The Repentant Rake

    'It is more than enough,' cried Kemp. 'It's my death threat, Henry. If that account is ever published it will spell the death of my marriage, my reputation, my place in society and everything that I hold most dear. My whole inheritance is at risk. Dear God!' he exclaimed. 'What will my children think of their father?'

    'They will know him for what he is, Marcus.'

    'That's no consolation, you rogue. I came for sympathy, not scorn.'

    'Your case is not as desperate as you imagine,' said Henry enviously. 'What will your wife learn that she has not already guessed? You spend so little time with her that she must know you have been out carousing with friends.'

    'With friends, perhaps, but not with female company. My wife is easily duped. Whenever I got back late,' he explained, 'I told her that I was talking politics with colleagues from Parliament. The dear lady believed me. Until now.' He looked down at the printed page. 'But how convincing will that excuse be when she reads this?'

    'The most gullible wife would not be deceived.'

    'Then you understand my predicament.'

    'I share it, Marcus. I, too, am mentioned in that account. Not that publication would have any power to hurt me,' he said, waving a hand. 'I shall be dead by then.'

    'Dead?'

    'Cut down by the same hand that murdered Gabriel Cheever.'

    'Not if you pay up, Henry,' said Kemp, reaching a decision. 'That's what I intend to do. Hand over a thousand guineas.'

    'But the demand was for five hundred.'

    'A second letter came with A Knight at the Theatre. The price has doubled.'

    'That's iniquitous!'

    'It will be worth every penny if it stops this ruinous material being printed.'

    'Supposing it does not?'

    'It must, surely?'

    'Where is your guarantee?'

    'I have a gentleman's agreement.'

    'You can only have that with a gentleman, Marcus, and we are dealing with a callous murderer here. My brother Christopher has warned me against paying anything. If we give in to blackmail once,' stressed Henry, 'we'll be trapped. The villain will go on squeezing money out of us until he has bled the pair of us dry.'

    'Will he?'

    'You would do the same in his position.'

    'I'd never be in the same position,' retorted Kemp, hurt at the suggestion. 'Damn it, man, I've seen you and all my other friends in the most compromising situations but I'd never dream of exploiting that knowledge for gain. It's against all decorum.'

    'We are not dealing with decorum here,' said Henry grimly.

    'I know that.' He snatched up the paper. 'How on earth did he catch wind of all this?' he said in dismay 'Was he hiding beneath the bed?'

    'No, Marcus.'

    'Up the chimney, then? It would be less painful, if it were not so hideously well written. Look at it, Henry,' he said, tossing it back on the table. 'We'll be the laughing stock of London if this is ever sold. The villain who penned this knows how to wound with words.'

    'Yet that was not his intention.'

    'It must have been.'

    'No, Marcus,' said Henry. 'My brother explained it to me. A

    Knight at the Theatre was written for private consumption, not with any thought to publication. It is an extract from a diary kept by Gabriel Cheever.'

    'The devil it is!' shrieked the other.

    'It appears that he kept a careful record of all his nights of revelry. Someone killed him to get their hands on his diary. I can see why now.'

    Kemp blanched. 'You mean, there is more?'

    'Far more, I suspect, and even more damaging than,4 Knight at the Theatre.'

    'Then I might as well run myself through with my sword,' confessed Sir Marcus, putting both hands to his head. 'Gabriel witnessed everything. He was with us at the theatre when we invited those impudent ladies to dance naked for us in private. He watched those wonderful breasts bobbing magically in the candlelight. He saw me fling off my own clothes and sat there while you and Amy Dyson ran to the bed and-'

    'Yes, yes!' interrupted Henry. 'There's no need to remind me.'

    'Gabriel must have had a hundred such tales to write.'

    'They will all be used against us, Marcus, be certain of that. You and I are the first victims but others will soon trail in our wake. Arthur Lunn and Peter Wickens have roistered even more than us. So has Gilbert Sparkish,' said Henry, throwing out the first names that came into his head. 'They, too, will certainly have a place in Gabriel's diary. There'll be others in the same plight as us before long.'

    'A thousand guineas from each of us? He'll make a fortune.'

    'Only if we are weak enough to pay.'

    'I'd hand the money over right now!' declared Kemp.

    'What happens when he sends you a second page from the diary?' asked Henry.

    Kemp was in torment. After playing anxiously with his wig, he tore it off and flung it down, revealing a bald pate with a defiant tuft of hair at its centre. There was no defiance in the man himself. Shocked and humiliated, he sat back in his chair and looked towards heaven. A thought then nudged him.

    'Were you the first to receive a threat?' he said.

    'What of it?'

    'I seem to recall that a letter was involved.'

    'It was,' admitted Henry gloomily. 'A billet-doux sent on a foolish impulse.'

    'To whom?'

    There was an embarrassed pause. 'A married lady, Marcus.'

    'Which one?' asked Kemp. 'You sniff around so many.'

    'Her name is irrelevant. The point is that the letter fell into the wrong hands.'

    'How?'

    'I wish I knew!'

    'So you're not being blackmailed with an extract from Gabriel's diary?'

    'Not yet,' said Henry ruefully. 'That time may yet come.'

    Kemp was puzzled. 'Why was your life threatened?'

    'I think I've worked that out. The man who strangled Gabriel Cheever has no need to murder me. He simply has to show that letter of mine to a certain husband. He's a vengeful man,' said Henry apprehensively. 'He'll insist on a duel. That's why the blackmailer does not need to kill me, Marcus. An angry husband will do the job for him.'

    For two days, Lucy Cheever barely left her room. The funeral had been a severe trial for her and she lay prostrate on her bed for most of the time. Even her maidservant was only allowed limited access to her. Lucy's collapse aroused mixed feelings in the household. Sir Julius was at once sad and relieved, sorry that she was suffering so badly but glad to be left alone to nurse his own woes. Before he learned more about his daughter-in-law, he wanted to clarify his feelings about his son. Lancelot Serle was sympathetic to the young widow but Brilliana was more critical, unable to accept that a secret marriage entitled Lucy to the attention she was receiving and unwilling to embrace her in the way that Susan had done. Brilliana bickered so much on the subject with her father and sister that Sir Julius was on the point of ordering her out of the house. Serle anticipated him and, in a gesture that earned a rare compliment from his father-in-law, more or less hustled his fractious wife into their coach to take her back to Richmond.

    The atmosphere in the house improved markedly. As if sensing the fact, Lucy made her appearance on the third day, apologising profusely for imposing on her hosts and for remaining out of sight. Susan Cheever took her off to her own room so that they could talk in private. While Lucy sat in the chair, she perched on the bed.