"I'm sorry for it. I've felt a twinge or two of apprehension myself." Richard closed the
door and went to the table. He propped himself against the edge. "Do you recall the letter I
showed you from Newsham's man of business?"
"Very clearly." Wilson shifted in his chair. The wood creaked. "For God's sake, Richard,
what have you done?"
"What have
I
done?" Richard drew a breath and said in a carefully reasonable
voice, "Apart from conveying the children and Mrs. Foster out of harm's way, I've been sitting here
writing."
Wilson leaned forward, hands on his knees. "Blast you, tell me what has
happened!"
Richard complied, tersely, with a minimum of detail. There was no emotion in his voice,
and Wilson had learned to mistrust that. As the tally of events unfolded Wilson's stomach churned,
nor was Richard as cool as he sounded. His hand cramped on the edge of the scabrous table.
"Why did you not come to me at once?" Wilson burst out. "At
once,
when
Newsham tampered with your publisher. Newsham broke his
word
to me. I'd have
exposed him, I promise you." He stopped, choked with indignation.
Richard was examining the toes of his boots. He raised his eyes. "There's been a small
problem of doubt, has there not, Wilson? You acted for me this summer because it looked as if I'd
be unable to act for myself. I was grateful to you. I still am."
"Richard--"
"But I could not risk doubts and hesitations. I had to act."
Silence lay between them.
"I've had help," Richard continued. "My friend--"
"Lord Clanross." It was a guess, but Wilson had had weeks to reflect on their last
meeting.
Richard's brows drew together. "Tom had it in his power to provide a hiding place for
the children. I'd not like his name to come into this, Wilson, if you please. He's not a well
man."
Wilson nodded. He was hurt by Richard's failure of trust.
"My first impulse was to take my children abroad at once, without telling anyone, so that
Newsham would lose the trace. Tom suggested another course. It was his plan that I compose a
thinly disguised memoir which he would have privately printed in Dublin."
"Dublin!"
"Tom is convenient to the Irish packet--he's still fixed in Lancashire--and we thought it
unlikely Newsham's surveillance of printers extended to Ireland. There was no thought of
publishing the memoir." Richard brushed his hair from his forehead.
"Blackmail."
Richard's hand dropped. "If you like, though I believe blackmail involves making threats
of exposure for gain."
The room had no hearth and was cold in the frosty October afternoon, but Wilson's face
burned. "I beg your pardon."
Richard shrugged and went over to the window. "That was Tom's plan, to give me the
freedom and the means to embarrass Newsham. However, it would have taken a great deal of time.
I still write slowly. Even if I writ like lightning, making a book is a tedious business. I could not
expect Mrs. Foster to absent herself from Wellfield House for months. She has had to give over the
management of her son's estate to her father."
"What course
did
you take?"
Richard regarded the chimney pots and the dark bulk of the next house with grave
attention. "Tom still supposes I'm holed up in some village writing my
roman à clef
in secret."
Wilson was not stupid. "Instead you've been sitting here like a dashed decoy, waiting for
another assault."
"I thought I might come to Newsham's attention if I hid out in an obvious way." Smiling a
little, Richard went to the table and straightened the papers on it. "You know, Wilson, I once
earned my bread for a sixmonth by copying documents, and writing letters at tuppence a shot. It's
not a lucrative profession. A fortnight ago I hired a copyist. I wasn't sure he was dishonest, but he
looked hungry enough to be susceptible to Newsham's bribery." Richard's mouth twisted. "I'm a
good judge of character."
"He betrayed you? Has there been another assault?"
Richard nodded. "Last evening."
"You might have been killed!" Wilson burst out. "For the love of God, Richard!"
"I was prepared for them." A defensive note crept into his voice. "This time I had my
man, McGrath, by me. He's been following me home discreetly every evening from that inn down
the street. When he saw my attackers McGrath rushed into the fray. He enjoys a brawl." A real
smile lit his eyes. "They were the same two Mohawks who jumped me outside Judy Cassidy's
lodging house." The smile faded. "Newsham ought to be more careful of his tools."
"Were you hurt?"
"A few bruises. Nothing to signify. We, er, detained one of the culprits. The other
escaped, unfortunately. I'm less than adept at one-armed wrestling."
Wilson drank that in. "You're mad, Richard, utterly mad."
Richard took the other chair. "Do you think so? I had a long talk with my assailant last
night. He is now reposing at Newgate and seems inclined to be frank."
Wilson studied his brother-in-law's thin, composed features. "Surely he cannot identify
Newsham."
"Oh, no. I rather fancy his principal to be Lord George, though no names were uttered.
My attacker has made a full confession, and claims he can point out the man who bought his
services." Richard was rubbing the smooth silk of the sling with absent fingers. He looked up.
"That surprises you."
"I'd not have expected Newsham to act in his own person, but I confess I thought better
of George."
"He's been stupid, certainly."
Depressed, Wilson kept his silence. He could believe George's stupidity. It was the
malice that surprised him.
Richard was watching him again from eyes that were shadowed with weariness. The sharp
October light made the toll of his ordeal all too plain.
Wilson rose. "My carriage is below. Will you come with me to Newgate? I'd like to hear
the man's story at first hand."
Not a tactful thing to say. Richard's jaw was set.
Hastily Wilson added, "I wish to be sure of details before I write Newsham of George's
conduct. Shall you drop the charges?"
"If possible. I thought I might have to bring an action--"
"If I refused to persuade Newsham to deal with you. I see. You need not have doubted
me in the face of such clear evidence of malice."
To his surprise his brother-in-law flushed and looked away. "I beg your pardon, Wilson.
God knows, I have reason to trust you. This past month has been a little difficult."
It was an apology of sorts. Wilson had come prepared to wrest an apology from Richard.
He wondered why there was so little savour in it. "Well, come along, then. We can discuss our
strategy in the carriage."
Richard took his coat from the chair back and shrugged into it. He did not try to put his
right arm through the sleeve.
Watching the struggle, Wilson felt a stab of anger with Lord George that fairly shook
him.
"I must speak with McGrath. Go down to your coachman. I'll meet you in the street
directly. The devil, I nearly forgot."
"What?"
"My blackmailing screed." He bent over the stack of papers on the table. "This is a fair
copy of the first fifty pages. I told you I was slow. You may need it."
Wilson reached for the sheaf. "I daresay Newsham has his own copy by now."
"Or Lord George." Richard handed Wilson the manuscript copy. For an unsmiling
moment their eyes met.
"I shall have Newsham's head in a basket," Wilson said tightly. "He broke his word to
me."
Richard's mouth relaxed. "Lead on."
Wilson returned to his town house before six with the stench of Newgate in his nostrils
and wrath stiffening his backbone. It was one thing to contemplate criminality in the abstract and
quite another to confront it in the flesh, whining for mercy and babbling betrayals.
Sarah met him in the foyer.
"I've seen your brother. He's well and his children are safe," Wilson said, answering the
question in her eyes.
"Oh, thank God. Tell me."
"Will you await my explanations, my dear? I've been to Newgate Prison and I shan't be fit
for decent company until I've had a hot bathe and fresh linen."
"Richard is not in gaol!"
"No, but it's a complicated business. Please, Sally."
"I'll tell
Maman
you've found them." Sarah's voice trembled. "But do not dally,
Robin, I beg you." Sarah and Wilson had been ten days in Town, having failed to trace Richard and
the children from Hampshire. The duchess, drawn by Sarah's apprehensive letters, had only arrived
two days before.
Rather more than an hour later Wilson had completed his toilet and written Newsham a
blunt note requesting the duke to call next morning. He thought he had revealed enough to ensure
Newsham's response. That accomplished, Wilson descended to the withdrawing room in which,
according to his man, his wife and mother-in-law awaited him.
Wilson made his bow to the dowager. Pulling the tails of his correct blue evening coat
aside, he sat on the gold-striped sopha opposite her throne, a gilt chair with armrests which was
reserved for her exclusive use.
As always the dowager sat very upright. Her small, slipper-shod feet rested on the striped
satin cover of the footstool and her elegant hands were clasped decorously in front of her. She had
dressed for dinner in some glowing fabric--shot silk perhaps--of a shade between brown and green.
She wore a turban of the same hue. The fabric brought out the brilliance of her hazel eyes, which,
bright and calm, were fixed upon Wilson.
Sarah was not calm. She had been seated at her mother's side when he entered. Now she
jumped up from her perch and fairly flung herself onto the sopha by his side.
"Where are they, Robin?"
"The children? I don't know, my dear. Richard didn't tell me. I gather that Mrs. Foster
and her son and aunt are with them."
"Thank God. If anything had happened to them--"
"Did my son account for his extraordinary conduct, Robert?" the dowager interrupted,
her measured tones overriding Sarah's emotional outburst.
The sounds and stench of Newgate were still vivid in Wilson's mind. He drew a long,
purifying breath and explained what he knew. Sarah punctuated his tale with distressed
exclamations. The dowager said nothing. She watched him, unwinking as a Buddha. She had gone
rather white, however, and when he came to his interview with the imprisoned footpad she closed
her eyes briefly. Wilson could have sworn her lips formed a name, but no sound reached
him.
"I've asked Newsham and George to meet me here tomorrow at eleven," he concluded.
"Richard will drop the charges when Newsham can be brought to agree to his terms."
"Then he means to prevent a scandal?"
Wilson met the dowager's brilliant gaze. "I believe so. If Newsham cooperates."
"He will cooperate," the dowager said with finality.
A brief silence ensued. Sarah broke it. "Is Richard coming early?"
"He's not coming here at all. He agreed to let me deal with Newsham."
"If I were Richard I'd want to
see
Newsham writhe," Sarah burst out.
"If you were Richard you'd probably wish to strangle Newsham." Wilson gave Sarah's
hand a reassuring squeeze. It was ice cold. "At first Richard asked me to arrange a meeting. It was
my idea to spare him the interview. He has been under considerable strain, and I doubt Newsham is
capable of dealing with him civilly."
Wilson thought of the carriage ride from Newgate, Richard still and tense in the corner
seat. It had occurred to Wilson that Newsham's arrogance might well prove the last straw. With
that in mind he had volunteered to deal with Newsham alone, but he had half expected a sharp
setdown.
Instead Richard stared at him with painful intensity. "Should you be more likely to
succeed without me?"
After a moment Wilson said honestly, "I think you need have no apprehensions either
way. George's marplot has put Newsham in your hands. Name your terms. I'll convey them for
you."
"When?"
"Tomorrow morning."
Richard drew a ragged breath. "Very well. If you will be so kind." And, after a pause,
"I've been afraid I'd lose my temper and say something actionable."
"Or draw his grace's noble cork?"
"Or worse." Richard did not smile.
"I have my own bone to pick," Wilson said comfortably. "Let me at him."
"Fire-eater." Richard leaned back against the squabs, eyes closed. "I'll have to have a
guarantee of some sort."
"Yes, in writing." The carriage swayed turning a corner and Wilson, who was leaning
forward, grabbed the strap. "Tell me your terms, Richard."
"They haven't changed. No interference of any kind with me or my children or my
friends." He opened his eyes and smiled at Wilson. "Or with any publisher unlucky enough to take
me on. I nearly forgot that."
"Nothing else?"
"My God, isn't that enough?"
Wilson cleared his throat. "You're too easy by far."
"I'm out for peace, not revenge," Richard retorted. "Revenge is too damned exhausting.
Boring, too. Have you ever read
The Revenger's Tragedy?"
"Beaumont and Fletcher?"
"Tourneur, I think. Tedious stuff. Pure fustian."
At that very literary conclusion Wilson had to laugh. As they came once more to the
noisome street in which Richard's quarters lay, Wilson turned the conversation to practicalities.
Remembering the footpads, he waited until Richard had disappeared into the house, then caused his
coachman to drive home.
Now, safe on his own turf, Wilson met the dowager's enquiring gaze. "I expect a
response from Newsham before dinner, if he has not gone out to his club."
"We need not spoil
our
dinner with waiting. Richard will be very much obliged
to you, Robert, as I am." The duchess added, in measured tones, "You are a man of sound good
sense."