The Rake's Bargain

‘My darling girl.’ Her mother had hugged her tightly. ‘I shouldn’t have taken you there. But I’d thought—I’d hoped...’

Deb couldn’t understand how anyone could want to make her sweet mother cry. ‘Is he a bad man, that man in the big house?’

‘That man is my brother,’ her mother said quietly. ‘He is many years older than me and became master of Hardgate Hall when I was still a child. I thought he might have changed. I was wrong.’

‘But why was he so cruel to you, Mama?’

‘I think he is very unhappy. I think he always was. He was a solitary creature and used to go out for long rides alone, or lock himself away in a room upstairs for hours on end. I think he had secrets.’ She’d added, half to herself, ‘And what those secrets were, I never wished to find out.’

Deb heard her mother recounting the same tale to Gerald O’Hara months later. I used to wonder why he allowed no one but himself in that room up in the north wing. None of the servants ever entered it. The room was on the second floor; the door was locked and only he had the key...

Deb progressed steadily along the passageway, trying door after door; only to find that not one was locked, and each room she peered into contained nothing but old furniture shrouded with dust sheets.

And then—just as she was beginning to fear that she’d got everything wrong—she came to a door that wouldn’t open. Swiftly she pulled out her small, sharp-pointed knife, used it to slip the lock and stepped inside, alert and aware. In the centre of the room stood a big old mahogany desk, behind it a leather armchair. Heavy red-velvet curtains half-shrouded the windows and every wall was lined from floor to ceiling with books.

This was a private library, a secret library. But it wasn’t because her uncle Hugh Palfreyman was a scholar of the classics or some other clever subject. Far from it.

* * *

A little over a week ago Deb had visited the stall of a travelling bookseller at the Oxford market, for she was constantly on the lookout for any half-forgotten plays for her company to use. Comedies, tragedies, it didn’t matter which, as long as they kept the crowds entertained.

‘Aren’t you the young lady from the Lambeth Players?’ the bookseller had enquired. ‘I saw your lot doing that fight scene from Tamburlaine on the village green the other night. By heaven, it was a treat.’

‘I’m so glad you enjoyed our performance,’ said Deb politely. She glanced through a few more books laid out on his stall—no, nothing much of interest there—then went to investigate a box at the back. But the bookseller dived across to stop her.

‘Oh, no, missy. Those books in there ain’t for the likes of you. They’re—’ he coughed ‘—they’re some serious works of literature. For my private customers only.’

Deb had already glimpsed two of the titles. Serious works of literature? That was a joke. Artistic Treasures of Venus. Classical Collections for Gentlemen of Discernment... She would stake her life that every single one of them was packed with erotic prints and libidinous tales.

‘I’m sure you’ll get a very good price for them,’ she told the bookseller demurely and moved on.

But a little later, when she happened to be passing back that way, she saw the bookseller deep in conversation with someone else, and her heart began hammering against her chest. She’d been only six years old when she last saw him; but Hugh Palfreyman had changed very little, in Deb’s opinion, except that perhaps his beaked nose was more protuberant and his little pursed-up mouth even tighter. As Deb watched, she saw the glint of coins being passed. Saw the bookseller reach furtively into that box at the back for several slim volumes, which he proceeded to wrap in brown paper, then give to Hugh Palfreyman.

Palfreyman hurried away, while Deb stood absorbing the full impact of what she’d just witnessed.

Her mother’s brother—a Justice of the Peace—was a connoisseur of the kind of literature that was described in polite circles as ‘stimulating’. Well, button my boots, as her stepfather, Gerald O’Hara, would say.

* * *

Deb found herself thinking rather a lot of other things about her Uncle Palfreyman as she stood in the confines of his secret library while the rain pounded against the window. Hypocrite was the most polite of them. Still listening hard for the sound of anyone approaching, she tiptoed over to the bookshelves and eased out some volumes to lay on the desk.

Not all the books were English—some were in French and some in Italian, but—oh, my. It didn’t really matter in the slightest what language they were in, because there wasn’t much writing anyway, and the pictures were just—well. Deb’s eyes widened, but at the same time triumph swelled within her heart. For she’d realised that—incredibly enough—each volume had a gilt-edged bookplate just inside the front cover on which was carefully inscribed the owner’s name—Hugh Palfreyman.

What a fool, Deb marvelled. To keep all this so secret, then provide such glaring evidence of possession. What a gift, for her.

She’d hoped never to have to come into contact with her uncle again, since he’d banished her and her mother from his house. But all that had changed; for one Saturday, almost two weeks ago, a sweet old lady had sought Deb out at the inn and told her that Shakespeare was her husband’s passion, but he was too frail to visit any of the Players’ outdoor performances. Would one or two of the actors be kind enough to visit him, she asked, and perhaps read out some of his favourite lines?

Deb and three others had gone to him the very next afternoon and had performed the last, lovely scene of The Tempest. The old gentleman’s faded eyes had lit up with pleasure, and afterwards his grateful wife had tried to press money on the actors, but they’d refused. Apart from knowing anyway that it was illegal for them to perform on a Sunday, they wouldn’t have dreamt of taking the coins, because that sort of performance and the pleasure it brought was beyond price.

But somehow, Hugh Palfreyman had got to hear about it. And he was chairman of the local magistrates.

‘Acting, on the Sabbath Day,’ he’d apparently stormed—Deb had heard talk of his rage all around Oxford. ‘It’s a direct contravention of the law!’ And he’d threatened the Lambeth Players with a crippling fine, or even gaol.

Thank goodness Palfreyman didn’t know that the leader of the Lambeth Players was his own niece. Swiftly Deb selected three small but explicit volumes, then she sat at Palfreyman’s desk and, after pulling a clean sheet of notepaper and a pencil from her inner pocket, she carefully wrote a letter.

To Mr Hugh Palfreyman

This is to inform you that it is very much in your interest to take back the accusations that you recently made against the Lambeth Players. I enclose something to explain why. Please confirm in a letter that the threats you made will be completely withdrawn, and leave the same letter beneath the stone horse trough beside the wall of St Mary’s churchyard, by ten o’clock tomorrow morning at the latest.

Then Deb drew out her pocket knife and leafed through the pages of the books she’d selected. Oh, my goodness—the Italian one was the worst, she decided. It was illustrated by someone called Aretino, and her eyes widened again as she looked at picture after picture. Was that really anatomically possible? Carefully she detached one page—I’m not going to look at it, they’re all just too dreadful—then she folded the sheet inside her letter, sealed it with a wafer she’d brought, and wrote Palfreyman’s name on the outside. The books and the letter fitted—just—into her inside pocket.

After that, climbing back out through the window and down the ivy-clad wall was easy. Running stealthily to the front door—keeping to the wall and ducking below windows—wasn’t so easy, and she heaved a sigh of relief as she pushed her sealed message into the letter box there. Then she ran as fast as she could for the shrubbery, weaving through the tangle of lilacs and rose bushes as the rain poured down, and giving a flash of a smile as she climbed nimbly over the boundary wall.

Job done, she silently congratulated herself.

* * *

As Damian Beaumaris rode steadily along the track through the woods, the rain streamed off his multi-caped greatcoat and down the flanks of his big bay gelding as if someone was hurling buckets of water over both of them.

A lesser man might have been put off—but not Beaumaris, who was known as Beau to his friends. When he’d first written to Palfreyman two weeks ago, to demand an immediate meeting in London, Palfreyman had tried to wriggle out of it by pleading that ill health prevented him from leaving his Oxfordshire mansion. So Beau had promptly ordered his business secretary, the ever-efficient Nathaniel Armitage, to write back and explain that since Palfreyman found himself indisposed, Beau would travel to Oxfordshire.

My employer trusts, wrote Armitage in his careful script, that it will be convenient if he arrives at Hardgate Hall on the thirteenth of June, at four o’clock precisely.

Armitage had pointed out to Beau that the thirteenth of June just happened to be a Friday. Beau had swiftly responded that as his long-standing secretary, Armitage ought to know that superstition played no part whatsoever in his meticulously ordered life. Though after Armitage had gone, Beau reflected that the day and date certainly boded ill for Hugh Palfreyman, who Beau had concluded was as cowardly and conniving a wretch as he had ever come across.

On the morning of the twelfth of June, Beau had set off on the journey to Oxfordshire in his brand-new and speedy travelling carriage, driven with great pride by his faithful coachman, William Barry. After spending the first night at the Greyhound Hotel in Reading, Beau and William departed early with fresh horses, Beau’s plan being to lunch at noon in Oxford, then proceed to Hardgate Hall. But as the spires of Oxford came within sight, the rear axle of the coach began to make ominous grinding noises.

William Barry took any such event as an insult to his own skill and, after pulling the horses to a halt, jumped down to investigate. Beau quickly followed.

‘It’s not good,’ William pronounced, shaking his head. ‘Not good at all.’

He proceeded to nurse the vehicle as far as a blacksmith’s on the outskirts of Oxford, where the proprietor, Joe Hucksby, also examined the curricle with a deepening frown.

‘I’d say this axle needs a new cross-pinion, sir,’ he said to Beau, after scrambling up from beneath the vehicle. ‘And three hours is about the fastest time that my lads can do it. You see, with a top-notch vehicle such as this, everything has to be right and tight as can be, so maybe, sir, you’d like to go on into town and take a nice meal at one of the inns there? Especially since it’s starting to rain.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t wait. I have an appointment at Hardgate Hall this afternoon.’

‘You’re visiting Mr Palfreyman?’ Joe Hucksby looked surprised. ‘Well, if that isn’t the oddest thing! We just happen to have a fine riding horse of his stabled here. Mr Palfreyman left it yesterday to have it shoed, and—’

‘You’ve got Palfreyman’s horse here? Is it fit to ride?’

‘Why, yes, sir! In fact, Mr Palfreyman asked me to send one of my lads over to the Hall with it this very afternoon, as it happens.’

‘Then there’s no need to send one of your lads. I’ll ride his horse to Hardgate Hall myself.’

Joe Hucksby looked startled. ‘It’s a spirited beast, sir. Took two of my lads to hold it while I did the shoeing—’

‘I’ll take it,’ Beau repeated decisively. He was clad anyway in buckskins and riding boots and was impatient to get on with his journey. But he could see that William was fretting.