The Repentant Rake by Edward Marston Read Free Book Online

Redmayne was a born sybarite, proud, arrogant,
self-indulgent and, though capable of acts of true kindness, a confirmed
egotist. None of those qualities were in evidence now. The overweening
confidence had fled. He was a worried man, skulking home with terror in his
heart.
        Fleet
Street merged into The Strand and he breathed a sigh of relief. He would be
there in a mere minute or so. He longed to be able to close his front door
behind him and shut out a world that had suddenly become hostile. He needed
time in which to think and a refuge that was inviolable. Swinging right into
Bedford Street, he caught sight of his house, but the further comfort it
afforded was illusory. As he got closer, he saw two figures emerging from the
door to stroll towards a waiting coach. Arthur Lunn and Peter Wickens were the
last people he hoped to encounter, but a meeting was unavoidable now. The two
men had seen him and hailed him aloud.
        Henry
reined in his horse and exchanged greetings with his two friends.
        '
'Sdeath!' exclaimed Lunn. 'Where have you been, man? A funeral?'
        'No,
Arthur,' said Henry.
        'Then
why dress in those appalling clothes? Had I not recognised your face, I'd have
taken you for a parson or a haberdasher.'
        'Or a
devilish pawnbroker,' suggested Wickens.
        'I've
been working at the Navy Office,' explained Henry over their brittle laughter.
'It's been a most tiring day so I beg you both to excuse me.'
        Wickens
was stunned. 'Do I hear aright? Henry Redmayne pleading fatigue?'
        'It's
never happened before,' said Lunn with a roguish grin. 'The ladies still speak
of you with awe, Henry. I wish I had your reputation.'
        'It's
more than a reputation you need, Arthur,' warned Wickens.
        Arthur
Lunn chuckled at the coarse innuendo. He was a short, swarthy, pop-eyed man in
his forties with flamboyant attire that accentuated rather than hid his portly
frame. Ten years younger, Peter Wickens was slim, sharp-featured and decidedly
elegant. Debauchery had left its mark indelibly on both of them. They were fit
companions for the Henry Redmayne of old but they had picked the wrong day on
which to call.
        'We
expected to see you at the King's House this afternoon,' said Wickens. 'They
played The Old Trooper by John Lacy and it was a sight to see.'
        'Yes,'
agreed Lunn. 'You missed a treat, Henry. Young Nell took the part of Doll Troop
and all but milked my epididymis with those wicked eyes of hers. She's the most
impudent creature in London, I'll warrant.'
        'I've
heard others express the same view,' said Henry.
        'You
should have been there with us.'
        'My
presence was required elsewhere, Arthur.'
        'Elsewhere?'
        'Commitments
at the Navy Office.',
        'What
sort of commitments?' asked Wickens peevishly. 'Since when have you put work
before a visit to the theatre, Henry? It's so uncivil of you. We had a box all
waiting. No matter,' he went on, flicking a wrist. 'You can make amends
tonight. We plan to visit Mrs Curtis and her sirens.'
        Henry
lifted a hand. 'Then you must do so without me, Peter.'
        'Nonsense,
man!'
        'I
must regretfully decline your company tonight.'
        'This
is some jest, surely,' said Lunn irritably. 'I refuse to believe that I am
hearing Henry Redmayne spurning an opportunity for endless hours of pleasure.'
        'Nevertheless,
you are,' insisted Henry.
        'On
what grounds?'
        'Exhaustion
and ill health.'
        'You
have a malady?'
        'A
headache that's afflicted me all day,' pretended Henry, touching his forehead
with the back of his hand. 'It will pass in time if I lie down.'
        'There's
no better place for that than with Mrs Curtis,' observed Wickens with an oily
smirk. 'Lie down there and one of her ladies with tease away your headache with
long fingers. A night in the arms of Betty or Patience or the divine Hannah
Marklew