Edward Marston - The Repentant Rake

Christopher grinned. 'It was an absolute triumph!'

'Was it?'

'Without question.'

'Congratulations, sir!' said Jacob, rising to a smile.

'I've been commissioned to design a town house for Sir Julius Cheever,' he explained, taking the parchment from his satchel. 'Here are some early sketches I made for him. They're very rough but they give me a basis from which to work. More to the point, Jacob,' he added shaking the satchel, 'my client insisted on giving me an advance payment. You'll be able to fill the larder and stock the wine cellar to your heart's content. We are solvent once more.'

'That's very heartening, Mr Redmayne.'

'Indeed if everything goes to plan, this commission could make me a man of moderate wealth. That will be a welcome change. Most of the money I've earned so far as an architect went to paying off old debts. I may now actually be able to save a portion of what I earn. What a novelty that will be!'

'Indeed, sir.'

'This commission could be a turning point of my career.'

'As long as you stay clear of highwaymen.'

'Oh, I will, Jacob. I give you my word. For the first time in my life, I'll actually have something worth stealing.' He looked at the drawings. 'Apart from my talent, that is. But it's so good to be back,' he continued, draining the glass of brandy. 'Sir Julius was very hospitable but this is the only place where I can work properly. I can't wait to make a start on the design for his house.'

'You may have to delay that pleasure for a little while, sir.'

'Why?'

'Because there's an urgent request from your brother.'

'Henry? What does he want?'

'He wouldn't tell me,' said Jacob, exploring an ear with his finger, 'but, from his manner, I think that I can guess what brought him here.'

'Was he in a pit of misery or a state of elation?'

'Neither, sir.'

'Strange. Henry seems to shuttle continually between the two extremes.'

'Mr Redmayne had a hunted look. More a case of desperation than misery.'

'Oh dear! That suggests only one thing.'

'Exactly, sir. He came to borrow money.'

'He must have lost heavily at cards again,' said Christopher ruefully. 'Why does he play games at which he has such consistent ill luck? Henry has a good income from the Navy Office and a generous allowance from our father, yet he will fritter it away at a card table.' He glanced up. 'Did he ask where I was?'

'Repeatedly.'

'What did you tell him?'

'Very little, sir. As instructed.'

'Goodman!'

'I merely said that you were visiting friends in the country.'

'No mention of Sir Julius Cheever, I hope?' Jacob shook his head. 'Excellent. I didn't want Henry getting wind of this latest commission until it was in the bag. It's bound to upset him. My brother seems to think that my career will only blossom if he has a controlling interest in it and, grateful as I am for the introductions he gave me to earlier clients, he must learn that I can act independently.'

'Mr Redmayne left a message for you.'

'Call on him immediately, no doubt.'

'Yes, sir.'

'At his home?'

'He'll be either there or at the Navy Office. He was most persistent.'

'Henry likes to keep me at his beck and call.'

'He drank three glasses of brandy while he was here.'

Christopher was surprised. 'Only three? That's abstemious by his standards. He must be out of sorts. Does he know when I was due back in London?'

Jacob smirked. 'I was remarkably hazy on that point.'

'That would have pleased him,' said Christopher with a chuckle. 'Well, Henry can stew in his own juice for a while. I have more important matters to consider than my brother's gambling debts. I have to design a wonderful new house. Clear the table, Jacob,' he said, getting to his feet and rubbing his hands with glee. 'I intend to start immediately' His eye fell on the satchel. 'Oh, yes. And put that money in my strongbox, please, just in case my brother drops in unexpectedly.'

To the astonishment of his colleagues, Henry Redmayne arrived early and stayed late at the Navy Office, throwing himself into his work with unaccustomed enthusiasm. It was rare that he treated his sinecure as a full-time commitment and even rarer that he lost track of time while he was sifting his way through documents and writing a series of letters. It was mid-evening when he finally came out into Seething Lane. There was another unusual development. An ostentatious man by nature, he always dressed for effect in the latest fashion, but he was now attired in what for him was remarkably sober garb. He had even dispensed with his periwig, hiding his balding pate beneath a wide- brimmed hat. The acknowledged peacock of the Navy Office was now a rather subdued blackbird with ruffled feathers, barely able to take wing. Mounting his horse, he nudged the animal into a steady trot.

On any other evening, Henry would have been looking forward to carousing with his friends, playing cards, drinking heavily, then rolling from one house of resort to another. Dedicated to pleasure, his appetite was insatiable and his stamina legendary, but neither would be on display that night. As he rode towards home, a mask of concentration replaced his normal haughty expression and a furtive look was in his eyes. More than once during the journey, he glanced over his shoulder as if afraid that he was being followed. When he came out through Ludgate, he kicked the horse into a gentle canter, anxious to get back to the relative safety of his home. Like his brother, he was a tall, well- featured man with hair of a reddish hue, but the signs of dissipation set him completely apart from his sibling. Nor did he have anything of Christopher's affability and even temper. Henry Redmayne was a born sybarite, proud, arrogant, self-indulgent and, though capable of acts of true kindness, a confirmed egotist. None of those qualities were in evidence now. The overweening confidence had fled. He was a worried man, skulking home with terror in his heart.

Fleet Street merged into The Strand and he breathed a sigh of relief. He would be there in a mere minute or so. He longed to be able to close his front door behind him and shut out a world that had suddenly become hostile. He needed time in which to think and a refuge that was inviolable. Swinging right into Bedford Street, he caught sight of his house, but the further comfort it afforded was illusory. As he got closer, he saw two figures emerging from the door to stroll towards a waiting coach. Arthur Lunn and Peter Wickens were the last people he hoped to encounter, but a meeting was unavoidable now. The two men had seen him and hailed him aloud.

Henry reined in his horse and exchanged greetings with his two friends.

' 'Sdeath!' exclaimed Lunn. 'Where have you been, man? A funeral?'

'No, Arthur,' said Henry.

'Then why dress in those appalling clothes? Had I not recognised your face, I'd have taken you for a parson or a haberdasher.'

'Or a devilish pawnbroker,' suggested Wickens.

'I've been working at the Navy Office,' explained Henry over their brittle laughter. 'It's been a most tiring day so I beg you both to excuse me.'

Wickens was stunned. 'Do I hear aright? Henry Redmayne pleading fatigue?'

'It's never happened before,' said Lunn with a roguish grin. 'The ladies still speak of you with awe, Henry. I wish I had your reputation.'

'It's more than a reputation you need, Arthur,' warned Wickens.

Arthur Lunn chuckled at the coarse innuendo. He was a short, swarthy, pop-eyed man in his forties with flamboyant attire that accentuated rather than hid his portly frame. Ten years younger, Peter Wickens was slim, sharp-featured and decidedly elegant. Debauchery had left its mark indelibly on both of them. They were fit companions for the Henry Redmayne of old but they had picked the wrong day on which to call.