The Repentant Rake (8 page)

    Jacob
peered at the neat lines. 'It's a fine-looking house, sir.'

    'Well
worth losing a night's sleep over.'

    'I
don't agree.'

    'You're
not an architect.'

    'That's
why I'll live much longer than you, Mr Redmayne. Learn from your brother's
example. Burn the candle at both ends and you'll suffer as a result.'

    'Yes,'
conceded Christopher, 'long nights have certainly left muddy footprints all
over Henry's face, but I have something to show for my endeavour. These.' He
pointed at the pile of drawings. 'I still have a long way to go but I now have
an exact image in my mind of how the building will look.'

    'I'm
surprised that you can still keep your eyes open, sir.'

    'I
could work for a week without sleep on this project.'

    'Where
shall we bury your body?' asked Jacob drily.

    Christopher
laughed then gave a first involuntary yawn. Aches and pains began to afflict
him at last. The fingers of his right hand were stiff. His mouth felt dry, his
stomach hollow. He put down his stick of charcoal and shrugged his shoulders.
'Enough is enough.'

    Jacob
was solicitous. 'I'll fetch a cordial then you can retire to bed.'

    'Only
for a few hours.'

    'You'll
need half a day to recover from this folly.'

    'That
may be, Jacob, but I'll have to take it at a later stage. Now that I've made such
valuable progress,' he said as another yawn burst forth, 'I can think of
someone apart from myself. I must pay a visit to my brother. Much as I hate the
idea of being asked for money by Henry, there are familial obligations. The
least I can do is to hear his tale of woe. Apart from anything else, if I go to
Bedford Street, it will stop him coming here to interrupt my work.'

    'Why
not simply send a message?' suggested Jacob. 'I'll gladly take it.'

    'Henry
would never be fobbed off by a letter.'

    'So
what will you do?'

    'Snatch
three or four hours' sleep,' said Christopher, stretching himself and hearing
the bones crack slightly. 'Wake me up then and I'll visit my brother. There's
no point in going any earlier. Henry never rises before mid-morning.'

    Wearing
a thick dressing gown and an expression of utter despair, Henry Redmayne sat at
the table in his dining room over a breakfast that remained untouched. His
servants were amazed to see him up so early and they had the wisdom to keep
well out of his way. Irascible at the best of times, their master was in a most
choleric mood. The barber who would arrive to shave him at ten would be in for
an especially testing time. Nobody envied him. Sagging in his chair, arms on
the table, Henry was staring glassy-eyed at potential catastrophe. He could not
remember when he had felt so oppressed. It was a numbing experience. He was so
caught up in his predicament that he did not hear the front door bell ringing.
Henry was floating helplessly on a sea of self-pity.

    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.'