The Amorous Nightingale

    Henry was shocked. 'What I do, I do out of brotherly love.'

    'I'm delighted to hear it.'

    'I seek nothing in terms of monetary recompense.'

    'That is very altruistic of you, Henry,' said the other politely, 'but I am bound to recall the way that you brokered the deal with Sir Ambrose Northcott. Brotherly love was ever your cry on that occasion, too, but it did not stop you from arranging to have a percentage of my fee paid surreptitiously to you.'

    'Sir Ambrose thrust the money upon me. What could I do?'

    'Be more honest with your brother.'

    'I was, I am and evermore will be.'

    'So no understanding has been reached with Mr Hartwell?'

    'None, Christopher. I give you my word.'

    'Then I will hold you to it.'

    'That will not be necessary.' He scrutinised his appearance in the mirror. 'Have you ever seen a finer sight? I do believe that I will outshine the King himself this afternoon. Henry Redmayne - Baron Cynosure.'

    Christopher let him twist and turn in admiration for a couple of minutes before speaking. He loved his elder brother. With all his faults and foibles, Henry Redmayne was an endearing man in many ways. Both of them were tall, slim and handsome but the resemblance ended there. While Christopher's face shone with health, Henry's pale and ravished countenance betokened a life of studied degeneracy. The former's luxuriant dark brown curling locks had a reddish hue, whereas the latter's rapidly thinning hair obliged him to seek the cover of an expensive periwig. The earnest manner of the younger brother was in complete contrast to the easy cynicism of his sibling. One was dedicated to his work as an architect, the other to a life of idle pleasure. They inhabited quite separate worlds.

    Christopher knew the futility of even attempting to reform his brother. He had grown so accustomed to Henry's sybaritic existence that he hardly recognised it as a vice any more. Someone else in the family, however, was less tolerant of Henry's shortcomings.

    'I had a letter from Father this morning,' said Christopher.

    'Why does the old gentleman always write to you, not to me?'

    'Because I always have the grace to reply.'

    'So do I,' retorted Henry petulantly, 'when his missives are civil. But that is all too rare, I fear. If only Father could forget - albeit briefly - that he is Dean of Gloucester. He will insist on treating a letter as a pulpit from which he can denounce me for my sins.'

    'Then do not give him cause for that denunciation.'

    'Would you have me betray my instincts?'

    'I would have you exercise a little discretion,' advised Christopher. 'Father wrote to tell me that he intends to visit London shortly and means to call on both of us. Especially on you.'

    'Why me?' gasped Henry, flying into a mild panic. 'Are there not sinners enough in the county of Gloucester to keep him busy? The last thing I need is a prying parent, watching over my shoulder, calling me to account. I'll not be judged, Christopher!' he declared, waving an arm. 'Keep the old gentleman away from me. Tell him that I have temporarily quit the city. Tell him that I am performing military service abroad on behalf of my country. Tell him that I am on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. Tell him anything you choose, but save me from his damnable sermons!'

    'Father has a right to call on you.'

    'What about my rights?' wailed the other. 'And my freedom?'

    'It is the use to which you put that freedom which is bringing Father to London. I say no more,' added Christopher. 'I simply wished to give you fair warning.'

    Henry shivered involuntarily. 'Of impending catastrophe,' he moaned. 'They say that disasters come in threes. First we had the Great Plague. Then the Great Fire. Now we have the Great Visitation from the Dean of Gloucester, descending out of heaven in a blaze of righteous indignation like an avenging thunderbolt.'

    'You can hardly compare Father's visit with the plague and the fire. They were disasters that affected the whole city. The only person likely to suffer this time is you, Henry.'

    'I am already sweating as if I have the plague and smouldering as if I am trapped in the fire. Let us away, Christopher,' he ordered, pulling open the door of a closet to extract a broad-brimmed hat whose crown was bedecked with plumes. 'Father coming to London? How can I enjoy myself when I have this dire threat hanging over me? It has made every part about me quiver with apprehension.'

    He confronted the mirror for the last time in order to place the hat at the correct angle. Standing at his elbow, Christopher checked his own appearance. He was smart, well groomed and dressed in the latest fashion but his attire had nothing of the vivid colour and ostentation of Henry's. The latter favoured a vermilion coat, whose large cuffs were adorned with an intricate pattern, over a waistcoat of red and gold silk. The breeches were dark blue above a pair of mauve stockings. Even the butterfly bows on his shoes were a minor work of art. Christopher estimated that his brother had lavished more on his apparel for an afternoon at the theatre than the young architect spent in six months.

    Henry grimaced and stroked his wispy moustache.

    'I suppose that I will pass muster,' he said dully.

    'A moment ago, you were boasting that you would out- dazzle the King himself in your fine array.'

    'That was before I heard the tidings about Father.'

    'Are they so unsettling?' said Christopher.

    'Terrifying!' He swung on his heel and headed for the door. 'Still, there's no help for it. Come, brother. This afternoon's business may at least give me a chance to impress Father.' Sailing through the front door, he gave a curt nod to the servant who held it open for them. 'I'll secure that commission for you and Christopher Redmayne can continue his valuable work of helping to rebuild this ruined city.'

    'Nothing would please me more, Henry.'

    'Sing my praises to Father.'

    Christopher grinned. 'Like a heavenly choir.'

    He fell in beside his brother as they strolled towards Drury Lane, the one marching purposefully with a confident stride while the other strutted importantly and assumed an expression of total disdain.

    'We should have taken a carriage,' decided Henry.

    'For so short a journey? A needless indulgence.'

    'Indulgence is a mark of good character.'

    'And bad housekeeping,' argued Christopher. 'Why spend money on the unnecessary when it might be saved for the truly essential?'

    'Cutting a dash is truly essential.'

    'We must agree to differ on that, Henry. As on so many other things.' A thought struck him. 'By the way, you have not told me the name of the play we are about to see.'

    'It is irrelevant.'

    'Does it have no title?'

    'Who cares?'

    'I do,' said Christopher seriously.

    'Forget the play,' decreed Henry with a lordly gesture of his hand. 'Remember that you are not going to the theatre to watch a troupe of mangy actors, practising their craft. You are there to ensnare Jasper Hartwell in order to part the fool from as much of his undeserved wealth as you can. As for me,' he said, revelling in the attention he was getting from passers-by, 'I never visit a theatre for the purpose of seeing. I am there simply to be seen.'

    The two brothers moved on, linked by ties of blood but separated by almost everything else, walking side by side towards a critical meeting with a potential client, mixing hope with enjoyment, ambition with display, sensitivity with arrogance, serenely unaware of the perils that lay in wait for them at The Theatre Royal.