The Repentant Rake

    'Yes, Mr Redmayne,' she said, handing over the letter that she pulled from her sleeve. 'It arrived just before Father did.'

    'What does she say?'

    'Miss Hemmings declines my invitation.'

    Christopher looked at the distinctive handwriting and felt a surge of triumph. 'It is just as well,' he said. 'For she will be quite unable to meet you now.'

    Unaware of developments elsewhere, Henry Redmayne was still suffering the torments of the damned. He writhed in unremitting pain. A blackmail demand had been issued and a death threat made. All that he needed to compound his misery was an unexpected visit from his censorious father. If the Dean of Gloucester were to arrive on the heels of Lord Ulvercombe, he thought, he would at least be on hand to identify his son's dead body. He rebuked himself yet again for his folly in writing so passionately to his mistress. It had earned him a night of ecstasy but the memory of that was of little practical use to him; indeed, he now looked back on it with dread. Lady Ulvercombe had been a spirited lover but an indiscreet one. At least, he consoled himself, he would never have to see her again.

    The sound of the doorbell made him jump from his chair in the dining room. When his brother was shown in, he clasped him like a drowning man about to go under the water for the last time.

    'Praise God!' he exclaimed with unaccustomed sincerity. 'You're back.'

    'And I bring glad tidings, Henry,' said Christopher.

    'You found my letter?'

    'No, but I've brought one that may turn out to be far more important. The crisis is past,' he announced. 'You can breathe freely again.'

    'What do you mean?'

    'The killer has been arrested. He's languishing in a prison cell. In addition to that, we've stopped any further extracts from the diary being printed.'

    Henry was not reassured. 'How does that help me?'

    'The death threat has vanished.'

    'Not if my billet-doux finds its way to Lord Ulvercombe.'

    'I doubt if that will happen, Henry,' said his brother. 'The man who has it will be too busy trying to make his escape when he learns that his accomplice is behind bars.'

    'And who is this man?'

    'We are still not quite certain,' admitted Christopher.

    'Then why come rushing in here to announce a false dawn?'

    'Are you not pleased that we have captured a vicious killer?'

    'Of course,' said Henry petulantly. 'The only thing that would make me more pleased would be to hear that Lady Ulvercombe was locked up in the same cell with him. I hear no relief in what you tell me. Whoever has that letter holds the whiphand over me.'

    'Not for much longer.'

    'You do not even know who he is.'

    'I'm fairly certain who his accomplice is. Arrest her and we will get to him.'

    'Her?' said Henry. 'A woman is involved?'

    'That calligraphy was too neat for a man's hand,' explained Christopher. 'When I sniffed the letter sent to Peter Wickens, I caught a faint whiff of perfume.' He clicked his fingers. 'Where are the blackmail demands sent to you, Henry?'

    'Why?' '

    'I need the second one now.'

    'I carry both of them with me,' said Henry, rummaging in his pocket. 'As a penance.' He found the letters and handed them over. 'Take them.'

    Christopher found the second of the two demands and set it on the table, placing the letter to Susan Cheever beside it. There was no possibility of error. The same hand had written both letters. Over his shoulder, Henry noticed a signature.

    'Celia Hemmings!'

    'She got hold of your billet-doux.'

    'How?'

    'By accident, probably,' said Christopher. 'Do you remember putting Lady Ulvercombe in touch with her regarding a chambermaid?'

    'Vaguely.'

    'The girl had worked for Miss Hemmings and her first loyalty was to her. My guess is that she stumbled upon your letter, sensed its potential and gave it to her former mistress. That's putting the kindest construction on it,' he conceded. 'It's just as likely that Miss Hemmings instructed her to look for compromising material. She is clearly well versed in the art of blackmail.'

    'I'll throttle her!' yelled Henry.

    'You'll do nothing of the kind.'

    'Celia Hemmings is a witch!'

    'She's a very cunning woman,' said Christopher with a hint of admiration. 'She took me in completely at first. But you can stay here, Henry. Having finally unmasked her, I insist on being the one to confront Miss Hemmings. Jonathan Bale can have the pleasure of making the actual arrest.'

    'I want to be there, Christopher!'

    'No.'

    'I need to repossess that letter before anyone else sees it.'

    'I'll take care of all your correspondence,' said Christopher, putting all three letters into his pocket. 'Besides, Miss Hemmings may not have Lady Ulvercombe's letter. It may well be kept by her accomplice. I suggest that you stay here and toast your release. Send for the best wine in your cellar, Henry.'

    'I drank it all during my ordeal.'

    'Then send out for more. You can afford it now that you will not have to pay five hundred guineas. Enjoy your freedom.'

    'What I want to enjoy is the sight of Celia Hemmings being apprehended.'

    'Leave that to Mr Bale and me.'

    'Why do you need him? Take me instead.'

    'He's earned the right, Henry, He's also made a new friend in Sir Julius Cheever.'

    'A friend?'

    'Yes,' said Christopher, 'they both fought with Cromwell at Worcester. Jonathan Bale has been sharing memories of the battle with him.'

    'I hope they remembered that the wrong side won,' said Henry sourly. 'Warn your bellicose constable not to compare memories of that undeserved victory with Arthur Lunn or he may stir up a nest of hornets.'

    'Why?'

    'Arthur was captured at the battle and imprisoned in Worcester Cathedral. He's still very bitter about it. So is Peter Wickens, I seem to recall. He lost his only brother in that battle. Mr Bale had better not boast about his military record to them.'

    'Mr Bale boasts about nothing.'

    'You'll not show my letter to him,' said Henry with sudden panic.

    'No, Henry. He would blush to read it.'

    'Let me come with you to make sure.'

    'Stay here and celebrate. This is a wonderful moment for you.'

    'It is at that,' said his brother as the implications began to sink in. 'I feel that I have been reborn. All that I need is to have Celia Hemmings roasting on a spit and my joy would be complete.' He gave a cackle. 'I have just had a wicked thought. Arthur Lunn was so lucky to have been imprisoned in Worcester Cathedral. Had he been incarcerated in Gloucester, our dear father would have bored him to death with his interminable sermons.'