The Repentant Rake

    '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.'

    'An invasion of my privacy.'

    'You should have been more discreet.'

    'I was. Most of the time, anyway. Heavens!' Henry protested, snatching the letter back. 'How can any of us remember to look over our shoulders when the wine is rich and the company enticing? A man is entitled to his pleasures without being spied on by some evil little blackmailer.' He thrust the letter back into his pocket and looked more dejected than ever. 'What am I to do?'

    Christopher took pity on him. Some of the revelations in the letter had shocked him even though he was aware of Henry's love of revelry. The affair with Lady Amelia Ulvercombe was both foolhardy and dangerous, and she was not the only married woman with whom his brother's name was linked. Christopher imagined how their father, the moralistic Dean of Gloucester, would react if the information fell into his hands and he vowed to do all he could to prevent that from occurring.

    'Make a list of your intimates,' he advised.

    'Why?' said Henry. 'No true friend would betray me.'

    'Someone did. If I'm to help, I need to be more familiar with your circle, Henry. I know that Arthur Lunn is a crony of yours. Peter Wickens, too, and Gilbert Sparkish, if memory serves me. Who else? Sir Marcus Kemp?'

    'Sir Marcus would die to save my reputation.'

    'Let me be the judge of that,' said Christopher. 'I'll not badger you now but I must have a list of names so that I can begin my enquiries. Take heart, brother. It may not be as bad as you envisage.'

    Henry shuddered. 'Oh, it is. Believe me.'

    'Meanwhile, carry on as if nothing had happened.'

    'But something has happened,' complained Henry, close to hysteria. 'My whole future is in the balance. I can hardly pretend that I'm not concerned about the threat.'

    'That's exactly what you must do,' urged Christopher. 'Don't give this rogue the pleasure of seeing you suffer, Henry. Fight back. Put on a brave face and show him that you're not so easily discomfited.'

    'But I'm terror-stricken!'