-nosed from crying, and pretty as
new paint. "Neither to hold nor to bind, are you?"

She looked remorseful. "I had to see Richard."

"I know it."

"Forgive me?"

"There's nothing to forgive, my dear. You're my wife."

She leaned against his shoulder. "Yes, and glad of it. Can we go home to Knowlton soon,
Robin?"

"In a few days."

"Richard will have reached Cornwall by then."

Thank God,
said Wilson to himself. He was yearning for a little peace and
quiet.

"That slumming kennel..."

"Such language!"

"It
was
a back slum. I daresay Richard was clever to find the place, but he could
just as well have chosen an inn in some decayed area that would have served his purposes."

"But not at so low a rent."

She had been leaning against his arm and now sat upright, stiff as a poker. "He
said--"

"I know what he said."

Sarah's mouth compressed. "Men!"

"We're all vainglorious creatures." Wilson smiled at her. "I daresay Richard was afraid
you'd dash out and pop your pearls for him. Sarah to the rescue again."

Sarah flushed.

"No more meddling, Sally." He patted her hand. "I must admit I was relieved to hear he
has Clanross's letter of credit to draw on, for I must otherwise have had to offer him a loan of
money. I'm not turning miser," he added as she bridled, "but I was sure he'd plant me a facer if I
offered."

"Such language," Sarah mimicked.

Wilson grinned.

Her face clouded. "What's to be done?"

"Nothing, my dear. Richard will come about. He has the pension, after all. In the
circumstances, though, it was doubly tactless in you to prescribe matrimony."

She shot him a defiant look out of the corner of her eye. "It would be an excellent
match."

"For Richard."

"For them both. Emily Foster loves him."

It was Wilson's turn to be startled. "She confided in you?"

"Not in so many words."

Wilson laughed. "Wishful thinking, Sally."

Her neatly gloved hands clenched into fists. "Stop dealing with me as if I were a
ninnyhammer. I have eyes. When I brought her your letters from Brussels this summer I watched
Emily narrowly. I could tell what she felt."

"What, then?" he asked, skeptical.

"Exactly what I'd have felt had you been lying ill in a foreign place."

That took a moment to register. Wilson's cheeks burned with astonished pleasure. He
felt as if he had been given the Garter.

Unaware that she had made a gratifying revelation, Sarah went on. "If Richard asked her,
Emily would marry him like a shot."

"An impecunious, illegitimate, unemployed, one-armed scribbler of satires? Why should
she consider him? Mrs. Foster is a woman of the first respectability and may look higher for a
husband than your half brother."

"Robin!"

"My dear, that's not what I think, and, whatever her sentiments, not what Emily Foster
thinks either." He leaned toward her, earnest. "It's a fair approximation of what Richard feels,
however, and with some reason. Besides," he added as her eyes darkened with distress, "we do not
know Richard's tastes. Perhaps he favours opera dancers."

Her eyes narrowed to slits. "Black-eyed señoritas, more likely. It's not fair."

"Certainly not. There are few señoritas in rural Hampshire."

Sarah fetched him a blow to the midsection that left him gasping and laughing. He had to
placate her.

Presently a revolted passersby in the vicinity of Cavendish Square could observe a plump,
middle-aged gentleman and a woman old enough to know better embracing in a carriage in broad
daylight, a clear instance of the decay of modern manners.

It was Amy's birthday. She had been unnaturally virtuous all day. Richard had posted the
obligatory doll well in advance, and Emily was set to produce it at the little girl's birthday dinner,
but the magic had begun to fade from Amy's dolls in the past year. Emily thought the child would
have preferred her father's presence to any number of gifts.

Amy and Matt missed Richard almost as much as they missed their ponies. They were
always asking Emily impossible questions, the worst being "When he is coming to take us home?"
Only Tommy, unmoved by nostalgia, existed at Treglyn in a state of perfect bliss. Peg had weaned
him that summer, and today, as the culmination of a week of heroick continence, he was to be
breeched.

"Like Matt!"

"Certainly, darling."

Tommy was beside himself with joy, but fortunately not to the point of neglecting to use
the requisite domestic offices. Before they left Wellfield, Emily had caused her seamstress to stitch
up half a dozen tiny pairs of nankeen trousers. Now she brought out a pair, and she and Tommy
stood together by the pier glass in Emily's dressing room, admiring them.

"Brishes?"

"Nankeens," Emily said. "Nankeen breeches. Or trousers, more correctly."