Bar Sinister (21 page)

The duke's eyes narrowed. Lord George gaped. Wilson thought George's surprise
genuine.

"That's an abominable suggestion," the duke said coldly.

"Oh, I agree. Not without some foundation in fact, however." Wilson held the duke's
gaze steady.

The duke's eyes lowered. He began to pace, running a hand over his balding forehead. "If
you mean my father's actions, that India business, the duel--for God's sake, that was the work of a
madman."

Wilson exhaled carefully. He had had some doubts about the campaign of persecution.
A duel?
He controlled his surprise with an effort. "So you knew of that business? I
wondered."

The duke was still off balance. "Not at the time, of course. M'father's man of business laid
the scheme before me when the late duke died. There were expenses."

Wilson felt an icy stab of anger. "I daresay. And you decided to call off the hounds from
motives of economy. Good of you."

"I don't like your tone."

Lord George said irritably, "If you're going to speak in riddles, gentlemen, I've a better
use for my time."

"The duke has just made an indiscreet admission, George." Wilson took a breath, feeling
his path. "Well, tit for tat. Sarah has read the letter you writ Colonel Falk when you succeeded to
your father's honours, Newsham. So have I. So has the dowager."

The duke went still. "What letter? I may have spelled out a few home truths--"

"You spelled out a few threats, Duke. Very effective."

"Be plain."

"You, sir, are not a madman, but you took advantage of the probable effects of a
madman's malice. For gain."

"Falk had no claim on the estate."

"The lawyers had their doubts, hadn't they? So had you."

"What the devil are you suggesting?" Lord George exploded.

Wilson turned his head. His neck was beginning to ache from craning at the two of them.
"Menaces, Lord George. Menaces. That letter is with Colonel Falk's solicitor." He rose. "I wish to
hear no more talk of
my
motives, my lord Duke. Look to your own."

"Do you threaten me?" A muscle by the duke's mouth jumped.

Wilson walked to the long study table and twirled the globe. "There would be no point
in exposing your conduct to censure, so long as you leave your brother--I beg your pardon, your
half brother--and his children, strictly alone."

"That I can promise." The duke's lip curled again.

Wilson matched his tone. "Can you? No opprobrious comments when your friends ask
you about the relationship? No raised eyebrows and meaningful snickers? No nasty
hon mots
at the club?"

"My conduct among my friends is not subject to your criticism, Wilson."

"Not yet," Wilson said softly. He stabbed his finger at the globe at random, hitting
Spitzbergen.

"Damme, Wilson," Lord George exploded. "It don't matter what Keighley says among
his friends."

"It didn't matter."

The duke was incredulous. "Are you suggesting that my mother's bastard means to cut a
figure in Society?"

"I think nothing more unlikely, if you mean the London clubs," Wilson retorted.
"Colonel Falk is just now an object of considerable interest, however. He may cut a figure, as you
put it, without making any effort to do so."

"Pho."

"He is to be invested with the Order of St. Lewis. There's talk of a new order of the Bath
for which he would certainly be eligible. Political pressure might be exercised in his behalf."

The duke gave a short, contemptuous laugh. "By you?"

"By the Prince of Orange. Among others."

Both men stared at him.

"I think he would refuse." Wilson wished he had had greater opportunity to talk with
Richard. "Unless he decides to remain with the army. As a lieutenant colonel he'll be given the
choice of staying on in spite of his injuries, and he may still see that as the best means of providing
for his children. I hope not."

The duke was apparently still turning Wilson's revelations over in his mind. His
expression was not pleasant.

"Well, by Jove, a collateral field marshall." Lord George guffawed. "Dashed amusing
thought."

"He has other choices." Wilson drifted to the glassed-in bookcase and stared at the
expanse of calf-bound volumes, chaste and uncut, which decorated the wall. "Colonel Falk is a
novelist of some merit. Did you know that?"

"A scribbler of romances? Good God."

"He would be better described as a satirist."

The duke stiffened.

George's transparent features reflected dawning horror. "Good God, Wilson, the
scoundrel ain't going to put us in a book!"

The duke's voice grated like filed steel. "I should be obliged to stop publication of any
such libel."

"Libel? Of course. Who could doubt it?" Wilson sat again in the comfortable chair,
settled back, smoothed the black silk of his evening breeches.

"I can see to it that Falk never publishes another line," the duke snarled. "You may tell
him so with my compliments."

"More menaces, Duke?"

The duke bit his lip.

"You must see how ill-advised you would be to follow any such course."

"It's blackmail. I'll not stand for it."

Wilson lost his temper. "I wonder who is victimising whom? There was a time when you
might have come to terms with Falk at no very great cost, of money or pride. Instead you
persuaded him that you meant to carry on your father's vendetta. Richard is not a fool, Duke. To
the contrary. He has given you the most solemn assurance that he will make no claim on you. And
you now have the duchess's statement as well. To continue your game of persecution one step
farther would be a pointless exercise of malice. Richard is not now without friends."

Unexpectedly Lord George seconded Wilson. "Stands to reason, Keighley. Water-loo.
Circulating libraries. Fight one, not both. Better give it up."

The duke wheeled on him. "When I require your opinion, George, I'll ask for it."

"Needn't fly into the boughs. No legal question now, thanks to m'mother's statement.
Ignore the chap, there's the ticket."

"Your brother shows uncommon good sense, Newsham." Wilson was surprised. Perhaps
there was more to Lord George than met the eye.

The duke took up his pacing again. "What do you want of me, Wilson?" He stopped,
glaring. "I warn you I won't tolerate your damned interference in matters that don't concern
you."

That was fustian and Wilson treated it with the contempt it deserved. "I want your
word--in George's presence, if you please--that you'll make no further move of any kind against Richard
Falk or his children. Neither directly nor indirectly."

There was a pregnant pause. "Or what?"

"Sarah will dissociate herself from you publicly." Wilson picked up his snifter, discovered
it was empty, and set it down.

Lord George took the hint and poured him another.

"Sarah is not without influence in Society," her fond husband murmured. "I think you'd
find ostracism uncomfortable, Duke. Your duchess and your daughters would dislike being turned
away from Almack's. Your other sisters and John and George would very properly resent being
dragged through a new scandal."

"By God, sir, you'll live to regret this," the duke snarled.

Wilson had been bullied at his school. The duke's manner recalled the experience. "Pray
do not make threats against me, sir! Neither I nor my wife is in any way dependent upon you. We
live very well without your favour," Wilson heard himself shouting.

Lord George watched, mouth agape.

Wilson tempered his tone. "I wish you will think, Duke. I should like a scandal no more
than you. You're under the illusion that the word of a peer runs unquestioned. That is not so. It has
never been so. Whilst your brother was an unconsidered subaltern in an unfashionable regiment
posted abroad, you had the whip hand. No doubt of it. Now times have changed."

Wilson met the duke's eyes. The man was sweating. "As for Richard's illegitimacy, you
have only to look at men like Beresford--Marshall of Portugal, a baron in his own right, and a
Knight of the Bath. Or young Burgoyne of the Engineers, more to the point. They say he is a
coming man. Indeed, duke, there is a fashion for bastards. Especially blue-blooded ones."

The duke made a contemptuous noise.

Wilson's voice hardened. "No one will question your brother's merits. Merely they will
wonder why a man of such obvious gifts should have been kept so long in poverty and obscurity.
You must learn to expect impertinent questions. The matter has already gone that far without
Sarah's interference, or mine." He set the glass down. "If the truth should come out with the full
weight of Sarah's indignation behind it..." He allowed his voice to trail off.

The duke and Lord George were both staring at him as at a fakir, Lord George flushed
and the duke very pale. The duke's eyes glittered unpleasantly, but Wilson saw with relief that he
was thinking, turning what had been said over in his mind.

The Duke of Newsham was no genius, but if his understanding was ordinary it was
extraordinarily tenacious of self-preservation. He had grown up in the shadow of his mother's
impropriety and his father's madness. His aversion to scandal was deep and honest. Wilson relied
upon it.

Watching Newsham struggle with his pride, Wilson felt a sudden incongruous stab of
pity. Almost gently he said, "George pointed out your wisest course. Ignore Colonel Falk. I'm sure
he'll return the courtesy. Give me your word, Duke, and be done with it."

Rather to Wilson's surprise the duke's eyes dropped. "Very well," he muttered. "You
have it."

"Sir?"

"You have my word. No action of any kind--so long as that damned scoundrel keeps his
satires to himself."

Wilson shook his head. "That won't do. I trust Richard will live to write any number of
novels, and I hope he sticks to satire. He does it extremely well. I will engage to see that he avoids
direct reflexions upon your family."

"Is that your word?"

"Yes." Wilson gave a half smile. "And I'll bridle Sarah's wrath. At least in publick."

The duke's hands clenched. "Then you have my word, Wilson. I'd esteem it a favour if
you'd remove yourself from my sight."

Wilson rose and picked up the duchess's statement.

"I'll keep that." Newsham took a step toward him.

"No, I think not. I'll send a copy of it to your man of business. Whatley, is it, in the City?
Good evening, George."

"Wilson," Lord George murmured.

The duke was rigid with offended dignity. He did not bow as Wilson walked out.

It seemed to Emily that everything was touched in gold that summer. By August there
was even a golden haze in the air. The children flourished. The new groom showed himself amiable
as well as observant and spent hours coaching Matt and Amy, so that they both showed creditably
on Eustachio. Amy was riding astride. Emily could not like that, but it was tedious for the groom to
be changing saddles all the time, and besides, the example of Doña Inez weighed with her.
Doña Inez always rode astride.

The children still demanded that Emily read them the old stories, most of which they
knew by heart. She found it harder to do so with each repetition. It was going to be some time
before Doña Inez set out on a new adventure. That much was clear from Wilson's letters to
Lady Sarah.

Emily herself received a brief, formal note from Colonel Falk toward the end of July. He
acknowledged her letters and instructed her to keep the groom. The handwriting was foreign, the
signature nearly illegible. Nevertheless Emily felt enormous, irrational relief when she saw it. He
was alive.

Wilson writ glumly. The only favourable development of the month was the dowager
duchess's witnessed statement, which probably made Emily's amiable groom unnecessary. Lady
Sarah showed Emily that letter with visible reluctance, nor did Emily press for detail. She had
formed a low opinion of Lady Sarah's mother, compounded partly of moral aversion and mostly of
exasperation. She wondered how any woman could be so careless of her children's welfare.

When Lady Sarah brought the dowager to call, joy did not gush and stars twinkle. Emily
had been bottling fruit. By the time she had made herself presentable to a duchess both ladies were
ensconced in the withdrawing room.

Lady Sarah rose as Emily entered. "Emily--Mrs. Foster, I wish to make you known to my
mother."

"Your grace." Emily directed a grim curtsey at the seated figure.

The duchess did not rise. She was an incredibly fragile lady, at least in appearance. The
hand she extended, blue-veined and marked with the freckles of age, felt like a collection of bird
bones. Her hair was pure white, white as a wig, but soft-looking, and she dressed with exquisite
attention to detail. Her silver-grey gown, her soft cashmere shawl, which seemed redundant for a
warm day, her neat slippered feet, the lace mitts, the tiny lace cap, all said palpably, "I am an old
lady now, but in my day I made the mode."

The duchess was small and small-boned, and she settled back into the comfortable chair
she sat in with the air of one who has always commanded homage. When she regarded Emily from
bright hazel eyes and smiled gently, just wide enough to show she had kept her own teeth, white
and slightly crooked, Emily found herself uttering conciliatory and welcoming phrases. The
resemblance of the dowager to her son was unsettling, and Emily resented her own response.

The duchess apologised gracefully for not rising.

Lady Sarah said, nervous,
"Maman
wished to make your acquaintance, my dear
Emily, and since the weather was so very fine we ordered up the barouche."

The duchess added, with a trace of malice, "Sally is trying to indicate without being quite
blunt that she disapproves my impulsive behaviour." She gave Emily a straight look from the
uncanny hazel eyes. "I meant to catch you unprepared, Mrs. Foster."