In Love & Scandal, Collette Jardiniere is outraged when notorious roué Charles Jameson appears to take credit for The Last Days of a Rake, a novel she wrote under the pseudonym Colin Jenkins to satisfy Victorian convention.

Can a rake be true to himself, yet remain free from sin?

Edgar Lankin has lived the life of rake, a man who cares for nothing but the pleasures of the flesh. But it is the seduction—and abandonment—of a gentle maiden that turns him from mere gadabout to immoral cad. Too late, Lankin realizes his self-centered ways have left him incapable of finding enjoyment in anything. Now on his deathbed, he relates the shocking tale of his wasted life to John Hamilton, a school chum who chose a different path.

In telling his story, can Lankin find redemption for the trail of ruined lives he leaves behind?

Companion piece to Love & Scandal by Donna Lea Simpson

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The Last Days of a Rake

Donna Lea Simpson

Contents

Copyright

Part 1 - Sunset

Part 2 - Susan

Part 3 - The Country

Part 4 - Reflection

Part 5 - The Cottage

Part 6 - Nightfall

Part 7 - The Descent

Part 8 - The Lights Dim

Part 9 - The Iron Maiden

Part 10 - Morti Della Notte

Part 11 - The Spell of the Poppy

Part 12 - Departing at Dawn

About the Author

Part 1 - Sunset

Air, the true staff of life, was becoming more precious with each deeply drawn inhalation. How many breaths did he have left, and what would become of that last, sweet draught? Edgar Lankin lay on his bed by the window overlooking his beloved London. Dark clouds gathered, shadowing the city in a premature twilight, as coal smoke obscured the cityscape, blurring the shapes of chimneys and steeples.

This was his last view, but it mattered not that he could see little through the smudgy panes. His gaze was turned inward. He was caught, tangled in a web of remembrance. Tormented by a vivid panorama through his brain of all his past sins and the little he had been able to do to rectify them, once he understood what harm he had done in his adult years. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust—when his soul took flight and his body was entombed, who would remember him with aught but anger and recrimination?

How odd, he thought, caught by the image, that after the final breath, the body was sent down, to be interred in the fond embrace of cool mud, while the soul—if one accepted the theology that he had shunned for most of his forty years—winged upward, lighter than air once released from its homely prison.

He sighed, rasped and coughed, the effort leaving him gasping for breath.

John Hamilton, his oldest friend, looked up from the book he was reading. “Lankin, old man,” he said, leaning toward him and holding a cup to Lankin’s lips. “How are you doing?”

After a cool drink of water, Lankin lay back, caught his breath and said, “I’m dying, John, and how are you?”

Hamilton sighed and shook his head, his eyes misting with friendship’s fond sorrow.

They had passed such a comment every evening for the last week, as John Hamilton faithfully visited, but this evening Lankin knew his time left on earth was measured in hours, or maybe even minutes, to be followed by an eternity of nothingness before the final resurrection. What had he done in his life that was worth this moment of kind regard and infinite regret? Who had he touched, what had he accomplished? Who, beyond John, would mourn his passing?

“Set aside your book, John, and let us talk,” he said, drawing upon reserves of strength that would dwindle quickly. “I fear this night and what it will bring.”

“I’m at your service, my good fellow,” Hamilton said, his gaunt, ascetic face gentle with compassion. “Of what do you wish to speak?”

The sun was descending, a brilliant ball of orange filtered muddily through the coal fire fog that drifted over the city. As silence fell between the two men, the last muted golden rays extinguished in the west, drowned by the distant ocean to rise for some other man’s morning. Lankin’s new philosophy, earned by the enforced thoughtfulness brought on by declining health, would not allow depression, but his spirits were declining from the knowledge that whatever he had been able to do to ameliorate the condition of those he had injured, his work was done now. It was his last sunset.

“Did I ever tell you about Susan?” Lankin murmured, turning away from the somber view and staring up at the ceiling.

“Susan? I don’t recall that name. Who is she?”

How simple it was to slip into the past for someone who had no future, Lankin reflected. Susan…fresh as a daisy, a glowing girl with skin like alabaster— No, that was too common a comparison for her. Her skin was like the petal of a dew-kissed, creamy rose. When Lankin touched her, it was to bruise that tender flower, to crush it with his insolent manhood.

But morose reflection did not do her justice. “Shall I tell you about Susan? I think of her often, but I fear the story does me poor credit. I need to unburden myself, and you—lucky fellow—shall be my father confessor. While you were studying your books and applying yourself to science and God, I—wretch that I was at one-and-twenty—was finding a way to corrupt the incorruptible.”

“That is a contradiction in terms I cannot allow,” Hamilton said with gentle humor, as he set his book aside, face down, on a table. “If something is incorruptible, then surely, by its very definition, it cannot be corrupted.”

“Still, I wonder what would have happened to Susan if I had not crossed her path that evening, at that long-ago ball, where she stood with her doughty chaperone.” Lankin stared at the ceiling, memorizing the pattern of shadows from the sickly city tree outside his window.

“If you had passed her by, she would have been ‘born again, not of corruptible seed, but of incorruptible’?” Hamilton quoted.

“I knew you would have a Biblical verse, my better friend.” Lankin paused to catch his breath and looked over at the other man. “Why do you stay, when I abused even you in my past miserable life?”

“A friend is tested not by smiles and handshakes, but by insults and rebuffs.”

“You are a well-tested friend.”

“Tell me the story, then, of Susan,” Hamilton said, as shadows deepened, creeping across the floor like a stealthy intruder on velvet shod feet. He got up and lit a taper from the smoldering fire, placing the candle on a small table between his chair and Lankin’s bed.

“Fill my water glass, and I will pretend it is wine one last time. Then I will speak of Susan, and some of those who came after. If you don’t mind, I will take on the conceit of speaking of myself in the third person, as a good storyteller must.”

“Be my Scheherazade, my good friend,” Hamilton said, his tone mild. The flickering candlelight shadowed his eyes, concealing the sorrow within them.

“If only by playing Scheherazade I could delay the inevitable, like that wondrous woman, but it may be that God is less merciful even than her king. I will not hesitate, and I will not spare myself in the telling. Prepare to hear that which will shock, dismay and disappoint you.”

Part 2 - Susan

When one is looking forward, the days of youth seem to stretch out along a shining path to forever. Once one is past them, though, the path behind contracts until, from the other end, it appears the merest garden walk, a few steps from the sheltering doorway of youth to the squalid dead-end street of fate. The beginning of a life journey is full of promise, and rarely is any destination forecast.

It was June of 1811; to Edgar Godolphin Lankin, just up from Oxford and wealthy due to the untimely death of an unlamented grandparent, the path ahead gleamed gold. Possessed of all the arrogance of youth, he was at the first step, as thoughtless and callow as any young man of wealth and moderate good looks could be. He had never absorbed the precious traits of humility and decency others he knew in school embodied. In fact, he made fun of such men, thinking himself above them.

So, in that glittering era, Lankin, with no need to form any intent beyond his own pleasure, set out to make his mark on London. Instead of the Godly or studious fellows like his worthy friend John Hamilton, who combined a religious nature with a scientific mind, he took as his pattern the Regent, that promulgator of all that was worldly, beautiful, artistic and licentious. That brilliant fellow was showing just how much he cared for his poor mad pater by holding a revelry at Carlton House—that brilliant palace of dreams—the like of which the world had never seen. All around the city festivities like the Carlton House debauch were in full gaudy bloom. Lankin, as a wealthy and indolent man about town with impeccable connections, had been invited to a few.

Now, before progressing further, it is important to know that in the dream that was his life, Lankin was the center, the beau ideal, the prize beyond price. To his thinking he united a unique sensibility, an appreciation for beauty, an understanding of humankind that was rare and precious, fitting him to be a man of the world, an epicure and a sybarite. If he had been a lesser man this attitude would have been ludicrous, but he was just wealthy, just discriminating and just handsome enough to justify such conceit. He attracted flatterers, sycophants, that tribe whose members will stay for champagne and sweetmeats, but abandon ship when it begins to founder and sink. Their horde is verminous, like so many flea-bit rats.

But who can blame them? It has ever been so in society. Money, after all, will buff away perceived faults into the appearance of glass. He was handsome, women said—too often in front of him—for again, wealth will often buy good looks. He was intelligent, though not wise, and witty, though not kind. He emulated Beau and Byron, and had his ticket for White’s on St. James, after rejecting invitations to join Boodle’s and the Alfred.

The night he met Susan he was as drunk as a young man should be after two bottles of claret and one of hock. But his mind was clearing, since he had cast up his accounts in the ornamental bushes on his way into Lady Phoenicia’s gala event in honor of the new Regent at her Mayfair home.

The air that night was crisp and light, fully as intoxicating as wine, and Lankin, in the company of another frivolous—if poorer—young man, was of a mind for mischief. Old cats and society dragons frowned in disapproval as Lankin and his friend lounged into the festivity, leering at exposed bosoms and surreptitiously patting bottoms in the most insolent manner. The fashion of the day for ladies was such that leering and patting, though uninvited, was rewarding. But after a half hour spent in such pleasantries, both were becoming bored.

“Lankin, let us get out of this place,” Felix Bellwether said, finally, after they had shocked their quota of old people.

Lankin was ready to go, for there were yet ancient watchmen to box and carriage horses to torment. But as fate would have it, he saw, that moment, descending the steps to the ballroom, a luminous goddess. She was as fresh as the spring air—a veritable Persephone—with golden hair piled high and decked with a coronet of pearls.

“Who is that?” he breathed, not expecting an answer. The young lady stood at the top of the stairs. She was gowned in palest green trimmed in gold, demure eyes downcast, while her companion was a formidable dame dressed in purple, her head topped by a plumed turban.

“Her?” Felix asked. “That’s Susan Bailey, a friend of m’sister’s.”

Thunderstruck, Lankin stared as she passed by him. He was instantly transported back to the springtimes of his childhood, when all the world was gold and green, fresh, new, with limitless possibilities. “Introduce me, there’s a good chappie,” he said to Felix, clapping him on the shoulder.

As the orchestra tuned their instruments, Bellwether led Lankin toward the bank of chaperone chairs, where Susan was just taking a seat with her society guardian.

“Hallo, Susie,” Bellwether said, lounging indolently on the back of one gilt-adorned chair. “This here is Edgar Lankin,” he said, hooking one thumb over his shoulder toward his friend, “just down from Oxford.”

The young woman smiled, but before she could speak, the elderly purple-gowned woman rose from her seat with some difficulty. “Young man,” she said, peering at Bellwether through her lorgnette, one eye monstrously larger than the other because of it, “some may allow such slack introductions, but I expect young gentlemen to behave correctly.”

“It’s all right, Lady Stoddart,” Susan Bailey said, her tone as light and sweet as a matins bell. “Felix and his sister are my childhood friends. Surely any friend of his would be suitable as an acquaintance?”

From such a promising beginning, how could the evening do aught but progress? Lankin stayed at the ball and danced the supper dance with Susan. Felix, bored by the proceedings, went off to the card room to lose what little money he had at whist.

She was so profoundly lovely, budding womanhood clothing her more beautifully than any costly raiment. Lankin and Susan’s tale might have been like a hundred, or a thousand, others. Mayhap they would have courted, and then, after a suitable interval (an innocent kiss, the fervid pressing of one hand over another) he would have sunk to one knee and begged for her lily-white hand in marriage. There were no impediments to tear them asunder, no sneering evil uncle trying to sell her to the highest bidder, no dark family secrets, no ill health in their immediate future. He was wealthy and well-born, she the same, with the added enticements of a good dowry, youth and a pristine reputation. Marriage and children would have followed. Then, given his character, the next sequence would surely have been infidelity, disenchantment, separation, and finally death. Just so would the skein of their lives have raveled if Lankin had been like others of his time and place, willing to follow the rules of life as set down by society and the church.

Such stories, the accounts of romances between suitably boring young people, are edifying for the public in the reassurance that a life governed by God and country will end in the preservation of society, if not in happiness for the individuals. But the devil was in Lankin; nay, not one devil but a legion of imps, the demons of pride, mischief, lust and conceit. He began, that very evening, to weave a veil of mystery over Susan, in a game of seduction that the innocent girl could not understand. He helped her evade her chaperone and took her for a stroll after dinner in the garden of the London house, awaiting the fireworks that had been promised as a part of the hideous Regency celebrations.

The night air was sweet, honeyed by the perfume of attraction and the sublime enchantment of youthful allure. She shivered, and he, chivalrous in his attempt to attach her, pulled off his jacket and gently drew it around her shoulders.

“Better?” he asked.

She nodded and looked up at him with shining eyes as blue as a summer sky. “You are very kind,” she murmured.

“And you are very lovely,” he countered, watching as she blushed. The urge to kiss her became a thrum of eagerness in his veins, like blood coursing in a rapid pulse. But as he attempted to draw her into the shadows, she pulled away.

“Mr. Lankin, you know we cannot disappear into the dark like that,” she said.

No sweet talk would convince her, for she was well raised and morally sound. They talked, after that, and watched the fireworks, but her reserve was the impetus for wretched desire in his breast. He, like countless men of his position and wealth, had experienced a woman’s charms many times from his youth to his manhood. Oxford, that vaunted center of learning and academia, was also a town of bar maids, chambermaids, the whole legion of “maids” who serve the lusts of men as well as their need for clean linens and ale. Lankin had had his share of maidservants and barmaids in his time, “knowing” them in the biblical sense.

So it was not for want of carnal satisfaction that his diabolical plan arose; any random pair of lips, breasts and legs would have slaked such lust. But Susan Bailey’s demure withdrawal left him curious. It was a challenge, doubly urged by his attraction to her and his pique at her sweet, sensible morality.

When they parted that evening, it was with food for innocent dreams on her part, and, for him, the knowledge in his breast that he was going to attempt the unfathomable. He was attracted to her both for her beauty and some element of youthful promise within her. But he felt himself above the common trap of falling in love, whatever that much-bandied word meant, and he certainly was not about to marry at such a young age. Therefore, what was left to do with the young lady?

Only one thing, to his mind; he began, that evening, to plot Miss Susan Bailey’s downfall, her complete surrender to him and, thus, her ruination. How could a man of previous spotty but not completely shocking reputation plan such a thing? Had he no perturbations of the spirit, no misgivings, given her innocence and the complete lack of her having done anything to invite such ruin?

Lankin was one of those pitiable souls void of conscience when it came to lives other than his own. He was invited to proceed by the sheer audacity of the scheme. It was a tricky thing to do—given how guarded young ladies were in those times and still are—but it was possible. Edgar Lankin was determined, and Miss Bailey was oblivious.

One month later, he had made little progress toward achieving his goal beyond a bet set up among new friends at his club. He had bragged so openly of his plan (only among those he knew receptive, of course, not among the older, more staid members of the society, and not naming the object of his intentions) that one gambling fellow had bet him he would not succeed. And so the betting book was laid open, and the bet, couched in suitably obscure phrases, was confirmed. But now it looked like he may have boasted too precipitously.

His fellow clubmen, who did not know the young woman in question beyond her initials, S. B., had begun to taunt him with his failure. Fetes, balls, breakfasts and dinners were the only places he had been able to see Miss Bailey. Lankin recognized he was being led, by Susan and her chaperone, down a path that had forked from the one he had intended to firmly tread. Ahead, gleaming in the distance at the end of the path, was a church and Susan, guarded by the dragon, at a flower-decked altar.

The vision horrified him. He needed to either scuttle away from the beautiful girl, or make his final assault on the fortress of her virtue.

But in life, so much is chance. He was undecided which path he would take—defection or seduction—because despite his despicable intentions, he liked Susan Bailey. She was sweet and gentle, but not vacuous, nor thoughtless. There was little else to do most times in company for a young man and lady but talk, and she was well-informed, intelligent, with a bright vivacity that was pleasing to the most discriminating taste. If he had been a different kind of man, he said to himself often in his late night turmoil, she would make an ideal wife.

Chance made his decision, or at least, he was willing to blame chance.

When a bet is placed it has a time limit on its accomplishment, and one afternoon, as Lankin sprawled in a comfortable chair in the dark, smoky card room of his club, the bet holder, one George Sanders, approached him.

“I say, Lankin, you ready to call it quits and pay out on the S.B. bet? I could use my winnings about now.”

“What? I beg your pardon. What are you babbling on about, Sanders?” Lankin asked, peering up through a wreath of cigar smoke.

The man leaned over and lowered his voice, slanting his gaze to both sides, as he said, “That bet, ‘bout the beauteous little filly you are set to debauch. The mysterious S.B., who is not such a mystery, by the way, my good fellow. Time’s ‘bout up! You lose. I want m’money.” He held out his hand and waggled his fingers.

Lankin did not like Sanders’s tone, and the word “lose” held an unexpected sting. One such as he, with youth, wealth, looks and intelligence, could not lose to one such as Sanders, an aging, debauched, dim-witted, bulbous-nosed impecunious drunken gambler. He stood, towering over the other man. “Bring the betting book!” he commanded.

When it was brought, he pointed one finger at the date. He had seven days to accomplish the deed before forfeiting.

“But you said yourself the gel had gone off to her country haunt,” Sanders brayed.

That was true. But the ace up Lankin’s sleeve had yet to be played. “But I have an invitation, old man,” he drawled, laying the card out on the table in the form of a written invitation. “I am going to accept, and follow my sweet girl down to the country.”

Some of the others, those who had bet on Lankin’s success, applauded. “Make us proud!” one crowed.

“I will,” Lankin said.

Part 3 - The Country

To plot someone’s downfall while they are unaware carries a thrilling, dangerous weight, and the power can be as intoxicating as a fine brandy. All the way to Miss Susan Bailey’s family home in Kent, Lankin pondered the approach, the seduction, the surrender and his triumph. By defying time-honored traditions, he thought, working up his courage (which, in truth, was flagging) he was striking a blow against societal expectations and all the traps set by scheming chaperones and duplicitous maidens to snare unwary, unsuspecting young men into precipitate marriages. As much as he liked the young lady, he was not about to commit to a lifetime of harnessed plodding.

Miss Susan Bailey had a father, though he was rarely seen at the London gatherings planned to promote social intercourse. He left those matters to the chaperone he paid to guard his daughter’s most valuable commodity, her diamond-bright virtue. Lankin’s welcome by Mr. Bailey was gratifyingly hearty. He was given the best guest suite, with another room for his valet, then directed outdoors, where the young lady was spending the beautiful summer afternoon. A chaffinch hopped from hedge to hedge, chirping a merry greeting, as he found the object of his intentions in the garden with her sketching.

Miss Susan Bailey was as beautiful and luminous as Lankin remembered, innocent of any knowledge of his intentions. Gowned again in green, her blonde hair topped by a coquettish bonnet adorned with nodding pinkish flowers, she prettily cocked her head as she studied the object of her artistic endeavor, an enormous Grecian urn picturesquely tilted to spill out nasturtiums.

When she caught sight of him approaching, her cheeks suffused with a charming mantle of pink, and her blue eyes glowed. She threw down her sketching pad and rose, clasping her hands to her breast, inadvertently making the modest mounds swell above the square neckline of her walking gown. A more flattering and promising welcome he could not have imagined.

He suggested a walk, and she demurely agreed.

“I’m so pleased you decided to accept our invitation and come down to Kent, Mr. Lankin,” Susan said, as the couple strolled in the garden within view of her chaperone, who sat in a wicker chair on the terrace knitting.

“How could I stay away,” he said, sharpening the cutting edge of his charm, “with the lure of you, as fair a vision as I could ever imagine, welcoming me at the end of a long ride?” It had just occurred to him that even here in the country, in her home and with the more relaxed prospect of walks and rides and forest trails to explore, he could still lose the bet. Though his welcome had been warm, and Susan was still herself, gracious, sweet, smiling and lovely, she was just as well guarded in the country as she had been in town.

“But I thought you would…stay away, I mean,” she said, as she looked down at her gloved hands clasped together. “After our wonderful time during the season—dancing, walking, sharing so much—you refused my papa’s invitation to come stay. I…I was worried that you thought I had designs on your freedom.”

He glanced over at her then, as she slyly peeped at him from under the brim of her bonnet. She did indeed have such designs, he knew it in that instant, even as she looked hastily away, donning an expression of modest ingenuousness. She was scheming, no doubt with her papa’s aid, to entrap him. He hadn’t been sure before because she was delicate and never hinted at such an end, but that was just evidence of how capable she was in the bloodsport of husband-hunting. A veritable Diana with a cupid’s bow. His resolve hardened; not for him the marital leg hold. “My dear Miss Bailey, do you think I would ever do you the dishonor of believing you had designs?” he asked, deliberately obscure.

She glanced swiftly over at him and examined his expression with narrowed eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Such a plan would exhibit the utmost in indelicacy, would it not? Plotting to catch a husband, like any common little schemer. You would never stoop to such folly.”

She was silent, her eyes wide, and he decided it was his opportunity to begin a little trickery of his own. He assumed an expression of musing, furrowing his brow. “And aside from that, how could I betroth myself to a lady with whom I have shared only conversation?” he asked.

“I…I don’t understand,” she said, stumbling over her words.

He heard the indecision in her voice and knew that, contrary to her words, she did understand him, even as she said she didn’t. It was the moment to press his advantage. “We men are weak creatures, Miss Bailey. We crave the fulfillment of our physical needs, even as the ladies in our lives crave the ethereal food of tenderness and adoration.”

There was silence. He glanced toward the terrace and noted that the dragon was sleeping. Her knitting had dropped to the ground and her chin rested on her deep bosom. He took Susan’s arm and steered her toward a leafy bower beyond the hedges at the bottom of the knot garden. She did not protest.

In the shade of an elm, he turned her to face him and looked down into her blue eyes. “Susan, I care for you,” he said, with no prevarication.

Her breath caught, and she stared up into his eyes, her lips parted. “Oh, Mr. Lankin!” she whispered.

“But I fear that we would marry without ever knowing how well-suited we are, one to another.”

Marry. The word caught her undivided attention. She trembled and sagged toward him. She truly was the loveliest creature, all plump pink lips, rosy cheeks and delicious, cool blue eyes. He pushed her bonnet back and some stray tendrils of golden hair came loose from her coronet, lifted to frame her oval face by a breeze that infiltrated the bower. Lowering his face to hers, he touched her lips with his, reverently at first, but then with more urgent passion, until she cried out and struggled. He released her immediately and stepped back, doing his utmost not to show how moved he was by the sweet contours of her form and the breathless feel of her soft mouth against his.

“Mr. Lankin!” she protested, touching her lips with one gloved hand.

He gazed steadily at her—she stood staring back at him, her bosom heaving with emotion, tears trembling in her eyes—and acknowledged his own tenderness toward her, and something more, the yearning passion that held him captive, with desire in his loins and affection in his heart. There was a yawning precipice in front of him, a great, gaping maw, and the signpost at the lip said “Marriage”. Two words from him would have catapulted him into the abyss; if he had said, ‘Marry me’ in that moment, it would have all been over. He was an honorable man (was he not?), and would have held to his word if he offered marriage.

Wisely—or unwisely?—he held his tongue.

She was confused and torn. He could see it, and felt the indecision emanating from her in waves like heat reflected from a pane of glass in the sun. He let the silence stretch, for he needed the tension to build between them, so he could lead her one more step down the path toward his goal rather than toward hers. If Susan made one step down his path, she would become invested in the outcome as much as he, even if she felt it would have a different end than the one he anticipated. If she was wise, she would hold fast on her own road to marriage and respectability.

But she fancied herself in love, or perhaps she really did love him. Who can know a woman’s heart? There is so little to tell between the appearance and the truth of love, that few men can tell the difference.

She stepped toward him again, put her hands on his shoulders and said, “Edgar, do you truly care for me?”

“Can’t you tell?” he said, pouring all the trembling yearning in his body into his tone. “Susan, how could I not? You’re the only woman I think of, day in and day out!” Not one word was a lie.

“What do you want from me?” she asked, her gaze clouded with confusion.

So far, he had been completely truthful, but he didn’t think his goal could be accomplished by maintaining that honesty. He watched her eyes. They narrowed, and, for the first time, he realized she was perhaps a better judge of character than he had given her credit for being. If that was the case, he had better be convincing if he planned to win his bet. “I want to be sure, before we commit ourselves to a lifetime together.”

“Sure of what?”

He paused and looked deep into her eyes. “Susan, my dearest girl, I want to be sure of our love.” He almost had her, he could feel it. Love was the bait, marriage the goal, for her. She was on the line, but now he had to set the hook. “If only…” He paused and shook his head, looking away, assuming an anguished expression.

“‘If only’ what?” She rubbed her hands up his arms and touched his cheek, the satin of her glove smooth on his skin. “Speak to me, Edgar. You can tell me anything, ask me anything!”

“If only I knew for sure! Kissing you like that…I would almost swear we were meant to be together for eternity, but…” Again, the phrase left dangling.

She hugged him and laid her face against his chest. “I can hear your heart beating,” she whispered. “Edgar, listen to me. I’m sure. I have never felt like this before. The way you talk to me, the things we have in common, the times we are silent…it is all so…so delicious.”

He put his arms around her and let his hands slide down, almost to the provocative curve of her back as it sloped to her bottom. His breathing rate was increasing, his imagination running away with him as he thought of what he sought from her: Surrender. “Susan, I care for you a great deal, but I will not saddle you with my troubled self for a lifetime without being sure,” he murmured, his voice breaking artfully in just the right spot. “I’m not good enough for you, my dear, not nearly good enough for such an angel as yourself.” It was an inspired and cunning touch, for what girl could resist such an appeal to her valiant desire to make a man over into her own hero? “I drink too much wine, sweet girl, and my friends are disgraceful.” He shook his head, muttering “Shocking!” under his breath.

She responded perfectly. Her eyes glimmered with unshed tears as they trembled on her lashes, and her lip quivered. “You’re a good man, Edgar. I will not listen to you disparage yourself in that manner. I believe in you, and know you can reform if you but try. All those terrible friends would fall away from you if you married, so the temptation would disappear.”

He pushed away from her and turned his back, repressing a shudder at the life she was holding out to him as a shining hope. His friends gone? No gambling houses nor deep drinking? No more tupping the maids? Hell on earth. Dull, plodding, merciless boredom. He had to remember that was not about to happen. He sighed, letting his shoulders sag. “If only I could believe that.”

After a moment of silence, she circled him and nudged herself into his embrace again, looked up into his eyes and softly said, “What can I do to convince you we should be together forever?”

“I don’t know!” he cried, his tone full of anguish as he pulled away from her yet again.

She caught him to her, laying her head on his chest. “Tell me, my dearest, tell me. What can I do?”

At that moment, fate intervened. At first, Lankin thought it was the end of his plot, just when he had her where he wanted her, but as it turned out, it was quite the opposite.

“Susan!” a loud voice trumpeted. It was Lady Stoddart. She had awoken to find her charge gone.

“I have to go.” Susan softly said, looking over her shoulder toward the opening to the treed copse.

“Susan Bailey, where are you?” The voice was getting louder.

Trembling, Susan gazed up into Lankin’s eyes. “Meet me here tonight, about midnight,” she whispered. “I shall steal away after it is thought that I am abed. Meet me here—or rather, meet me at the cottage.”

“The cottage?” he asked.

“Yes. It is a folly on the hill in the copse of alders. You will see it if you go just beyond the stew pond and up the hill. Meet me there at midnight.” She fled from him on light feet, but looked back just before leaving the bower and blew him a kiss.

He caught it and put it to his chest. He knew in his heart that he had her, then. She would surrender. Triumph tempered by trepidation surged through him.

Part 4 - Reflection

The room was silent after Lankin’s long, rambling story, and Hamilton thought his friend might be sleeping, but he turned his gaunt face toward the other man and sighed. Shrugging, Lankin turned his face away again before speaking.

“It was the moment in my life when I had the potential to go toward light and life and normalcy, or toward darkness and self-indulgence and loathsome hardheartedness,” Lankin said, staring at the ceiling. “I think you can guess which choice I, in my benighted idiocy, took.”

Hamilton watched him for a long moment, then said, “What was it that made your decision for you? The young lady was only doing what hundreds of girls do every season, what they are taught from the cradle to do—seek the safety and security of a kindhearted husband.”

“I’ve told you, John, I was willful, conceited and concerned only with my own happiness.”

“I’m not sure how your happiness could be secured by ruining her life?”

Lankin smiled, a ghostly rictus grin. “Ah, see, John, even you cannot help but judge. But you have the right of it. How can happiness ever be secured by someone else’s pain?” His smile died, for he was beyond stamina for such a bold expression. “How to explain?” he muttered.

He was silent for a long while. The house settled, as all old buildings do, like an ancient beldame, bones creaking and grateful sighs spilling from partly open lips. It groaned and muttered and finally silenced in the fitful sleep of the elderly. Hamilton began to wonder if his friend had given up the ghost, and was about to get a mirror to check for breath.

“I haven’t a real answer, John. I was absorbed wholly in my own wants, and I did not wish my pleasure-seeking life to end. I had made the bet, and I would win it. That’s all.”

“Tell me, then, what happened. But not in detail. I have no stomach for the downfall of such a sweet young lady as you have described.”

“Now you begin to understand my revulsion, when I look back on my youth. I will continue, though, not sparing myself, but not giving the most intimate details of poor Susan’s downfall.”

Part 5 - The Cottage

The moon, a lustrous and beautiful lady in nacreous robes, strolled across the heavens as Lankin slipped from the house and across the broad lawn. He arrived early at the cottage, a small, tidy hermit’s hut tucked in a copse of swaying young alders, and paced anxiously on the crest of the hill overlooking the manse. Now, at the very point of winning his bet, misgivings plagued him. If he left that moment, Susan would stay as she was, a virtuous and sweet young lady. Perhaps she would complain to her friends about her heart being broken by his defection, but that would merely add to her cache among the other girls who all longed for courtship, love and broken hearts.

But he’d lose his bet, bitter medicine for an inveterate gambler. For just that moment he resented the hold the other bettors had on him. Was he not a free man to walk away if he wanted? In that one moment, by the moon’s gracious light, he glimpsed the truth. He would never be free as long as he allowed others to hold him in the iron grip of conventional morality. Pride had led to this wager, and to win he must despoil and betray a girl he quite liked.

The only alternative was to admit he had not done the deed and pay up. Which was the lesser of two evils? Before he could resolve to leave, he saw her running on fleet, bare feet across the dew-pearled grass below the cottage folly, holding her filmy draperies above the soaking turf. He caught his breath, entranced by her loveliness. He should leave and never look back; let her find happiness and love, or at least contentment and marriage. In the space between two heartbeats, though, his better intentions died, for he thought of the sneer of his fellow gamblers should he confess he balked. After all, he rationalized, he would do nothing to Susan that she did not agree to. He was not a brute. But if she submitted…

Her first words, though, were spoken in a breathless whisper. “I cannot stay,” she said. “My chaperone is suspicious, I fear, and may check on me in my room.”

He gazed at her moonlit face turned up to his. It was an out, should he decide to take it. But he saw the color rise in her cheeks and knew it was a lie. She was playing her hand, and with that sly wager, he was freed from the doubts that had been plaguing him. They would play on, and see who was the better gambler. “You had better go, then,” he said, his voice husky with desire. She was lovely, and he wanted her. But he had to control that yearning and stay focused on the game. “I will leave tomorrow. Then there will be no reason for suspicion on her part.”

Susan’s lip quivered. She had not expected that response. “Edgar, I—” She stopped and chewed her lip, her lovely oval face framed by tumbled blonde locks, the whole lit by gleaming moonlight. “I don’t want you to go,” she said, touching his arm with one soft, white, gloveless hand, as delicate as a snowy dove lighting on his shirtsleeve.

“I think I was mistaken, Susan,” he said, giving his tone the tremor of wounded sensibility. He had always excelled at amateur theatrics.

“Mistaken? About what?”

He searched her eyes. “I think, perhaps, your feelings for me are not as strong as mine for you.”

“But that’s not true!” She threw herself into his arms.

“Isn’t it?” he asked, his tone cold. He disengaged himself from her clinging arms. “If you loved me, you would dare anything for my sake.”

“But I will.” She paused, tears welling in her eyes. “Give me another chance, Edgar, please!”

Triumph built to a crescendo in his being. She was his for the taking, her fear of losing him more alive than her fear of ruin. The balance was tipped in his favor. He took her hand, led her into the dark cottage and closed the door behind them.

Far from the magnificent physical experience he had expected it to be, it was cold and unpleasant, the cottage not being fitted out for seduction. Afterward, she cried. He felt like a brutish oaf unfit to touch her lily-white flesh. It was an unpleasant feeling, and it burrowed into his heart like a worm into an apple. There was a moment of potential, when the awful situation could have been rescued and turned to a profit for Susan. If she had stopped crying, and let him take her in his arms to comfort her, he may have proposed out of guilt.

How much of life turns on a moment, like a globe on an axis?

She hunched her shoulder against him when he touched her arm, and the continuous weeping eventually hardened him in ways he didn’t understand. How could he sit in the dark, listening to her sobs, and be so cold? At first his heart had been full of remorse, then he just felt nothing, but after twenty minutes of such torment, anger flared. She made him feel like a reprehensible ruffian, and he was accustomed to thinking well of himself. He was a scoundrel, but not cruel, a rapscallion but not brutish, he had always thought.

“Susan,” he said, trying to keep his voice gentle. “It’s not so bad, you know. Many girls do it. And like it.”

He could not see her face in the dark cottage, but her voice had an hysterical edge as she said, “Many girls? Edgar, am I just one of a hundred?”

“Not a hundred. Don’t be ridiculous,” he said sharply.

“I’m not being ridiculous. That was…that was torture! You’re wicked to do such a hideous thing, and I don’t believe that other girls do it.” She sobbed again then, wailing louder, the sound echoing in the tiny folly.

He clapped his hands over his ears, unable to bear it another moment, and strode out of the cottage, back down to the house. He had abused Susan, the hospitality of her family and the trust among them, he recognized, but it was not his fault. Blame was to be laid at the feet of all those willing gamblers who had bet he would not succeed.

Though the first experience of sexual congress is often not pleasant for a woman, Lankin didn’t know that, never having been a lady’s first lover. Had he done it wrong, he wondered, long into the sleepless night, as he tossed and turned on his bed? Or perhaps Susan was just not capable of pleasure, unlike other girls he had been with, who all assured him he was a wonderful lover. Marriage, of course, ensures that a gentleman and lady, as husband and wife, will keep doing the deed, and so improve their relationship, eventually. In this case, he had no incentive to hope he could make her like it another time. He was left with the same sense as one who has eaten something tainted. His lip curled back in disgust and he was revolted by the memory.

The next morning, she did not come down to breakfast. He had intended to leave, for the wager was won and he needed to return to London to claim his winnings, but some nagging consideration for Susan Bailey’s wellbeing made him stay, at least until he could reassure himself that she was all right.

She appeared in the middle of the afternoon, dark circles under her eyes and a reproachful expression on her face. That evening, as they sat listening to another house guest playing the piano, she whispered to him, “How could you leave me, Edgar, to make my way back to the house alone? Weren’t you worried for me?”

“Why would I be? You were safe enough.”

She didn’t answer, and evidently caught the resentment in his tone. She calmed her expression and when she turned, it was with a softer look. “Edgar, when shall you speak to father?”

He misunderstood her. “Speak to your father? I barely know the man. And I don’t think he particularly likes me.”

“But he will expect it!” she said.

It struck him, then, what she meant. She expected that he would ask her father for her hand in marriage. Of course she did. It was what the night before was supposed to be about, after all. For a moment he was speechless, but then he said, “I don’t wish to rush things, my dearest.”

Her cheeks paled as she stared at him. If she went on like that, her chaperone, Lady Stoddart, would notice and know something was amiss.

“Tomorrow,” he said quickly, glancing around the room. The chaperone was, fortunately, a music lover and was tapping out the time with her cane and smiling at the young performer.

Susan sighed and smiled. “All right. Tomorrow. Would you…would you like to meet me again tonight in the cottage? Not for…you know,” she said, blushing, “but just to talk?”

“No,” he said. “No, uh, let us not make anyone suspicious.”

He was gone before first light, the next morning. Over the next few months, he was able to forget about her, he thought. But in the fall of that celebratory year, he heard through Felix Bellwether that she was back in London. Curiosity tickled at him like an incipient itch, and he slipped into an event that she was meant to attend.

It was a recital, where some wealthy gentleman’s baseborn brat was to prove how accomplished he was so suitable funding could be provided for a European tour. As the violin scratched over taut strings, Lankin crept in and took a seat, glancing about. He spotted Susan almost immediately, and his heart was tugged, just for a moment.

She looked like she had been ill. She was thin, and the dewy freshness was gone from her skin, replaced by an ashen cast. Lady Stoddart, her chaperone, appeared even more grim than the previous spring. Susan listlessly watched the recital, never looking to the right, or the left, her attitude one of submission.

After the recital, they all filed into the supper room, and Lankin approached, unable to leave her alone. What did he hope to accomplish? The gambling debt had been collected, her maidenhood was gone and, to his mind, no dire consequences had erupted.

She turned away from some friend who was speaking animatedly to her, and saw him. In that instant, as she gasped and fell back, he saw all that had happened since his desertion. The hours spent crying, the betrayal she felt, the loss of her innocence that was only partly to do with her deflowering. She whispered something, shook her head and backed up one step, bumping into her friend, who looked up toward Lankin.

Susan spoke rapidly to her friend, who glared at him as if he were something she had discovered slithering out from beneath a rock in the garden. He was indignant. He had forced Susan Bailey to do nothing. It had been she who suggested meeting at the cottage folly. What had she thought would be the outcome?

The friend, a plain young lady with glasses, strode toward him and said, “Sir, I suggest you leave immediately, or Susan will do that which she has not seen fit to do as yet, and that is inform her father of the disgusting advantage you took of her.”

His ire intensified. “Do you know, I think she should go ahead and do that, if she thinks she has been so dishonored.”

The girl gasped and retreated, scuttling away like a mouse from a dangerous snake. Lankin drifted closer to Susan. Sending her friend to warn him away had the opposite effect. He resented the notion he should hide his face in shame. Society was a male bastion to which men only allowed women access as a favor, his youthful arrogance informed him.

Instead he stayed, and because of his wealth, which was a well-known quantity in society, he was smiled at by mothers and patted on the back by fathers. Young ladies laughed at his jests and he was invited to more than one home for the upcoming season of frivolity and festivity. “Come down to the country for hunting,” one man said. “Come to Berkshire for Christmas,” said another. “Join us to ring in the new year,” said yet another.

And all of this while Susan watched, her face bleached of all color, her lips trembling and causing those around her to gaze at her with censure at such a public display of emotion.

What prompted such callousness on Lankin’s part? In the spring, when he defiled the poor girl, he had congratulated himself that he was not a brute. What had changed in the intervening months? For he was not done with her. Had Susan left that moment, or looked less vulnerable, he probably would have ceased, but every display of emotion urged him to new cruelty, and one particular young lady, an acknowledged diamond, allowed his extravagant flirtation and even left the room with him for a stroll on the terrace.

When he returned, Susan had left the recital, and that was the end of it. Or so he thought.

He had rooms, in those days, the top floor of a once extravagant London townhome, now the dominion of an old woman who provided meals, laundry service and cleaning, as well as an airy suite with plenty of space for Lankin and his valet. His horse was kept by the livery down the street, and he could come and go as he pleased.

That very night, after the recital, he arrived back home from hours in a gambling hell. He had drunk too much, and was staggering, so when a young woman darted out of the shrubbery, he reared back in fright and fell up the steps to the front door.

“Edgar,” she said. “I have run away from Papa. Please, let us go in to your rooms!”

It was Susan, but Lankin was too befuddled to do aught but stare at her in dismay that was mingled with drunken outrage. What she was doing was beyond the pale, completely unladylike and faintly disgusting. He was unable to form any thought or deed, though, and in a moment, as he swayed and swore, she snatched the key from his hand and led him up the stairs.

Over the next few days, while he went about his life as usual, she spent every waking moment (when he was home, and not at a gaming club, White’s, or some other affair) pleading, arguing, berating, browbeating and, when she failed with every other method, petting him, trying to convince him to marry her. Lankin loathed the scenes, was impatient with the petting, and his disgust grew.

Finally, late one night when he came home a little high, though not stinking, she played her final card. She awaited him in his bed and offered herself again. He made love to her, and this time she did not cry. She lay like a plank, not pretending the amorous delight that more seasoned girls knew elicited the best rewards. It was not his fault, this confirmed for him. Other girls enjoyed his lovemaking. If she didn’t, it was her trouble, not his.

Even at that moment, late as it was, one approach would have forced him to marriage. If she had gone home, confessed all to her father and let him handle it, Lankin may have been persuaded by the fear of reprisals. It would have become a business transaction. The Baileys were wealthy and had quite a bit of social power as well. Shame had not worked on his heart, but the vivid threat of being cut by society may have. Susan was too tender-hearted to wish him such ill, though. He lived for convivial society. She would do nothing to cause him to be turned away from it.

His landlady had enough, and when she found the young lady alone, one day, flatly told her she was as stupid as any whore. Susan, finally accepting that Edgar Lankin did not love her enough to change his ways, retreated to her home and those who loved her.

Lankin gave his landlady a generous tip for cleansing his room of the taint of perfidy and shame, as ripe a stink as ten-day-old fish.

Susan was shuffled off to the country and did not show her face again in London that season, nor the next, to his knowledge. She was gone, and some said that she had left England altogether. Lankin never saw her again. But the cruelty that began that night in Lankin’s darkening heart grew like a malignant canker, fed with generous helpings of conceit and flattery, and his own sense that he was entitled to all that life could offer, while he owed nothing in return.

Part 6 - Nightfall

“You were right, Lankin, that is not a pretty story,” John Hamilton said, as his friend lay gasping for air. “Why behave thus? What did it gain you?”

One long and shuddering breath, another drink of cool water for his parched throat, and the man found his voice again. “I can only say, John, that what began as youthful arrogance led to further debauchery and an attitude of languid immorality. I just did not care for anyone but myself.”

Hamilton appeared troubled, his face drawn and gray with emotion, as he trimmed the wick on the candle and lit another against the approach of the darkest hours of night. “I find it painful to picture you thus, my friend. You were an open-hearted lad, and in these last few months I have seen not only your regret for your past transgressions, but also the real steps you have taken to make up for them. How could the fine mind the Creator gave you be so misled and misused as you are telling me?”

“You’re kind, John, as always, but you’re forgetting, in your compassion, how I mistreated your friendship when we were lads.” He turned his head and gazed toward the other man, reaching out one bony hand. “The lies I told you, the blame I misdirected on your shoulders, the beatings you took from the headmaster for my sake. You would forget it all, but I haven’t.”

“Youthful folly,” Hamilton gently said, taking Lankin’s hand, letting their clasped hands lay on the bedclothes.

“But an accurate barometer indicating the storm of reprehensible deeds to come.”

Another coughing fit seized Lankin as a pretty maid came in and drew the curtains against the gloom outside the window. Hamilton helped him sit up, gave him a drink of water and then lowered him back to the bed, letting him recover his gasping breath. Finally he lay still and calm, as rain pattered and a changeable wind rattled the sash. The two men were silent until the maid was gone.

“I know you had many years of dissolution, my friend,” Hamilton said. “Was there a point at which you could have changed, if you had been sufficiently motivated?”

“Do you mean if I had been sufficiently intelligent?” Lankin asked, with a ghost of a smile. “Oh, yes, there was, John. Shall I tell you about it?”

“If it doesn’t tire you too much. Are you sure you should not be better for some sleep?”

“Sleep, when it comes, will be eternal,” Lankin said. “Let me talk. It occupies the time.”

“Tell me, then.”

Part 7 - The Descent

Life can be viewed as a body of water; either it is a still pond fed only by rainwater, and therefore stagnant in time, or it moves and refreshes itself as it goes, like a river or stream. Think of that stagnant pond, never changing except in the addition of foul detritus from the animals that live near it. That was Lankin’s life for the next ten years, as he strove to live on as he had in that first heady year of his adulthood. He drank, gambled, stayed out all night, led gangs of young men who boxed the watch and joined the Four-in-Hand club, spending his days careening about London on his yellow barouche, wearing his many-caped coat and driving his matched set of bays.

He found, though, that every season fewer and fewer of his past cronies accompanied him on his revels. They were all getting married, starting families, less and less likely to be free to carouse. Oh, they belonged to the same clubs, but they disappeared from White’s after a quiet supper and some cards. They chatted desultorily amongst themselves, these married men, about what school their junior would attend, and how their money was doing on the exchange. They complained about their wives with affection-tinged irritation, and compared their mistresses, beautiful young women with whom they set up separate establishments.

Few indulged in all night binges anymore. In fact, some began to shun him altogether, and appeared queasy when he bragged of his indiscriminate seductions. He had made the secret “Susan” bet, as it was known to certain members of White’s, a yearly event, and so there was a trail of ten betrayed innocents behind him by then. One fellow club member, a man who in the past could drink all night and charm a duchess at an outdoor breakfast the next day, even took him to task. He was raising a daughter, and said if Lankin came near her, he would shoot him dead, like a mad dog.

Lankin laughed and asked the little girl’s name for future reference, then asked if she promised to be pretty in six years or so. He jested, but the other man challenged him. An intermediary stepped in before it came to blows or pistols. That particular disagreement became legendary in the card room of White’s, but not many of the members supported Lankin, sympathizing with the outraged father in this instance.

Time passed, as it inevitably does, even for those who ignore its passage. Lankin was forced to take up with younger and younger men, or at least, the age of the young men never changed. He was the one getting older. There were fewer, though, accompanying him on his revels. He awoke on his thirty-first birthday and acknowledged that even the young bucks no longer wished to follow his well-trod path to debauchery. His reputation as a rake was firmly established, but at some point the description went from a compliment to an insult.

It was spring of 1821 and the dear, insular island was changing. The government had responded to fomenting reformists with more severe restrictions and more cries against sedition. Old Nappy was dead, and the Regent, that debauched, grotesque figure of ridicule, was now the king, and more august in his reign than he had been in his Regency, with the added gravity and sadness of having lost his only child. The prosperous citizenry of the nation turned toward more conventional morals in reaction to the licentiousness of the passing age and fear of the reforming hordes.

Boredom, Lankin’s besetting sin, was taking its toll. There was no spice to life, until one of his less savory acquaintances came to him with an idea.

Bernard Merkin owned a gambling hell, and one night, as Lankin was at a table winning, Merkin asked him to come back to his sitting room for a glass of brandy. It could have been a ruse to interrupt another winning streak, but Lankin saw something, some sign of mischief, in the old man’s watery eyes, and followed him, intrigued. Once they were settled down with their glasses of amber liquid fire, Merkin observed him for a long moment, then said, “Lankin and Merkin…sounds like a dry goods shop, dontcha think?”

Lankin did not reply, and merely raised his glass, drained it and held it out for more. Merkin refilled it and sat back, watching the younger man.

“You’ve bin coming ‘ere for what, ten years now?” he finally said.

Lankin nodded, waiting.

“Lost some money to me, won some, too. We’re prob’ly ‘bout equal by now.” He sat forward. “Most o’ my clientele are on the red side of the ledger, though, y’know?”

“You wouldn’t still be in business if that weren’t so, Merkin. I do know how a gambling house operates.”

“How’d you like to gamble with my money from now on? You gets to keep whatever you wins?”

“I don’t believe I understand what you’re getting at, old man,” Lankin drawled, sitting back, trying to conceal his sudden spurt of interest.

“I won’t beat about the bushes,” Merkin said. “You’re a right ‘un, Mr. Lankin, sharp as they come. Know when to quit at the cards, know when they’re against you. I can’t afford many customers like you, an’ that’s a fact. My business is built on the fools who think they’re sharp, those what see a ‘pattern’ on the cards, and the others, those what can’t help themselves, but play one more hand, and one more hand, and one more…you know the ones.”

Lankin nodded. He was wealthy, and he stayed wealthy because he was able to walk away when the cards were against him. “Come to the point, Merkin. I’ll drink your brandy all night—and I appreciate that you’ve given me the good stuff, not the watered down horse piss you give club members—but I won’t pay for it in some other way.”

“Aye,” Merkin said, eyeing the other man with appreciation. “Always did like that about you, sir…your straight-to-the-point manner.” He set his glass aside and leaned forward, one hand planted on each knee. “So, I seen you bringing some young gentlemen into my club, an’ we been winning off them pretty good. But they leave too early. I want to dig into their pockets, y’know? I know they got more money.”

“Greedy bastard, aren’t you?” Lankin said with some irritation. “What are you asking?”

“If you could keep them here a little longer, let us get some more of the gold outta their pockets, I’d see you right.”

“I have no interest in bankrupting young men.”

“Not asking you to do that, sir, just let us dig a little deeper.” Merkin eyed him with a sly look. “If you don’t think yer up to it, sir, I’ll understand.”

It was a masterful touch, that combination of insult and challenge. “I would bet I can,” Lankin said, squinting over his glass at the other man. He held it out to be refilled.

“Nah…I ain’t takin’ a bet on that,” Merkin said, tipping the decanter and generously pouring. “Be crazy.”

“What, are you backing off?” Lankin thought for a moment, and said, “Let’s say I bring in a fellow, what would be enough to win such a bet?”

Merkin had not run a gambling house for so long without knowing when a man was bored and in need of diversion, and Lankin had that look about him, the irritability, the shifty gaze, the quick moodiness. “I’d need some honest proof the fella was about to leave, and I’d need to witness his change o’ heart.”

Lankin again drained the glass. “Say I get him to stay at the tables another…three hours, after such a display? Would that do it?”

“Done,” Merkin said, quickly. “But he’ll have to lose a pile. Otherwise how would I know you hadn’t set it up with the fella to just stay one for a while?”

“Are you implying I would cheat you? You, sir, are no gentleman.”

“No, I ain’t. Thank God.”

Mollified, Lankin chuckled. Terms of the bet were discussed and they shook hands on it. The very next evening Lankin surveyed the suitable youngsters at White’s, and found several new candidates, inviting them one at a time to Merkin’s gambling club. In a season of overwhelming boredom, the challenge added some spice to his bland life.

The first fellow was adamant and unshakable. Once he had lost a few thousand pounds, he headed for the door and Lankin was unable to persuade him to stay to try to “change his luck.” Merkin smirked at that, and raised his eyebrows. Lankin swore to do better with the next fellow. Alcohol, the sly demon that perched on many a man’s shoulder for his whole life, digging at him and urging him on to downward paths, must be his tool.

The next night, Lankin came to Merkin’s club with a fresh-faced sprig of the noble tribe. Viscount Trilby, a stripling of twenty-one, strolled into the gambling hell with an excited quiver, like a hound that has scented the game. Three hours later, as he lost a thousand pounds more than his yearly allowance, he began to look haunted, and miserably told Lankin he had to leave. Four hours after that, Trilby was staggering drunk and had signed markers for ten thousand pounds.

Merkin nodded in appreciation as he sidled up to Lankin. “I underestimated you, sir,” he murmured, his words concealed from the other patrons by the noise of the tables. “You got him in nice and deep.”

The praise merely spurred Lankin to fresh efforts. “You haven’t seen anything yet. Watch this.” With a deftly timed barb aimed at the young man’s gambling acumen, he incited him to add his signature to another marker, extending his credit by another ten thousand pounds. By dawn, the young viscount had committed himself to fifty thousand pounds.

That very day the lad was banished to the country by his father. The marker was paid, using loans from the moneylenders, and Lankin was banished from White’s. The unfairness of such an expulsion, after a decade of dues and attendance, had him raging and looking for vengeance.

Merkin’s coffers gained from that quest for revenge, while several titled and untitled, but wealthy, families suffered. Being barred from White’s merely meant Lankin sought out the sons of club members at other watering holes in the city. He led several to their doom in Merkin’s hell, taking particular glee in destroying their family finances, each destruction a blow for the injustice done to him.

But his enterprise with Merkin did not mean Lankin had not made the wager he undertook every spring with whatever White’s club denizens covertly took part. His absolute success in the yearly “Susan” gamble meant he had few who would go against him, but this particular year, the bet had changed slightly. The gaming men of White’s had protested that he rigged the wager each year by choosing a beauty who was vulnerable in some way through recent loss (Eleanor, in 1812, who had lost her parents a year earlier, and so was still soft from the emotions) or one whose chaperone was bribable (Diane, in 1819, whose chaperone was greedy and poor, and so amenable to some gold to look the other way while Lankin took Diane walking, then took her innocence). This year, they had chosen, as the object, a particular frozen beauty who they judged to be both more intelligent than the previous “Susans” and less emotional.

Miss Harriet Lascelles, at twenty-one, was beautiful and haughty. Ambitious men sought her for the grandeur of her family’s estate, which rivaled an earldom in its sweep and wealth, and for the connections she could bring to a marriage. Her father was one of those rare men of the gentility to whom “trade” was not an epithet, and so, for the new breed of ambitious young man who haunted High Change, she was a pearl beyond price. Lankin didn’t want any of that, he just wanted her maidenhead.

Brooding about his eviction from White’s, Lankin was in a care nothing mood. Even ruining the heirs of members was not soothing his wounded sense of privilege. It was doubtful that the wager still stood, as all the bettors were club men, but once Lankin made a bet he would accomplish it or die trying. He had made what he thought was progress on Miss Lascelles. She did not glare through him, as she had at first, nor did she ignore his overtures. In a reckless mood one night, he approached her more openly than was his habit. Her chaperone, a beady-eyed beldame, made sure to guide Miss Lascelles away from Lankin, but the young lady would not be so sternly directed.

She evaded the chaperone. “Walk with me, Mr. Lankin,” she said in her bored, cultured tone.

From there the night progressed speedily, until by the end, Lankin had agreed to be outside her London townhouse at three in the morning. He wasn’t even sure he liked Miss Lascelles. She was unfeminine in her manner, he thought, too bold, too openly aware of her ability to manipulate the male population. But if she wished to aid him in winning his bet in such an audacious manner, he would not fight it. It would allow him to flaunt his victory, collect his winnings and then gladly be shed of London for the season. He wasn’t sure where he was going, but he was sick of the city, his former friends, and even of himself, though he would never admit it.

Change was in the air, but Lankin had never been equipped to recognize or adjust to transformation.

Part 8 - The Lights Dim

Lankin began coughing, and Hamilton offered him laudanum once more, because the pain was wracking him most terribly.

His gaunt face drawn with suffering, Lankin gasped, “No, John, no laudanum! I don’t expect to see dawn, but I will not go from this life without a struggle, nor will I die in a drugged haze. I spent my life running from the truth, but this final certainty I shall stare in the face like a man and accept.”

“My dear friend,” Hamilton said, his voice thick with pity. “You don’t know you are at death’s door. You may yet rally. You’ve done so before, or so you’ve told me.”

Lankin lay shivering and retching with his body’s perturbations. When he could speak again, he said, “I wish that were so, but this time is different.” He paused, staring at the ceiling, his lean face gray even in the warm light of the candles Hamilton had lit. “I felt something different coming over me that night. If I had understood myself better, I might have changed the course of my life.”

“What do you mean?”

“That night, with Miss Lascelles. Oddly enough, though it was her idea to meet me, and I knew she was in a reckless mood and felt sure of winning my bet, I quailed at the thought. One more maiden to despoil should not have mattered, but I had begun to be a little sick of myself by then. I glimpsed the truth; men were using me, making sport of me, but the true cost was borne by others, by the young ladies and fellows. Even as I led those poor lads to poverty and shame in Merkin’s gambling hell, so the men I knew—the ones who called me friend and clapped me on the shoulder and offered me a drink—led me down paths to truly indecent depths. And I, idiot lamb that I was, let it happen.”

“You’re claiming innocence?” Hamilton said, his tone showing his revulsion at the notion.

“No, no, of course not. Not innocence.” He was silent for a moment, but continued, saying, “I’m not sure how to explain it. The culpability rests with me alone. I was led, at least at first, but I chose my actions as surely as, though society dictates I must wear a waistcoat, I choose the tailor and the fabric and style.”

“So did you meet her that night? And if you did, did you recognize then how wrong you were?” Hamilton asked.

“If I did, John, I would have become a better man then and there. I can’t explain it. I knew what I was doing was wrong and did it anyway, caring nothing for the consequences. It has taken all my life and this illness to change me, to show me the ungodly path I trod for so long. Too late, I fear.” He chuckled, a dry rattle in his throat, followed by another coughing fit and a long silence, with only his wheezing efforts to regain his breath to break the stillness. “Witness God’s sense of humor.”

“How could you resist the truth, if you were beginning to see it?”

“As men have ever withstood the truth when it showed them in a bad light. I wore blinkers, black stuff blinders over my eyes so I could say, with honesty, that I saw nothing wrong with my life as it was.”

Silence fell between them again, but finally Lankin said, “There is more that happened after that night, more wickedness and weakness that allowed me to resist the truth for so long, but that comes after my night with Miss Harriet Lascelles.”

“Do you feel strong enough to continue your story now, my poor friend?”

“I do.”

Part 9 - The Iron Maiden

Lankin waited under Miss Lascelles’s window that night in a fever of impatience, but it was not for the honor of taking her virginity that he was so eager. Rather, it was the end of the bet, so he could collect, flaunting his success in the faces of his former friends at White’s. He had pictured the end, with him entering the forbidden rooms, demanding the betting book, and signing his name to his triumph. In the case of the annual “Susan” bet, the book never detailed exactly what the wager concerned, of course, but was couched in delicate terms, such as “Mr. Edgar Lankin has bet that he will succeed in a certain endeavor agreed to by…” It then listed the other men who bet he would not succeed. By signing their names, they all agreed they understood the terms and would pay up upon Lankin’s word of honor—laughable phrase, given the object of the bet—that he had succeeded. Right-thinking gentlemen would have abhorred the wager, but the participants were careful to keep the exact details of the bet a secret from the stuffier club members.

If Lankin achieved his goal that night, then he would go the next afternoon to the club, sign his name, collect his winnings and tell them all what he thought. Nagging in his mind was one question only the men of White’s could answer: Why had ten years of betting on taking a young lady’s virginity been allowable, but leading young men astray into financial ruin was not? Both events ended in a youth disappointing societal constraints in some way, but only the second had resulted in something more than being called a rascal and a rake.

Lankin had never been adept at analyzing his own actions, nor asking himself soul-searching questions, but for the first time in his life he asked himself, what was it like to be a woman? Horrifying thought, but once it occurred to him it would not let him go. As he spotted Miss Lascelles above where he stood in an alley, ready to climb out her window as if they were eloping to Gretna, he wondered what compelled her to break away from her chaperone and family?

His mind went back, unbidden to Susan, sweet Susan, who had given her virginity in the misguided assurance that he wished to marry her. Could Miss Lascelles have the same thought? Impossible. They had exchanged a few dozen words, and this night’s adventure was all her idea. He had a carriage waiting, and as he put her in it, he noted, by lantern-light, the smug expression on her face. What did it mean? He climbed in and took a seat beside her.

She turned to him and said, “So, Mr. Lankin, shall we proceed with the seduction? Your little cottage, perhaps? You have one in Chelsea, and I have heard it described as quaint.”

He was taken aback and simply stared at her, and then tapped the roof of the carriage to start the driver. They were indeed headed to his cottage, a recent purchase few knew about. Regaining his composure, he slid closer to her and caressed her arm. She knew what they were about so there was no need for such finesse, but he was like an old carriage horse that turns the way it always has, on a well-worn route home. Flattery first, then some gentle lovemaking before moving on to the manipulation necessary to convince a woman to part with her most valuable asset, her virginity. “I have never seen a young lady so…so confident and lovely. You have inspired me to—”

“Mr. Lankin, such old-fashioned manners!” She hooted with laughter, her pretty face alight with mischief, and batted his hand. It was the most emotion she had shown so far. “I am all agog to see your little love nest.” She leaned forward and peered out of the window.

Lankin was silent, unsure how to proceed with such an unorthodox young woman. When they reached the cottage he silently handed her down, and she strode up to the door and waited for him to unlock it with all the subtlety of a prostitute. It was dreadfully off-putting. Seduction, when the object was so bold and forward, could hardly be called seduction, unless he were the one being solicited for his favors. He let her in and she walked the rooms, her ecru lace gown in the fashion of those days high-waisted, the silhouette slim, brushing the floor with a soft shush of sound, like waves on the shore.

“A very pretty lair, sir,” she said, as he lit a candle and a lantern.

His housekeeper was roused and provided them with glasses and wine with which to toast the illicit activity which brought them there. Lankin was confounded for a subject that did not sound ridiculous. In fact, he was baffled how to proceed without seeming utterly absurd.

She seemed to sense his confusion, for she turned from admiring the painting over the fireplace and smiled at him, lifting her wine glass in a salute, and then downed the liquid in one gulp. “Shall we?” She took his hand and led him down the hall to the bedchamber.

It soon became apparent to him that his bet was null and void, as the lady did not possess that which he was supposed to take. The “lovemaking” was quick and pedestrian. He had performed poorly, he felt. He sat on the edge of the bed while she drew on her stockings and pulled her chemise over her head.

“Please don’t feel too badly, Mr. Lankin, at your failure to provide any pleasure to me,” she said, her gaze deliberately malicious as she eyed his naked form with a withering glance. Her melodious voice was throaty with spite, as she continued, “I shall tell no one how pitiful you are at this endeavor. I wouldn’t want to damage your hard-earned reputation, or spoil whatever future debauchment you intend.”

He sprang to his feet, thrust his arms into a robe and whirled to confront her. “What kind of unfeminine woman are you, to behave thus? You have no becoming modesty. You’re shrill, coarse, without the delicacy to—”

“To what, feign reluctance?” She glared at him in disgust. “Or to have the insipidity to fall in love with you, as my cousin, Susan Bailey, did?”

The name struck him and he gaped at her like a landed fish.

“Oh yes, Susan was my cousin.” She smiled, but there was no softer emotion in her expression, only loathing.

“Was?” he asked, and his voice echoed sadly in the cold room.

“Didn’t anyone tell you?” she said, her eyes flashing fury as she stalked around the room toward the door. “My dear, sweet, vulnerable cousin Susan, despairing in her unwavering love for you, ran away with a violin master and took too much laudanum in Venice. She died. Hopefully, for her eternal soul’s sake, not a suicide.”

She walked out, and the next day Lankin heard that Miss Harriet Lascelles was engaged to a wealthy earl, a secret engagement just then being revealed. The couple was to be married within the month. Being the object of the White’s bet that Season had been rigged between her and a male friend to end the long-standing “Susan” wager with a failure.

Part 10 - Morti Della Notte

“Poor Miss Bailey died?” Hamilton asked Lankin.

“I was meant to think so, but could never confirm it through any source and now believe Miss Lascelles was lying out of justifiable anger and spite. How could she do aught but despise me?” Lankin took in a long, shuddering breath. “The young lady did me a great service in forcing me to consider what my behavior led to. I am humbly grateful.”

Silence, then, as both men thought about what may have happened to Miss Bailey.

“What time is it, John?”

“It is midnight. Listen. You can hear bells toll the hour.” Distant church bells, muffled by the rain, sounded.

“The witching hour. The dead of night. Morti della notte. Will you stay with me yet, to wait for dawn?”

“I will, of course.”

“You’re very kind to me. Let me just close my eyes for a moment.” Lankin shivered as the last toll melted away in the night.

Though it was warm in the room, Hamilton fetched another blanket from the maid, who awaited orders in the hall.

The girl anxiously asked, “How is the master, sir?”

“As well as can be expected.”

Tears pooled in the girl’s blue eyes. “He’s such a kind and gentle man. It’s not right that God should treat him so cruelly. Why does the Lord do such things, sir?”

“It is not for us to know, Mary. He has a larger plan for each of us, we are told.” Hamilton touched her shoulder gently, then went back into his friend’s room and laid the blanket over him. As he watched Lankin’s irregular pulse fluttering weakly in his throat, he reflected on the different faces men present through their lives.

Where in the past Lankin—the last true “rake” of the Regency years—was a dangerous roué, capable of seducing a maid or a lady, he was now, in the first years of the newly-married Queen Victoria’s reign, an object of pity for a pretty little housemaid. Hamilton would not tell his old friend, for it would only depress him further. Hamilton settled back down in his chair and picked up his book, thinking his old friend might sleep for a while, or even drift into the eternal rest. He was startled, then, by his voice.

“If I had been half the man I should have been,” Lankin said, his eyes still closed, “I would have reformed that moment and made a new start.”

It took a minute to remember what he was talking about, but Hamilton soon was back to the story, of Miss Lascelles and her announcement to her “conquest”. “Why did you not?” he asked, genuinely curious. “You were one of the most intelligent lads at school, far brighter than I. What made you so obtuse to the path that would have brought you some satisfaction and lasting happiness in life?”

“Stubbornness. Conceit. Indolence.”

“Did you have no friends to guide you? No one whose advice you trusted?”

With great effort, Lankin turned his face to his friend and regarded him, a ghostly smile fleeting across his lips. “John, add to the previous named lovely qualities a willful and spiteful disregard for the advice of others,” he said.

“So, the bet was null and void, as Miss Lascelles was not a virgin. Did you tell the men of White’s the truth?”

“No. I was shocked to the core and retreated from everything for a few days. Then I told myself I was bored with London. That was the truth, I suppose, but the boredom could have been mended in a more positive manner if I had then decided to try my hand at some occupation. Writing, perhaps, or good works, as dreadful as that sounds. Instead, I set out on my travels. The journey began that spring which would eventually bring me to this bed, and my last night, my last friend.”

Moved beyond mere pity, Hamilton surreptitiously wiped the moisture from his eyes, cleared his throat and said, “Do you wish to tell me?”

Lankin chuckled, wheezed, and coughed, taking a long few minutes to recover. Finally, he said, “Did you think I would save the rest of my tale for another day, John?”

Part 11 - The Spell of the Poppy

Lankin left London, though he did not know where he was going. Italy was too cultured and cynical for him, he found, Germany too cold and ascetic. Russia too grim, Turkey too lavish, France too broken. He drifted to India, where a fine balance existed between English reserve and Eastern pleasure seeking. It suited him, he found, and he wandered the country, sitting with low-caste outcasts sharing a hookah, and visiting with the son of the Mughal ruler, (with whom he debated Hindu and Mussulman philosophy) enjoying the deliciously spicy food, so refreshing to a jaded palate, and learning about Hindu history.

The women were gorgeous, sinuously beautiful, doe-eyed and cultured in ways no Englishwomen ever would be. The Mughal believed that multiple wives were a blessing, and Lankin was intrigued. However stifling one wife, in the English tradition, seemed, would having many wives be more or less restrictive? Unfortunately for Lankin, the ladies were also well-guarded. As curious as they seemed about him, they were never allowed to be alone.

Finally, though, he tired of traveling and became weary of his cultural exploration. At a little entrepôt along the Indian coast, Lankin found other like-minded Englishmen, weary of the world, bored with their privileged lot in life. He became curious about their habits, especially after coming across a fellow he knew in school, who now spent most of his days in an ecstatic trance. He was one of the infamous opium eaters.

Lankin joined him, finding in opium an antidote for the tedium of life. In this endeavor Lankin was a more original De Quincey, for he took to opium eating in the garden of its creation, rather than the squalid streets of London. But that originality was barren of meaning, for at least De Quincey produced a great literary work out of his habit. All Lankin did was smoke, eat opium, drink and carouse with frowsier and frowsier expatriate Englishwomen—runaway wives, penurious prostitutes—sickly sybarites all. He became thin, wasting away in his addiction to the spell of the poppy.

To understand that time and place, one must know that all who became slaves to the wretched flower were looking to soothe pain, whether physical or spiritual. Lankin’s pain stemmed from his resolute refusal to accept his deficiencies. He was intent on protecting his view of himself as a fine fellow indeed. Any evidence to the contrary was stifled, and inevitably that layer upon layer of suppressed truth caused immense suffering.

Opium is a delicious deceiver. It gives the eater the illusion of wealth, of endless time, of years and years of life in one night that stretches on for eons. Lankin contracted the illness that would ultimately end his life, for consumption follows naturally upon addiction. But the nature of opium is such that he had wasted to a hull of his former self before he even recognized he was ill. He forgot to eat for days at a time, forgot anything but the sweet narcotic haze, during which he would walk for hours, marveling at the palaces and splendor, only to finally lose the illusion as the drug wore off, when he would find himself in a slum of truly horrifying depravity.

He spiraled deeper and deeper, funding not only his own addiction, but that of others. Hangers-on flattered and curried favor with him. They were his friends until he ran out of money, when they drifted away, only to show up again when a draft came in from his bank.

Then one day he awoke, as if from a dream, and discovered that seven years had passed. How had it happened? It seemed just a few minutes ago he was wandering some riverbank and thinking how lovely India was on first look, and now he had spent over one-fifth of his life as if in a dream. It was a horrible moment, but worse was in store when he gazed at his ravaged face in the mirror and saw the truth in his eyes. He was dying.

It is strange how in the face of such knowledge the heart and soul returns to the past and the comfort of old philosophies, old beliefs. Did God—Lankin’s God, not the pantheon of Indian lore—love him, even when he had strayed repeatedly so far from the safe shores of Christian hope? Could he return to the breast of the Savior, or was he lost forever? It was not that Lankin thought the Indian religion diabolical, but it was not suited to an Englishman who felt the need for some recognizable comfort, that of the pulpit and the pastor, the scolding of the wretch, the reassurance of the confessional. There was an English minister in the little entrepôt who was a particularly good fellow, not one of his multitudinous tribe who would fault a fellow for enjoying a bottle of wine or a woman’s charms. He went to this man, asked for his help and the fellow’s advice was quick and to the point. Lankin should go home.

England. What is it about a man’s life that no matter where he has been, no matter how varied his experience, that word is a charm upon the senses, bringing with it the scent of heather and the feel of mist on the face, pudding bubbling in a stew pot, coal smoke and an hundred other sensory experiences? Whatever it is, it worked upon Lankin, and he remembered his youth with a nostalgic longing, a desire to return to his home country, the green pastures of Kent and the shore of the gray churning Channel, seabirds wheeling above. That single meeting and the minister’s advice, became a pivot. Lankin turned and looked back in horror. He had wasted forty years on self-indulgence and self-deception.

He rallied and returned to England, but what a changed country! The last George was dead and England was crisscrossed with iron leviathans belching steam and whistling imperiously to oxen and cattle and sheep to get out of their self-important and unmovable path. Rail, in its infancy when Lankin left his country to travel, had become a full-blown adolescent, importunate and noisy. Even so, he was grateful to be home. The bracing Channel wind seemed to sweep from him the lingering lassitude that kept him in the thrall of opium, and he left his addiction on the boat like an undesirable piece of luggage.

The climate was not kind, though, and Lankin soon found that the cold and damp exacerbated his illness. Should he stay? Or should he go, perhaps to prolong his life, to Spain or Portugal?

Part 12 - Departing at Dawn

“But you decided to stay here.”

Lankin nodded, his eyes closed. “That was…three years ago. I spent the intervening time repenting, John. Oh yes, a penitent I have become. And good deeds—while I was able—I did them by the score, but the lives I ruined weigh on me like Coleridge’s albatross.” He opened his eyes, and his gaze, wretched with suffering, fixed on Hamilton. “What good is penance, my friend? What good, I ask?”

Hamilton ordered a cool, damp cloth from the teary-eyed maid and pressed it to Lankin’s fevered brow. He muttered a prayer under his breath, then, donning his clerical robe and retrieving his Bible, he knelt by his friend and performed the ritual of absolution, which Lankin’s confessions seemed to deserve.

“Penance, my friend, has cleansed your soul of the guilt of your past behavior. The Lord has put away all your sins.”

“How can that be,” Lankin whispered, “when every person I have harmed bears the burden of my sin?” He coughed, spitting blood into a snowy handkerchief, and it was ten minutes before he could continue, but when he did, he said, “Those girls—the poor girls I seduced and betrayed—and the young men, the ones who I induced to bankrupt their families…What good does my absolution do to them?”

Honesty would not allow Hamilton to offer false reassurance. “Not one iota of good, Edgar.”

Lankin nodded, his eyes closed and his breath rattling in his throat. Hamilton regarded his friend’s wan face with compassion, and leaned over, giving him a sip of cool water. Placing the glass back on the table, knowing it might be the last time he did that, he gently said, “You must forgive yourself, my friend, because you have confessed and received absolution for your part in their downfall. Somewhere, somehow, I pray that each of those men and women are confessing their own responsibility, for you did not force anyone to follow your lead.”

The patter of driving rain on the window and the rattling of the sash were the only sounds in the room for a long time, time that Hamilton spent in prayer and in contemplation of Lankin’s tale, and his life, and his ultimate penitence. Straw on the street outside deadened the sound of carriages passing, a tribute to the dying man inside.

How many men like Lankin were there, fellows who may have done good but out of lassitude, instead, did evil? It puzzled Hamilton that evil was so often the easier path, while good required effort and dedication. Was there another path, a neutral one that meandered between resolute evil and shining good?

Perhaps there was. If Lankin had confined his sexual transgressions to women who were already firmly on the path downward, and if he had confined his gambling to his own pocket, what evil would there really have been? The Susan Baileys and Viscount Trilbys would have chosen their own path, for good or for evil, instead of being led astray. There was no saying they would have chosen correctly—they showed their weakness when they gave in to Lankin’s coaxing—but at least the dishonor would not have soiled Lankin’s immortal soul.

He believed in the redemptive power of forgiveness; he had to, as an honest man of the cloth. Finally, Reverend Hamilton murmured, “Almighty God, look on this man, Edgar Lankin, your servant, lying in great weakness, and comfort him with the promise of life everlasting, given in the resurrection of your Son Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”

But his friend’s question reverberated through Hamilton’s being. How could Lankin receive absolution for sins that had their most devastating effect on others? Hamilton believed in absolution. A compassionate God would not allow mankind to wallow in sin without some offer of salvation. It was troubling, though, to wonder, and he contemplated how one man’s selfishness can have repercussions that would echo through time for perhaps a century or more. Susan Bailey, disgraced and possibly dead. If she had lived, would she have given the world a great composer, or a statesman? If Viscount Trilby had not lost a fortune and been banished home, would he have become a worthy diplomat, helping their dear England to forge a more perfect relationship with some other nation?

For want of a nail, the shoe was lost, and so on down the line until a kingdom was razed.

“John!” Lankin gasped.

“Yes, my friend, I am here,” Hamilton said, kneeling by his friend’s bed, watching him as the first gray light of dawn began to peep in between the gap in the curtains.

“Find…find Susan Bailey, if she is alive. Tell her…” He trailed off, choking like a fish on the bank of the river, drowning in air.

Hamilton prayed, as he gathered Lankin to his chest, then gently said, “Yes, Edgar? What do you want me to tell her?”

“Tell her…my last thoughts on earth were of her, and the wrong I did her. Tell her…I’m sorry.” Lankin sighed, the sound of expired breath not followed by one of intake.

~End

About the Author

Donna Lea Simpson, nationally bestselling author of historical and paranormal romances and mysteries, loves to write and read more than anything else. Becoming a published author was her dream from the age of twelve, and she feels fortunate that she achieved that goal. She can get lost in historical research, is fascinated by unusual tidbits of knowledge and is enthralled by the romance of history. History is about people, after all, and Donna loves to create characters who are immersed in, and react realistically to, the times in which they live.

But after working—and when not reading a mystery or historical novel—Donna likes to cook, sing karaoke, drink wine on the patio in the summer or chat with a good friend while drinking tea. She’s fond of cats and crafts, is a dedicated homebody and feels fortunate to be surrounded by wonderful family and faithful friends.

Donna loves a little mystery in her romance, and romance in her mystery!

For more information and to see Donna’s publishing history, visit her at www.donnaleasimpson.com.

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ISBN: 978-1-4268-9019-2

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