11

Outside, the wind gave a melodramatic blast that rattled the windowpanes. Tom waited.

Richard was groping. "Shipping a fifteen-year-old off to the Indian Army doesn't strike me as a receipt for longevity."

"No, but it's done. Or was then."

"I didn't question it at the time. I was glad to go. You took up your commission somewhat later, I think."

"I was seventeen. Better prepared."

Richard shrugged. "Two years would not have prepared me for India. The thing is, I kept getting into scrapes."

"That, at least, is not startling."

Richard pinched the skin between his brows and drew his hand down across his face. "They were not all of my making."

"Your scrapes? I see."

He rubbed his jaw with his right hand. The left dangled. "There were incidents. It's all very shadowy. I stopped eating anywhere but the mess, after a time, and I was careful to avoid being alone. When we were called out on campaign--Tipoo Sultan's war--the tricks stopped."

"Seringapatam."

"Yes. Away from garrison I was safe enough, I think. Except for the usual inconveniences of campaigning." His voice was wry. India had been his first taste of war. "I volunteered for the expedition to Batavia, and you know the confusion that followed when that was cancelled. I was ill on the troopship, but so was damned near everyone. Bad water."

"That was the army that came to Egypt, wasn't it?"

"Yes. Overland from the Red Sea."

Tom winced. He had had a very bad time in Egypt himself, but he had heard tales of the Indian relief column that curled his hair. Scant food, bad water, scorpions, sunstroke--and an outbreak of plague once the troops reached Cairo.

But Richard's mind was not on scorpions and sunstroke. He sat straighter, conforming to the chair. "After that it changed."

"Their tactics?"

"I'm not sure there was a 'they,' or a he." He eased his shoulders against the chair back. The wind gusted again, and the panes rattled on cue. He cocked his head. "Is that Sims?"

"No. He's not been gone long enough. 'Spring squall?'" Tom quoted in gentle mockery.

Richard shrugged. "It will blow itself out by morning. Where was I?"

"Egypt."

"Cairo and Alexandria. I called on you."

"I remember. You were burnt black. I didn't recognise you."

"Then we're even." Richard's teeth gleamed in the darkness. "You had enormous moustachios and your arm in a sling."

"And a sleepy droop in the eyes from all that opium."

"It was the devil of a thing to happen to you, Tom. I was sorry to hear of it."

"Inconvenient," Tom agreed. "Tell me about the duel."

"You knew of it?"

"Everyone did."

Richard was silent.

"I thought you'd lost your temper," Tom prompted.

"In the end, I did. We were all short-tempered by that time, and at first I just put it down to the heat and the waiting. Then things began to change in the mess. Snickers, sidewise looks, sotto voce comments. My friends started to look worried, but there was nothing to pin down. I never did know what went on, but I was slowly being sent to Coventry and damned uncomfortable it was."

He paused, ordering his thoughts. "There was an older man, a lieutenant with a reputation as a brawler. He kept pushing me. I said something. I don't even recall what it was, but it was trivial. He picked up on it. There were witnesses and when he challenged me, I had to fight. You know how it used to be."

"Yes, I see." Duelling had been epidemic in the army.

Richard had been silent, reflecting. Now he said more brusquely, as if he meant to be done, "Hertford, that was my opponent's name, was a dead shot, which has never been the case with me. I had the choice of weapons. I made him fight with swords."

Tom choked on a laugh. No one fought with swords anymore.

"You taught me the foils." The smile gleamed again. "Swords are different, of course. I was rusty, but Hertford had never used a sword, and he was slow. I thought I could take him."

"And did."

Richard's voice was uncertain. "I daresay you'll think me a fool, but that was a damned ugly sensation. When I tried to pull my weapon out, it rasped on bone. He screamed. I dream of it sometimes, though I've done worse things since."

Tom shuddered. After a moment, he said, "He didn't die, as I recall."

"He recovered quickly once we put out to sea. He said nothing to indicate that anyone had put him up to it. We were both brought before the court martial. The witnesses, thank God, told the truth--that he'd forced it on me. He was cashiered."

"And you were acquitted."

Richard inclined his head. "With an undeserved reputation for swashbuckling and the strong feeling that my superiors did not look upon me with favour. I was correct."

"Half pay."

"Yes. We reached Colchester Garrison just in time for the Peace of Amiens. I was the first to go."

Tom grimaced. As he recalled with vivid clarity, living on an ensign's pay was not an easy trick, though rather easier abroad than at home. An ensign's half pay was derisory. "I was lucky to avoid that. They sent me to Ireland. How did you live?"

"Very obscurely. In the circumstances I thought it prudent."

"On half pay you could hardly have done otherwise."

"I could live on it now." Richard's tone was dry. "At the time I had grandiose notions of what was owing to my consequence."

"Fresh linen, hot shaving water, the occasional newspaper, a private room."

"Yes. I decided that genteel starvation didn't suit me."

"So you writ a book."

"I popped my watch, my greatcoat, and a spare pair of boots and bought some paper." He sounded almost cheerful. "I was pleased when it sold. It fetched twenty guineas, which was more than it was worth. I marched off with my booty and bought a bowl of hot stew. It was my first hot meal in a fortnight and I couldn't finish it."

"My God."

"It took more than one campaign to wean me of my taste for luxury."

Tom had to smile at that. "Did you do your scribbling in London or Colchester?"

"London. It's easier to lose oneself in London." He stood up. "I lost my phantom pursuers."

"They picked up the scent again when you rejoined the regiment?"

"I didn't rejoin the regiment."

Tom whistled. "Strewth. You didn't sell out!"

Richard walked over to the hearth and knelt by the fire. "I was still on the muster, but I worked at writing till I turned twenty-one." He began methodically rebuilding the fire. His motions were clumsy. Hand hurting.

Tom did some rapid calculations. He and Richard had been born within a fortnight of each other. "January eighteen five, some months into the war. I recall I was surprised to find you with the Fifty-second."

"Surprised to find me using a different name." Richard poked the fire and was rewarded with a satisfactory pulse of light.

"I thought that was your affair."

"For which I thank you." As if blinded by the flames, Richard groped his way to the dining table. "Shall I light the candle?"

"If you wish," Tom said quietly. It occurred to him that Richard had found it easier to speak his piece in the dark. "You made the exchange on the proceeds of your other book, I collect."

"There were two more books, three altogether. I only claim one of 'em. I saved what they brought in and lived by copying letters and legal documents." He returned to the hearth and lit the candle with a spill. "I changed my name by deed poll." He took the candlestick in his left hand, cupping his right about the flame, and carried the candle to the table. "Better?"

"Thanks. Why Falk?"

"You mean, why not Fitz-something? I meant to stay in the army, so I tried to make it look like a simplified spelling rather than a name change. Old Craufurd's name was always being spelled different ways. Why not mine? I thought Folk would occasion less comment than something completely different."

I nearly made a joke of it, Tom thought, aghast.

Richard was saying, "The law clerk misread my scrawl as 'Falk.' I didn't correct him. The clerk at the Horse Guards was suffering from eye trouble and actually asked me how to spell it."

"Luck."

"It gave me three years free of the Ffouke family," Richard said simply. "How Sarah traced me I don't know."

"With the duke dead surely you'd no more cause to fear."

"Do you think I had cause?"

Tom met his friend's troubled eyes. "I don't know," he said honestly. "It's hard to believe a peer of the realm would..." His voice trailed off. Not a tactful thing to say.

Richard's mouth set. He pulled his left sleeve up to the elbow. "The bone the duke broke cut the skin. You can see the scar, rather faint, next to that sabre slash I took at Fuentes."

"You don't have to prove anything, Richard, and I would have believed you without the candle trick." Tom put conviction in every syllable, but he wasn't sure he would have credited the story if Richard had just blurted it out.

Richard's eyes dropped. He smoothed the sleeve.

"The duke is dead," Tom ventured. "Surely your eldest brother is not of the same stamp."

"I don't remember Keighley. He's fifteen years my senior. Lord John's a rakehell. Lord George was five when I left. They've no cause to love me or mine and some reason to wish me dead."

"Why?" Tom asked, bewildered.

"Because the duke left me out of his will."

"Did you expect a legacy?"

A wry smile twisted Richard's mouth. "It's a legal question. For all his rodomontade in the Abbeymont schoolroom, the duke neglected to blot me out legally. A tirade in front of nursemaids doesn't constitute repudiation of paternity. I'd lived twelve years as Lord Richard Ffouke. He should have branded me a bastard or cut me off without a shilling. That would have been final."

Tom blinked. "Upon my word, you should sue."

"For my 'share'? Don't be simple. I'm not his son. Besides, I'd no money then for lawyers, and I haven't now. Keighley--Newsham, I should say--could command the best in the realm. Or hire footpads. He writ me to that effect. I still have the letter."

"Lady Sarah informed you of the legal question. You've an ally."

"Sarah? She brought hell on me when I was twelve. I'm too old to play her games now." He spoke without rancour but with absolute finality. "I prefer a decent obscurity--for myself, and for Amy and Tommy, too. Believe me, Tom."

"It'll have to be Bevis, then."

"If there's no other choice." He shoved his hair out of his eyes. "I'll go to Mellings. I decided you were right, but I won't leave until Wednesday."

"That'll give you two days."

"Two days too many," Richard said with sudden bitterness.

"Go to sleep."

"Very well." He got clumsily to his feet. "Tell Sims it's his turn for the floor."

"A pallet?"

"Yes, by the fire. Very snug."

"Richard."

Richard turned back. He was cradling his left hand. "Shall I fetch something for you first?"

"No. If you were my father, Richard, I'd want to be able to say I'd met you."

He thought Richard flushed.

"Good night."

"Good night," Tom said to the ceiling. Sims was going to be late and rather drunk. Ample time for thinking. For the first time since the Chelsea surgeons had passed their death sentence on him, Thomas Conway found he wanted to think.