The Repentant Rake

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!'

    Christopher was moved. Even allowing for his brother's tendency to dramatise and exaggerate, he could see how shaken

    Henry was. The warning letter had left him thoroughly dazed. If and when the crisis blew over, it was possible that Henry might even start to mend his ways. That was another reason to come to his aid.

    'Do as I suggest,' said Christopher, 'then leave the rest to me. I'll not discuss this with anyone so your shame will not be noised abroad. Whatever you do, you must not give in to blackmail. It's a despicable crime and we'll catch the villain behind it.' He patted his brother's shoulder. 'Bear up. We'll come through this somehow.'

    'Will we?'

    'Of course.'

    Henry managed a pale smile of gratitude. Having shared his grim secret, he felt as if his load had been marginally lightened. Christopher was a younger brother who seemed, in many ways, much older than him. Where Henry was impetuous, Christopher was cool and objective. He was also an extremely resolute man. In the circumstances in which Henry now found himself, his brother was the ideal ally. Henry softened.

    'Forgive this whining self-concern,' he said with a gesture of apology.

    'I heard no whining.'

    'You have news of your own and all I can do is bury you up to the neck in my affairs. It's reprehensible on my part. What's this about a new commission?' His interest was genuine. 'In Northamptonshire, you say?'

    'Yes, Henry.'

    'How did you come by it?'

    'I was recommended by Elijah Pembridge.'

    'The bookseller?'

    'The very same,' said Christopher. 'Thanks to you, I was able to design his new shop and he was sufficiently pleased with it to pass my name on to a friend.'

    'Do I know the man?'

    'I doubt it. He was a colonel in Cromwell's army. He's been immured in the country for the last six or seven years and is only forcing himself to reside in London because he is looking to become a Member of Parliament.'

    'More fool him! What's his name?'

    'Sir Julius Cheever.'

    Henry was curious. 'Cheever? No relation of Gabriel Cheever, by any chance?'

    'Sir Julius could be his father, I suppose,' said Christopher. 'I know that he has a son called Gabriel but I also know that he's disowned him for some reason.'

    'Then it has to be the Gabriel I know.'

    'What makes you say that?'

    'No father would approve of such a son.'

    'Why not?'

    'Because Gabriel Cheever makes me look like the patron saint of chastity,' said Henry with a mirthless laugh. 'He's one of the most notorious rakehells in London.'

    'When do you intend to leave?' asked Susan Cheever.

    'In a day or so,' said her father. 'I've business in London.'

    'Where will you stay?'

    Sir Julius pulled a face. 'In Richmond.'

    'Lancelot is your son-in-law,' she told him with a note of mild reproach. 'You ought to make more of an effort to like him.'

    'I have difficulty liking Brilliana at times, so don't ask me to waste any affection on that blockhead of a husband.'

    'It was a good marriage for Brilliana. They're very happy together.'

    'How can any woman be happy with Lancelot Serle?' he demanded. 'Be honest, Susan. Would you accept a proposal from a posturing ninny like that?'

    She suppressed a smile. 'No, Father.'

    'Thank God I have one discerning daughter.'

    They were just finishing their meal in the dining room. It was a beautiful day and Sir Julius planned to spend the afternoon in the saddle, riding around the estate to see how his tenants were getting on in the hay fields. Though he had delegated most of the management duties to someone else, he liked to keep an eye on progress and knew that it always improved when he put in a personal appearance. Farming was what he knew best and loved most. Sir Julius needed to remind himself of that before he went off to the urban confines of London. He sipped his wine and looked fondly at Susan.

    'While we're on the subject,' he began, licking his lips, 'when are you going to follow your sister down the aisle?'

    She was dismissive. 'Oh, there's no hurry for that.'

    'Answer my question.'

    'I've answered it a dozen times already,' she replied. 'The time to get married is when I find someone whom I consider to be a worthy husband.'

    'You have plenty of willing suitors.'

    'Willing but unsatisfactory.'

    'Your standards are too high, Susan.'

    'Are you so eager to get rid of me?'

    'No,' he said. 'I'll miss you terribly if you go, but it would be wrong of me to stand in your way out of selfishness. Most young ladies of your age have a husband and children. Failing that, they are at least betrothed.'

    Susan's face tightened. 'I tried betrothal, Father. It was an ordeal.'

    'Only because you chose the wrong man.'

    'I seem to recall that he was chosen for me. That was the trouble. I was more or less talked into it by you