The Repentant Rake (2 page)

    'I'm
rather more than that, sir.'

    'So I
see.'

    'Elijah
tells me that you designed his new premises in Paternoster Row.'

    'That's
right, Sir Julius. The original shop was burned to the ground in the Great
Fire. It was a pleasing commission. He was a most obliging client.'

    'And
you, I understand, were an equally obliging architect. He found you polite and
efficient, able to give sound advice yet willing to obey his wishes. Thanks to
you, the place was built a month ahead of schedule.'

    'Only
because I chose a reliable builder.'

    'Such
men, I gather, are few in number.'

    Christopher
was circumspect. 'That's an exaggeration, Sir Julius. There are plenty of
excellent builders in London but they are, for the most part, already engaged
on the major projects that were necessitated by the Great Fire. Others, less
scrupulous, have flocked to the capital. Speculators are the real problem,' he
went on, a slight edge in his voice. 'Ruthless men who put commercial gain
before architectural considerations. They throw up whole streets of houses in
no time at all, augmenting their number by giving them narrow frontages and
small gardens. Simplicity is their watchword, Sir Julius. They erect identical
brick boxes for their clients. Whereas a true craftsman will build an
individual dwelling.'

    'That's
what I require, Mr Redmayne.'

    'Then
I'll be happy to discuss the matter with you.'

    'The
plot of land is already secured.'

    Christopher
nodded. 'So you said in your letter, Sir Julius. I took the liberty of visiting
the site. It's well chosen. You invested wisely.'

    'Not
for the first time, my young friend.'

    'Oh?'

    'I
have an instinct that rarely lets me down.'

    'You've
bought property elsewhere?'

    'From
time to time, but I was not thinking of the purchase of land.' He took a step
closer. 'The name of Colonel Pride is not, I dare say, unknown to you.'

    'Everyone
has heard of Pride's Purge,' replied Christopher. 'His hostility to the House
of Commons was given full vent when he expelled all those members from their
seats. I fancy that he gained much satisfaction from that day's work.'

    'Tom
Pride and I fought together,' said Sir Julius, 'but our friendship did not end
there. We went into business together. Colonel Pride was head of a syndicate
that secured a contract to victual the Navy. I was one of his partners.' He
gave a complacent smile. 'As I told you, farming is only one string to my bow.'

    Christopher
was grateful for the information. He had known that he had heard of Sir Julius Cheever
before but could not recall when and in what context. His memory was now
jogged. Sir Julius had been mentioned in connection with the Navy.

    'My
brother, Henry, dealt with your syndicate, I believe,' he said.

    Sir
Julius shook his head. 'Henry Redmayne? Don't know the fellow.'

    'He
holds a position at the Navy Office.'

    'Does
he?'

    'Henry
handled the victualling contracts at one point.'

    'They
were very profitable, in spite of a few ups and downs. So,' said Sir Julius,
appraising him afresh. 'You have a brother, do you? Any other siblings?'

    'None,
I fear.'

    'And
no family of your own, I'd guess. You have the look of a single man.'

    Christopher
grinned. 'Is it that obvious, Sir Julius?'

    'There's
an air of independence about you.'

    'Some
might call it neglect.'

    'Why
have you never married? Lack of opportunity?'

    'Money
is the critical factor,' admitted Christopher. 'I'm still making my way in my
profession and have yet to establish a firm enough foundation to my finances. A
husband should be able to offer a wife security.'

    'Quite
so,' agreed the other. 'Romantic impulse is all very well but a full purse is
the best guarantee of a happy marriage. That's the one asset my son-in-law does
actually possess. Lancelot has little else in his favour.' He gave a nod of
approbation. 'You're a practical man, Mr Redmayne. I admire that in you. And
after Elijah's recommendation, I have no qualms about your ability as an
architect. That brings us to the crucial question.'

    'Does
it, Sir Julius?'

    'Yes,
my young friend. What are your politics?'

    Christopher
gave another shrug. 'I have none.'

    'None
at all?'

    'Not
when I'm working for a client.'

    'You
have no views, no opinions on the state of the nation?'

    'Only
on the state of its architecture, Sir Julius.'

    'Every
sane man takes a stand on politics.'

    'Then
I'm the exception to the rule,' said Christopher with a disarming smile, 'for I
find politics a divisive issue. Why look for a reason to fall out, Sir Julius?
If we can come to composition over the design of a new house, that is all that
matters. My politics are immaterial. You'd be employing me as an architect, not
appointing me as the next Lord Chancellor.'

    Sir
Julius was so taken aback by the rejoinder that he goggled for a full minute.
Surprise then gave way to amusement and he emitted a peal of laughter that
filled the room. It was at that precise moment that his daughter entered. Susan
Cheever was clearly unaccustomed to seeing her father shake with mirth. She
blinked in astonishment at him. Christopher rose swiftly from his seat, partly
out of politeness but mainly to get a clearer view of the beautiful young woman
who had just sailed in through the door. Susan Cheever was a revelation. A
slim, shapely creature of medium height, she had none of her father's salient
features. For all his eminence, he was patently a son of the soil, but she
seemed to have come from a more ethereal domain. It was the luminous quality of
her skin that caught Christopher's eye. It glowed in the bright sunlight that
was flooding in through the windows. When she spoke, her voice was soft and
melodious.

    'I
wondered if your guest would be dining with us, Father?' she asked.

    'Oh,
yes,' he replied firmly. 'Mr Redmayne will not only be gracing our table at
dinner, he'll be here for the rest of the day. Mr Redmayne will need a bed for
the night as well,' he decided. 'I think I've found the right man at last,
Susan. He's just made the most politic remark about politics.'

    Sir
Julius laughed again but Christopher ignored him. His gaze was fixed on Susan
Cheever. Attired in a dress of blue satin whose close-fitting bodice advertised
her figure, she looked delightfully incongruous in a rambling farmhouse. Their
eyes locked for the briefest moment but it was enough to give him a fleeting
surge of excitement. Offering him a token smile, she left the room. Her
father's comment carried with it the seal of approval. If he were being invited
to stay the night, Christopher must have secured the lucrative commission. He
was thrilled. He would not only be designing a house for an interesting client,
he would have the pleasure of getting to know Sir* Julius Cheever's younger
daughter. The long ride to Northamptonshire had been more than worthwhile.

    He
could still smell the fire. It was almost two years since the fateful night
when he had been hauled from his bed to fight the conflagration but Jonathan
Bale still had that whiff of smoke in his nostrils. As he walked along the dark
street, he could even feel the heat striking up at his feet again from the
scorched ground. His clothing became an oven. Sweat began to trickle. Invisible
smoke clouded his eyes. He was untroubled. Jonathan was used to being tormented
by such memories. When he heard the crackling of the flames and the screams of
hysteria, he shook his head to dismiss the familiar sounds. The Great Fire
would burn on in his mind for ever. He had learned to live with it.

    'Will
it ever be the same again?' he asked.

    'What?'
grunted his companion.

    'Our
ward.'

    'No,
Jonathan. We've seen the last of the real Castle Baynard.'

    'Much
has been rebuilt, Tom.'

    'Yes,
but not in the same way. We lost homes, inns, churches, warehouses and the
castle itself. How can we ever replace all that?'

    'They're
doing their best.'

    'I
preferred it the way it was.'

    Tom
Warburton was a tall, stringy, humourless man. Jonathan was dour by nature but
he appeared almost skittish by comparison with his fellow constable. A
middle-aged bachelor with no interests outside his work, Warburton took his
duties seriously and discharged them with grim commitment. He was an effective
officer of the law but he lacked sensitivity and compassion. Jonathan Bale, by
contrast, cared for the inhabitants of his ward and took the trouble to
befriend many of them. While he was firm yet fair with offenders, Warburton was
merciless. Given the choice, the petty criminals of the area would always
prefer to be arrested by Jonathan. The bruises did not last quite so long.

    It
was late. Their patrol took them through the darkest parts of the district.
Candles burned in an occasional window and a passing link boy brought a sudden
blaze of light but they were, for the most part, making their way along
familiar streets by instinct. Warburton was not a talkative man. He liked to
keep his ears pricked for the sound of danger. It was Jonathan who always
initiated conversation.

    'A
quiet night,' he noted.

    'Too
quiet.'

    'Most
people are abed.'

    'But
not all of them with their lawful wives and husbands,' said Warburton sourly.
'The leaping houses will be as full as ever.'

    'We
can't close them all down, Tom. As soon as we raid one place, another opens up
elsewhere. And no matter how big the fine, they always have money to pay it.
Vice, alas, is a rewarding trade.'

    'I'd
like to reward every whore with a long term behind bars.'

    'It's
not only the women who are to blame,' said Jonathan. 'Many are driven to sell
their bodies by poverty or desperation. I could never condone what they do but
I am bound to feel sorry for them. It's their clients who are the real
culprits. Midnight lechers, buying their pleasures at will. If there were no
demand, the brothels would not exist. And if there were no brothels,' he added
darkly, 'there'd be a lot less drunkenness and affray. In the company of such
women, men are always given to excess.'

    Warburton
said nothing. His ears had picked up the noise of a distant altercation. Voices
were raised in anger, then a fight seemed to develop. The two men quickened
their pace. By the time they reached Great Carter Lane, however, the argument
had resolved itself. One of the disputants had been knocked to the ground
outside an inn and the other had rolled off cursing into the night. Before the
constables could reach him, the downed man dragged himself to his feet and
scuttled away down an alley. Violence was a regular event inside the Blue
Dolphin. This particular row had spilled out into the street to be settled with
bare fists. All that Jonathan and Warburton could do was exchange a sigh of
resignation and continue on their way. There would be plenty of other brawls in
their ward before the night was done.

    They
were walking down Bennet's Hill when Jonathan felt something brush against his
leg. It was Warburton's dog, a busy little terrier that always accompanied its
master on his rounds. Sam was an unusual animal. He never barked. During a
patrol such as this, he would disappear for long periods then materialise out
of thin air when least expected. Warburton treated the dog with a mute
affection. It was both his scout and his bodyguard. If his master were
attacked, Sam would come to his aid at once. More than one vicious criminal had
been put to flight by those sharp teeth. Having returned for a moment, the dog
scampered off down the hill and merged with the shadows. Jonathan knew where he
was going. Their walk would take them down to Paul's Wharf and there were
always vermin to catch beside the river. Sam would be in his element. When they
saw him next, he would be holding a dead rat in his jaws.

    Rebuilding
had begun in earnest. Since the Great Fire, twelve hundred houses had already
sprung up along with inns, warehouses and other buildings. Churches had yet to
be replaced. Almost ninety had been destroyed by the blaze, including the
church of St Benet Paul's Wharf. As they went past its charred remains,
Jonathan recalled how he had fought in vain alongside others to save it from
the flames. The loss of its churches was a bitter blow to the ward. While
religion slept, Jonathan believed sinfulness came in to take its place. He was
still musing on the impact of the fire when they finally reached the wharf. Sam
was waiting for them. They could pick him out in the moonlight. As they got
closer, they saw that he held something between his teeth.