28

"Richard! A pleasant surprise. Come in, come in." Sir Robert greeted him cheerfully.

His brother-in-law entered the bookroom dusty from his ride and unsmiling.

"Ought you to have ridden this far so soon?" Wilson's outstretched hand dropped. Something was wrong. "I could have sent the carriage for you, you know. Sarah will be glad to see you again, and the duchess has just come as well." He heard himself chattering and broke off.

"Timely." Richard took a paper from the breast pocket of his riding coat. "This came in the post, sir. I wish you to read it."

"Sir?" Bewildered, Wilson took the sheet of paper and read the clear, clerkly hand through twice. "I don't see...Whatley is Newsham's man of business."

"So I surmised."

"I don't understand," Wilson repeated.

"Don't understand what?"

Wilson was still blank with incomprehension. "The duke's reasons."

Richard gave a short, ugly laugh. "Does he need reasons? What do you suggest I do?"

Wilson gathered his wits. "I didn't foresee...that is--"

"He's offering me a bribe to leave the country."

"I daresay it can be construed that way." Wilson glanced at the letter once more.

"How else can I construe it?"

"As a settlement."

"I don't require a settlement of Newsham." Richard's voice was cold with fury. "I require to be left in peace. And I do not choose to take my children to North America."

Wilson drew a breath. "Now, don't be hasty."

"Thank you." Richard took the letter from him. "I can see the sort of advice I may expect from you. Good day, Wilson."

"Why must you leap to conclusions?" Wilson fairly shouted. "By God, you try me too far. Give me the blasted letter."

"There's no point."

"The letter, if you please." He held out his hand. After a moment Richard shrugged and gave it back. He stalked over to the nearest window to glower down at the formal garden.

Wilson reread the letter. It was couched in language as formal as the garden. "It may be that Newsham has come to feel he owes you a settlement," he murmured, thinking aloud. "This could be taken as proof..."

Richard whirled, eyes blazing. The right sleeve of his coat flopped. "What would it take to convince the lot of you that I want nothing at all to do with the Ffouke family? Nothing means nothing."

Wilson felt his own temper rise again. "Do you include Sarah in your ban?"

"It was Lady Sarah who called my children to Newsham's attention--"

"That's not true--"

"And to the dowager's attention," Richard snapped. "Is there a difference? I don't question Sarah's motives, just her judgement."

"You're mad with suspicion, Richard. It poisons your judgement."

Richard stared at him for a long time. "Give me the letter, then, and I'll take my suspicions elsewhere." He held out his good hand. After a pause Wilson returned the letter.

He felt absurd, as if they had been passing schoolboy messages back and forth. Richard's mouth set in a hard line. He smoothed the letter and shoved it into his jacket.

"Richard, my dear!" Sarah, in the doorway.

Both men turned to her.

"Sally," Wilson began, warning.

Richard executed an exaggerated bow, sleeve flopping again. "Lady Sarah. I was just leaving."

Sarah flinched and cast Wilson a beseeching glance. He was suddenly very angry indeed. He contrived to keep his voice low, however. "Go back to the withdrawing room, Sally. I'll be with you directly."

"But Maman..." She looked from one to the other. Sarah was not slow-witted. "Very well. If it's Newsham again, Richard, I think you ought to acquaint Maman with the matter. In any case, you owe her some degree of civility. I'll tell her you're here." She left, her shoulders stiff with hurt dignity.

Wilson found he was trembling. All the pent-up resentment he had suppressed, all the exasperation of a bystander caught up in someone else's quarrel, possessed him. "I've had enough of your rag-manners and more than enough of your melodrama, Richard. By God, I have. Newsham has made you an offer. In a mean-minded, left-handed way, it might even be construed as generous, though I can see no reason why you should accept it. Decline, politely if possible, and put it out of your mind. That is my advice to you. Now, if you please, I'll accept your apology."

"I apologise for coming." Richard's tone was not conciliatory.

Wilson was not a quarrelsome man by nature. He was beginning to regret his own hot words. "'Left-handed' was not well chosen, nor 'melodrama'." He shook his head and went over to the table which bore the sherry tray. He poured a glass. "Sherry?"

"No."

"Then you'll have to pardon me. I need a soothing draught before we face the ladies." He took a careful sip. "Ah. I beg your pardon if I used intemperate language, Richard. I think your apprehensions ill-founded, but I don't mean to dismiss them out of hand. Shall I ask Newsham to explain himself? I daresay he is still at Abbeymont, but I could write him."

"That won't be necessary. I'll follow your advice and write Whatley a fulsome letter declining the offer."

Stung, Wilson set his glass down. "I said nothing of fulsome letters."

"I beg your pardon. A civil letter."

Wilson mistrusted that. It was too carefully emotionless. But he did not wish to provoke further hostilities, and said, conscious that he sounded pompous, "I believe it to be the wisest course. If there are consequences, I trust you'll tell me so at once."

Richard did not reply.

"Well, well, we shall see." Wilson cleared his throat. "What do you hear from your publisher?"

"The galleys should be ready in a fortnight or so."

"Splendid. I'm looking forward to reading the book. By the by, I see from the Times that your friend, Major Conway, has succeeded to the earldom of Clanross. I had no idea he stood in the line of succession."

"What!" Richard was startled out of his impassive pose. He took a half step toward Wilson, frowning deeply.

"Did you not know?" Wilson indulged in another, soothing swallow of sherry. "It has set the Ton by the ears. Lord Clanross drowned on Lake Lucerne a fortnight ago, according to the Times. He had eight daughters. Your friend was the next male heir."

"My God."

Wilson set his glass down again. "You don't sound pleased."

Richard said flatly, "Tom is dying. He doesn't need to waste the time he has left haggling with lawyers."

Wilson was taken aback. "I'm sorry. A war injury, I collect."

Visibly distressed, Richard nodded without speaking.

"I'm sorry," Wilson repeated. "How easy it is to misread another man's fortune. I daresay Conway will be envied by the ignorant."

Richard rubbed his forehead. "I daresay."

Wilson rose. "Well, well, that is by the way. The ladies await us. Come and make your bow to the dowager, and, Richard..."

Richard looked at him, eyes dark.

"Try not to be too insulting. Your mother has already spiked Newsham's guns for you once. Best keep on her good side."

Richard's mouth was tight, but he said nothing.

Wilson sighed, and led the way to the withdrawing room.

Wilson watched his mother-in-law. The dowager duchess had at all times a great deal of charm, and she now made a desultory attempt to exercise it on her son. On any other occasion, Wilson would have found her failure amusing, but Richard's blank indifference made Sir Robert extremely uncomfortable and distressed Sarah. The dowager did not reveal his feelings. She rarely did.

Neither mother nor son had seen one another in twenty years. To all appearances the reunion was as affecting as the presentation of a minor consul at a minor court. Sarah looked bewildered and unhappy, the duchess, after the first show of animation, cool. Richard addressed his mother as "your grace," and left after a mere quarter of an hour without mentioning Newsham's letter.

Wilson went out with him and waited whilst the groom retrieved Richard's horse. Both men stood silent.

"The dowager stops with us another fortnight," Wilson ventured when the silence began to pall.

"What? Ah, lucky for you. I say, Wilson, did the Times happen to mention where Tom was? Tom Conway," he added, impatient, when Wilson betrayed incomprehension. "The Earl of Clanross...Of all the stupid, unnecessary accidents. I daresay he can't refuse an earldom."

Wilson stared. He might have known better than to expect effusions of filial sentiment from his brother-in-law. The poor duchess. She did not perhaps deserve a great deal of this son, but she deserved something more than absolute indifference.

Wilson almost voiced his indignation, but at that point his groom led Richard's nag to the mounting block, and Wilson, taking a close look at the spavined beast, burst out, "Where in the devil did you find that?"

"Hired it. You cannot expect me to keep stables."

"But Mrs. Foster--"

"I'm not living with Mrs. Foster," Richard snarled.

"I didn't mean to imply..." Wilson took a breath. "You have a genius for forcing the worst possible construction on people's words. I meant, as you very well know, that you could hire a loose box from Mrs. Foster. You'll be requiring a horse. Indeed, I'd be glad to mount you. You can ride one of my hacks until you have time to buy your own."

"No." Richard swung into the saddle and adjusted the reins one-handed. "Thank you."

His sympathies thoroughly alienated, Wilson turned and stomped back into the house. Enough was enough.

But not quite.

Three weeks later Wilson, at Sarah's urging, drove over to Mellings Parva to make his peace. He found Richard gone. The cottage was locked and the grass overgrown. At Wellfield House he discovered that Mrs. Foster, her son, Richard's children, and their personal servants had also vanished. The housekeeper eyed him curiously. No, she couldn't say where they'd gone or how long they'd be away. Visiting Mrs. Foster's kin, likely. She couldn't say for sure. They'd left in an almighty hurry, certainly.

Wilson felt the stirrings of panic. Visions of forcible abduction, even murder, flashed before his mind's eye. He was not a prey to melodramatic suspicions, however, and he soon assured himself that Mrs. Foster and the children had departed in Sir Henry Mayne's carriage accompanied by Miss Mayne. Colonel Falk, it appeared, had left earlier, separately, for London. A perfectly ordinary set of circumstances.

No need to worry.

Wilson told himself that half the way to Knowlton, and the rest of the way home, having granted the unlikelihood of the coincidence, worked himself into a fury with Richard. "Mark my words, your brother has inveigled that innocent lady into an unnecessary flight."

Sarah was white as curds. "Newsham."

"Newsham has nothing to do with it. They left in Mrs. Foster's father's carriage. No, my dear, they have not been abducted--unless your dear brother Richard has abducted them. He's mad as a March hare. Ought to be clapped into Bedlam."

"Where have they gone?"

"I don't know and I don't care. Richard," Wilson pronounced "may go to the devil, with my blessing."

"I shall drive over to see Sir Henry Mayne."

"Oh no, my dear, you'll do no such thing. Nor will you go running to your mother with this fairy tale. We shall both stay out of your brother's affairs from now on."

At that Sarah flew into the boughs and they had a terrible quarrel, their first serious brangle in seven years of marriage. It left them frightened and spent. They clung to one another, appalled by the storm of fury, and repentant, both of them.