The Repentant Rake (35 page)

    'You
will soon be able to sleep as long as you want,' said Christopher.

    'In
my coffin?' Henry gave a mirthless laugh and brought the conversation to an
end. When the visitors took their leave, Wickens seemed to be in two minds.
Christopher hoped that his own advice would be followed but he feared that it
would not be. Henry, too, was on the verge of paying the demand. He would not
hold out much longer.

    Walking
side by side, they headed for The Strand. Henry was more nervous.

    'I
wish that I had not remembered that death threat,' he complained.

    'The
fact that you were able to forget it so easily shows its true worth.'

    'Let's
walk faster.'

    'Why?
The streets are empty at this time of night.'

    'I
feel suddenly afraid.'

    'When
you have me beside you?' said Christopher, patting him on the back. 'We are both
armed. There was a time when you were quite skilled with a sword.'

    'I
still am.'

    'Then
walk as if you know it, Henry. Show some confidence. Exhibit fear and you
invite assault. Put out your chest,' he encouraged 'and strut along as if you
own the city. That is your usual gait.'

    Trying
to obey the advice, Henry almost tripped himself up before he reverted to the
mincing step he had used since they left Wickens's house. On the journey back
to Bedford Street, he was harassed and furtive. Only when they reached his
front door did he allow himself to relax.

    'Thank
you, Christopher,' he said. 'Will you come in?'

    'No.
Jacob will be waiting for me.'

    'High
time you had a young woman waiting for you, not a decrepit old servant.'

    'Jacob
is not decrepit.'

    'A
woman would give you a sweeter welcome.'

    'I'll
have to take your word for that, Henry.'

    After
an exchange of farewells, Christopher set off in the direction of Fetter Lane.
The encounters with Arthur Lunn, Sir Marcus Kemp and Peter Wickens had each
been instructive but his mind rejected all three of them in favour of Susan
Cheever. It was she who would defeat time most pleasantly during his walk.
Christopher was glad that she had confronted him about the way he had kept certain
things from her. It showed spirit on her part and exposed his mistaken
assumption about her. Susan was no weak vessel who had to be shielded from
disturbing news. Christopher was sorry that his behaviour had upset her and
resolved to be more open with her in the future. He felt that their
conversation at his house had strengthened the bond between them. Susan Cheever
occupied his thoughts in the most delightful way.

    It
was not until he reached Fetter Lane that he realised he was being followed.

    Christopher
Redmayne could hear no footsteps but he was certain that someone was behind
him. He had no idea how long he had been followed and he chided himself for his
lack of alertness. Fond thoughts of Susan Cheever had taken his mind off the
possibility of danger. It now threatened. A tingling sensation went right
through him. Quickening his pace, he reached for his dagger. Before he could
even take it out of its sheath, however, his hat was knocked off from behind
and Christopher felt something being looped swiftly round his neck. The sudden
attack took him completely by surprise. It was a moment before he realised what
was happening. A rope was chafing his neck and making it difficult for him to
breathe. It was being tightened inexorably. Whoever his adversary might be, the
man was strong and purposeful. Christopher began to choke. The pain was
agonising. When he felt a knee in his back, he was spurred into action. If he
did not strike out now, he would be strangled to death.

    Pummelling
with both elbows, he struck his assailant's chest so hard that the pressure on
the rope eased slightly. Christopher got one hand inside it to gain himself
more relief. He was panting for breath and the blood was pulsing in his temples
but he could not rest. As the man renewed his attack, Christopher twisted
sharply to the left and threw him off balance, kicking out with one leg as he
did so. It tripped his adversary up. Falling to the ground, he pulled
Christopher after him, but he had lost the advantage now. The rope was no
longer a murder weapon. Christopher rolled over to deliver a relay of punches
with both hands, forcing the man to release the rope altogether. The blows drew
grunts of pain and Christopher felt blood spurt over his knuckles when they made
contact with a nose. With a yell of rage, the man fought back, punching, biting
and scratching at Christopher's face before flinging him aside with an upsurge
of energy. He leaped to his feet and snatched out a dagger but Christopher was
equally nimble, jumping up and producing his own weapon to ward off his
attacker.

    While
the man circled him, Christopher at last had some idea of whom he was up
against. It was too dark to see the other's face clearly but he could make out
the solid body and the broad shoulders. The man was young, powerful and
experienced in fighting. One mistake would cost Christopher his life. Arms
spread wide, he moved round on his toes. When the dagger jabbed at him, he
stepped back quickly out of range, using his own weapon to prod the man away
when he tried to close in. It was a tense encounter. Christopher was
handicapped by the searing pain round his neck. He could still feel the way
that a knee had thudded into his spine. This was no random assault. He sensed
that he was up against the same assassin who had squeezed the life out of
Gabriel Cheever. His sympathy for the dead man increased tenfold. Christopher
now had some idea of what his ordeal must have felt like. He had no intention
of succumbing to the same fate.

    Instead
of waiting for the next jab, he went on the attack himself, moving round in
search of an opening before feinting a thrust at the chest. When his assailant
brought up his dagger to parry the strike, Christopher stabbed him in the arm
and drew the loudest cry yet from him. His response was immediate and frenzied.
Rushing at Christopher and roaring with anger, he slashed wildly at him,
forcing him to dodge and weave. Christopher was elusive but the dagger
nevertheless sliced open his sleeve, drew blood from his shoulder and grazed
his forehead. The man became even more desperate, cursing, jabbing and kicking
out simultaneously. He was losing blood freely. As the wound in his arm began
to smart unbearably, he shifted his dagger to the other hand and lunged once more.
Christopher was ready for him. Parrying the thrust with his own weapon, he
seized the man's wrist and swung him in circle so that he could fling him
against the wall of a house. The impact stunned the man momentarily and his
dagger clattered to the ground. After kicking it away, Christopher threatened
him with the point of his own dagger.

    'Who
sent you?' he demanded.

    'Nobody,'
growled the man.

    'Was
it Arthur Lunn?'

    'I'm
bleeding to death,' said the other, holding his wounded arm.

    'Tell
me the truth.'

    'I
need help.'

    'Did
you kill Gabriel Cheever?'

    
'I'm
dying
!'

    Nursing
his arm, the man bent double. He was obviously in great pain. Christopher
relented and let his weapon drop to his side. It was a mistake. Diving straight
at him, the man butted him in the stomach and sent him reeling back. It took
all the wind out of Christopher. By the time he had recovered himself, it was
too late. Abandoning the field the man had sprinted round the corner and
disappeared into the night. Christopher tried to give chase but there was no
sign of his attacker. His own injuries now made themselves known. His neck was
still painful, his face was scratched his shoulder gashed. He could feel a
trickle of blood down one cheek. Bruises seemed to be everywhere. Retrieving
the rope and the dagger discarded by the man, he picked up his hat and trudged
slowly back to his house.

    When
Jacob saw his master by candlelight, he made an instant and accurate appraisal.

    'Heavens!'
he exclaimed. 'What happened, sir? You look half dead.'

    Henry
Redmayne had his first complete night's sleep for over a week. It restored his
spirits. Awaking refreshed, he felt much more ready to face the trials of the
day ahead. He decided that his brother's advice was sound. Defiance was the
watchword. He would not give in to the demands of a blackmailer. As soon as he
thought of the repercussions, however, his resolve crumbled. Lord Ulvercombe
would come after him. The letter to his wife had boiled over with passion.
Henry regretted that he had ever sent it but the lady herself had asked for
some sign of commitment. He had given it to her and reaped the reward the same
night. In retrospect, it had all been a hideous error. Henry blamed her. If the
letter had been so important to Lady Ulvercombe, why had she let it go astray?
Her carelessness might land her quondam lover in a duel that he was bound to
lose.

    Sitting
up in bed, he bewailed his misfortunes, but he was not permitted to wallow in
self-pity for long. There was thunderous knocking on the door before it burst
open and Sir Marcus Kemp charged into the bedchamber with two servants plucking
at his arms as they tried unsuccessfully to restrain him.

    'Whatever
is going on?' demanded Henry.

    'Get
these lackeys off me!' howled Kemp.

    'I'm
sorry, Mr Redmayne,' said one of the men. 'He forced his way in.'

    'Why?'
asked Henry.

    'Because
I need to see you,' said Kemp.

    'Could
you not at least wait until I had risen, Marcus?'

    'No,
Henry. This will brook no delay.

    Henry
saw the despair in his face. It was the expression of a spaniel that had just
been run over by the wheels of one coach and sees another approaching. Snapping
his fingers, Henry sent the servants on their way then reached for his wig.
Even though he was still in his night attire, he wanted to have a shred of
dignity. Kemp stamped across to the bed and glared down at him.

    'Did
you know about this, Henry?' he asked.

    'About
what?'

    'This
brainless scheme of your brother's to catch the blackmailer.'

    'Well,
no,' lied Henry. 'What is Christopher supposed to have done?'

    'He
has ruined everything,' said Kemp, holding up a letter. 'Instead of simply handing
over my thousand guineas, he and an accomplice set a trap and I am the one who
has been caught in it.'

    'What
do you mean, Sir Marcus?'

    'This
letter came this morning. It's another demand for money.'

    'How
much?'

    'A
thousand guineas.'

    Henry
whistled through his teeth. 'Another thousand!'

    'As a
punishment, he says. Because I tried to deceive him, I have to pay the amount
all over again and this time I have to hand it over in person. Damnation!'
protested Kemp, flinging the letter on to the bed. 'I was not responsible for
any deception. All that I wanted to do was to buy this rogue off.'

    'Christopher
did warn you that there would be another demand.'

    'Only
because of his folly.'

    'I
disagree, Marcus.'

    'If
he had obeyed the instructions, everything would have been fine.'

    'I
doubt that.'

    'Take
him a message from me!' Kemp ordered.

    Henry
shrank back into the pillow. 'Could you stand further off and shout less?' he implored.
'All this commotion is giving me a headache.'

    'What
do you think that letter gave
me?
'

    'Permit
me to read it and I'll hazard a guess.'

    Henry
picked the letter up and ran his eye over the contents. He soon blenched. The
tone was harsh, the demand peremptory. What startled him was that his brother
was mentioned by name. He ran a tongue over lips that had suddenly gone very
dry.

    'You
knew
,' concluded Kemp, watching his reaction.

    'Not
exactly, Marcus.'