The Repentant Rake by Edward Marston Page B

new house from me?'
        'No,'
moaned his brother. 'I'm more likely to lose the one I have than be able to
afford a new one.' He crossed to the door, snatched it open to make sure that
there was nobody in the hall, then slammed it shut again. 'We must talk,
Christopher.'
        'I
came as soon as I could.'
        'Did
Jacob tell you how urgent it was?'
        'Yes,
Henry. He also guessed the reason for that urgency.'
        'I
doubt that.'
        'Come
now,' said Christopher, putting a consoling hand on his arm. 'Everyone knows your
weakness. You will play card games for which you are singularly ill-equipped.
What little skill you possess is vitiated by an endless run of bad fortune.' He
shook his head sadly. 'How much do you owe this time?'
        'If
it was only a gambling debt!'
        'You
mean that it isn't?'
        'No,
Christopher,' admitted Henry, crossing to drop into his chair. 'It's worse than
that. Far, far worse. I'd hardly summon you here for help in clearing a debt
incurred at the card table. That would be a mere trifle.'
        Christopher
was sympathetic. 'So what is the problem?'
        'I
can hardly bring myself to tell you.'
        'Dismissal
from the Navy Office? Serious illness?'
        'Both
would be preferable to the situation in which I find myself.'
        'What
situation?' said his younger brother, sitting beside him. 'I can see that
you're in earnest. Tell me all.'
        'In a
moment.' A resentful note sounded. 'Where on earth did you go?'
        'Northamptonshire.'
        'Whatever
for?'
        'In
pursuit of a commission.'
        'A
commission? Your brother is facing disaster and your only response is to run
off to Northamptonshire in pursuit of a paltry commission.'
        '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