Edward Marston - The Repentant Rake

There was a tap on the door and a nervous servant popped his head in. 'You have a visitor, sir.'

'Send him away!' snarled Henry.

'Is that altogether wise?'

'Do as I say, you imbecile. Get rid of that baboon-faced barber. I'll not be shaved by him today. I'm likely to tear the razor from his grasp and cut my own throat.'

'But it's not the barber who's here, Mr Redmayne.'

'Turn every visitor away. I'll see no one.'

'Not even your brother, sir?'

Henry jumped to his feet. 'Christopher?' he yelled. 'Why didn't you tell me, you idiot? Show him in straight away and make sure that we're not disturbed for any reason. Do you understand?'

The servant nodded and backed gratefully out. Seconds later,

Christopher came into the room, hiding his weariness behind a warm smile. Henry bore down on him.

'Where've you been, man!' he demanded.

'Furthering my career, Henry.'

'I needed you here.'

'Why? Do you wish to commission a new house from me?'

'No,' moaned his brother. 'I'm more likely to lose the one I have than be able to afford a new one.' He crossed to the door, snatched it open to make sure that there was nobody in the hall, then slammed it shut again. 'We must talk, Christopher.'

'I came as soon as I could.'

'Did Jacob tell you how urgent it was?'

'Yes, Henry. He also guessed the reason for that urgency.'

'I doubt that.'

'Come now,' said Christopher, putting a consoling hand on his arm. 'Everyone knows your weakness. You will play card games for which you are singularly ill-equipped. What little skill you possess is vitiated by an endless run of bad fortune.' He shook his head sadly. 'How much do you owe this time?'

'If it was only a gambling debt!'

'You mean that it isn't?'

'No, Christopher,' admitted Henry, crossing to drop into his chair. 'It's worse than that. Far, far worse. I'd hardly summon you here for help in clearing a debt incurred at the card table. That would be a mere trifle.'

Christopher was sympathetic. 'So what is the problem?'

'I can hardly bring myself to tell you.'

'Dismissal from the Navy Office? Serious illness?'

'Both would be preferable to the situation in which I find myself.'

'What situation?' said his younger brother, sitting beside him. 'I can see that you're in earnest. Tell me all.'

'In a moment.' A resentful note sounded. 'Where on earth did you go?'

'Northamptonshire.'

'Whatever for?'

'In pursuit of a commission.'

'A commission? Your brother is facing disaster and your only response is to run off to Northamptonshire in pursuit of a paltry commission.'

'It's far from paltry, I assure you.'

'It's meaningless beside the agony that I'm suffering.'

'Is it?'

'Yes,' said Henry, grabbing his shoulder. 'You must help me, Christopher.'

'That's why I'm here.'

'God knows how, though! There seems to be no way out.'

'Out of what, Henry?'

His brother sat back in his chair and ran a hand through his thinning hair. Like Christopher, he had had a sleepless night, but his had been entirely unproductive. Fear had kept him awake through the dark hours. Pale, haggard and unshaven, he looked ten years older than his real age. It took him some time to summon up the courage to speak. When he finally did his eyes were darting with apprehension.

'First, I must extract a promise from you,' he said.

'Promise?'

'Nothing of what I say – nothing, Christopher – must ever find its way to the ears of our father. He preaches enough sermons at me as it is. If the old gentleman knew the position I find myself in now, he'd excommunicate me on the spot and, worst of all, terminate the allowance that he so reluctantly sends me.'

Christopher was frank. 'Father's allowance would be less reluctant if he felt that it was being spent wisely, Henry. He's the Dean of Gloucester. He expects you to behave like the son of a senior churchman.'

'What am I supposed to do? Sing hymns at the card table?'

'Moderate your way of life.'

'Not while I have blood in my veins.'

'I, too, have blood in my veins,' said Christopher defensively, 'but I do not expend my time and money in so reckless a manner.' He checked himself and gave an apologetic smile. 'I'm sorry, Henry. I don't mean to sound like our dear father. And, of course,

I'll not breathe a syllable of what you tell me to him. You can trust me.'

'I have to trust you. There's nobody else I can turn to.'

'For what?'

'Compassion and understanding.'

'I give those freely.'

'You may not do so when you hear the ugly truth.' He thrust a hand into his pocket and took out a letter. 'This arrived out of the blue two nights ago. It came like a musket ball between the eyes.'

'Why?'

'It's a demand for money, Christopher. A missive that I incautiously sent to a certain lady has fallen into the wrong hands. It's very explicit. If I don't pay handsomely for its return,' he said, handing the letter to his brother, 'then it will be passed to the lady's husband. You can see how fatal that would be.'

Christopher read the name. 'Lord Ulvercombe?'

'A duel would be unavoidable. He's already accounted for two adversaries.'

'His wife will surely deny all allegations.'

'She did that on both previous occasions but it did not stop her vengeful husband from issuing challenges. No man likes to be cuckolded but Ulvercombe takes resentment to unreasonable lengths.'

'How did your letter go astray?'

'I've no idea. The little minx swore that she'd destroy it.'

'Does the lady know of this attempt at blackmail?'

'No. Nor must she. I don't wish to drag her into it at all.'

'But she might be able to tell you who stole the letter from her. If you can unmask the rogue who sent you this,' said Christopher, holding up the letter, 'you can confront him and demand your private correspondence back.'

'We're not merely talking about my billet-doux, alas.'

'No?'

'Read it to the end.'

Christopher did and sat up with a start. When he shot a glance at his brother, Henry was hiding his face in both hands.

Christopher could understand his shame as well as his horror. He put the letter down in front of him.

'This looks bad, Henry,' he whispered.

'It's a calamity!'

'How many of those things are true?'

There was a long pause. 'Most of them,' confessed Henry.

'Most or all?'

'Does it matter?'

'I think so.'

Henry lowered his hands. 'I expected you to be on my side.'

'I am on your side,' said Christopher, 'and I'll do everything I can to help, but I must know the truth. How many of these allegations have any substance to them?'

'All of them.'

'Could anyone prove that these things actually happened?'

'If they had reliable witnesses.'

Christopher raised a censorious eyebrow. 'How could you be so careless?'

'Step down from the pulpit. You're sounding like father again.'

'That's the last thing I wish to do. You need assistance, not condemnation.'

'At this moment,' wailed his brother, 'I feel in need of the services of an undertaker. This has ruined me. To all intents and purposes, Henry Redmayne is dead. I'll never be able to hold up my head again.'

'Yes, you will,' Christopher assured him.

'How?'

'By nipping this blackmail in the bud.'

'And how am I supposed to do that?'

'I've told you. By learning the identity of the man who wrote this and taking any incriminating documents away from him.' He glanced at the letter. 'The fellow seems uncannily well informed about your movements. He must be someone from your inner Circle. There are detailed descriptions of your peccadilloes here.'

'An invasion of my privacy.'

'You should have been more discreet.'