The Blackmailer

BY ANNE PERRY

The butler closed the withdrawing room door behind him. "Excuse me, sir. There is a young gentleman called to see you." He held out the silver tray, offering Henry Rathbone the card on it.

Henry picked it up and read. The name James Darcy was only slightly familiar. It was half past nine on a January evening, and bitterly cold. The gas lamps in the street were haloed in fog, and the hansom cabs' wheels hissed in the damp, their horses' hooves muffled by the clinging darkness.

"He seems very agitated, sir," the butler said, watching Henry's face. "He begged me to ask if you would see him, as he is in some kind of difficulty, although of course he did not im­part its nature to me."

"Then I suppose you had better show him in," Henry con­ceded. "I cannot imagine how he believes I may help." Nor could he. He was a mathematician and occasional inventor, a lover of fine watercolors which he collected when he could af­ford to, and an inveterate dabbler in shops which dealt in any­thing old. He liked the evidences of ordinary life, rather than the antiques of wealth.

The man who followed the butler into the room was of average height, fair coloring, and regular features. He was very well dressed. His cravat was tied to perfection, his boots gleamed, and in spite of his obvious anxiety, he bore himself with confidence.

"It is very good of you to receive me, sir," he said, ex­tending his hand. "Most particularly since I have called at such an uncivil hour. To tell you the truth, I have been arguing with myself all afternoon as to what I should do, and whether or not I should approach you." He met Henry's eyes with disarming candor, and Henry saw the fear sharp and bright in them.

"Please sit down, Mr. Darcy," he invited. "A glass of brandy? You must be cold."

"Indeed I am. That is most kind of you." Darcy moved closer to the fire and stood for a moment. Then, as if his legs had collapsed, he sank into the chair, letting out his breath in a shak­ing sigh. "I am in a most terrible situation, Mr. Rathbone, and I cannot get myself out of it without the help of someone like yourself, a man of unquestioned honor. I am being black­mailed." He sat quite still, his blue eyes fixed on Henry's face, as if dreading his response, yet unable to move his gaze until he had seen it.

Henry poured the brandy and passed it across.

"I see. Do you know by whom?"

"Oh, yes," Darcy said quickly. "A man called James Al-bury. To my sorrow, I have a passing acquaintance with him."

Henry hesitated. He had never encountered blackmail be­fore, but he was willing to do what he could to help this young man so obviously in distress. Whatever his weakness or failing, another man's attempt to profit from it in this manner was inex­cusable. It was indelicate to ask, and yet in order to foresee the consequence of failure, he had to know the original offense.

As if reading his dilemma, Darcy spoke, leaning forward a little, the firelight warming the pallor of his face.

"I did not commit any crime, Mr. Rathbone, or I would not place you in the embarrassment of being party to it. If I tell you my story, you will understand."

Henry sat back and, without thinking, rested his feet on the fender. His slippers were already well scorched from the practice. "Please do," he said encouragingly.

Darcy sipped his brandy, cradling the glass in his hands.

"I was staying the weekend at the country house of Lord Wilbraham. There were several other guests, among them Miss Elizabeth Carlton, to whom I am betrothed." He took a deep breath and looked down. The flush in his cheeks was more than the reflection of the flames.

Henry did not interrupt.

"You will need to understand the geography of the house," Darcy continued. "The conservatory lies beyond a most agree­able morning room in which are hung some rather valuable pic­tures, most particularly some Persian miniatures painted upon bone. They are quite small, not more than a few inches across, most delicately wrought-with a single hair, so I have heard. There is no other door to the morning room except that into the hall."

Henry wondered where Darcy was leading. Presumably it had something to do with the miniatures.

Again Darcy seemed uncomfortable. His eyes left Henry's and he looked down at the carpet between them.

"Please believe me, Mr. Rathbone, I am devoted to Miss Carlton. She is everything a man could desire: honest, gentle, modest, of the sweetest nature ..."

It occurred to Henry that these were euphemisms for saying that the girl was lacking in spirit or humor, and more than a little boring, but he smiled and said nothing.

Darcy bit his lip. "But I was rash enough to spend a great deal more of the evening than I should have in the company of another young lady, alone in the conservatory. I had gone in there, rather more by chance than design, and when I heard Lizzie . . . Miss Carlton, through the open doors into the morning room, I did not wish to be seen coming out with Miss Bartlett. She was ... er ... in high good humor, and . . . a trifle disheveled in her dress. She had caught her gown on a frond of one of the palm trees . . . and . . ." He opened his eyes wide and stared at Henry with wretchedness.

"I see," Henry said with considerable compassion. The truth of the matter might be as Darcy said, or it might not. It was not for him to judge. "Where do the miniatures come in to the matter?"

"Two of them were stolen," Darcy said huskily. "The alarm was raised as soon as it was noticed, and from the circum­stances it was obvious that they were taken before Lizzie went into the morning room, although she said that she had not no­ticed their absence."

"And the blackmail?" Henry asked. "Is the suggestion that you took them as you passed through to the conservatory?"

"Yes. They were seen shortly before that!" Darcy's voice rose in anguish. "You perceive my dilemma? I was at all times with Miss Bartlett. She would swear for me that I did not, and could not, have taken them! But if she were to do so, then Lizzie would know that I was in the conservatory with Miss Bartlett . . . and I confess, Mr. Rathbone, that would be most painful for her, and some considerable embarrassment for me. Miss Bartlett's reputation is ... less . . ."

"You do not need to spell it out for me." Henry leaned forward and poked the fire, putting on another two or three coals.

"Added to which," Darcy went on, "if I were to prove myself innocent, then it would leave poor Lizzie with the matter of proving herself innocent also. Of course she is! She is as hon­est as it is possible to be, and is an heiress to a considerable sum. It would not be more than unpleasant for her. No one could imagine . . . Nevertheless, I cannot . . ."

"I see your predicament," Henry said with feeling. Indeed, it was very apparent, as was his conflict of emotions over the wealthy Miss Carlton, who would not take a pleasing view of his dalliance, real or imagined, with Miss Bartlett.

"But I do not know how I can help. What does Mr. Albury require of you? You have not said."

"Oh, money!" Darcy answered with contempt. "And of course if I should pay him once, then there is nothing on earth to stop him returning again and again, as often as he pleases." His voice rose close to panic and there was desperation in his eyes. "If I once give in to him, he could bleed me till I have nothing left!" His hands were clenched before him. "But if I don't, he leaves me no alternative but to permit him either to ruin me or drive me to defend myself at Lizzie's cost, and the end of my betrothal and my future happiness." He bent forward and covered his face with his hands. "God, I was a fool to stay there in that damned conservatory, but there was no harm in it, I swear to that!"

Henry felt an intense pity for him. It was a piece of very mild foolishness, such as any young man might commit. Possibly most young men had, feeling the constraints of marriage and domestic ties closing around them, and taking a last opportunity for a gentle flirtation. Darcy had been caught by an extraordi­nary mischance. But Henry had no idea how he could help. He sought anything to say that would at least be of comfort, and found nothing.

Darcy looked up. "Mr. Rathbone, I can think of only one way in which this blackguard might be confounded. . . ."

"Indeed?" Henry was greatly relieved. "Pray tell me how, and I will do all I can to aid you, and with the greatest pleasure." He meant it profoundly.

Darcy straightened himself and set his shoulders square. He took another healthy sip of his brandy and then put the glass down.

"Mr. Rathbone, if you, and some highly reputable and es­teemed gentleman of your acquaintance-I know there are many -were to come to my rooms and secrete yourselves in the ad­joining chamber, with the door on the jar, I could face Albury and entice him to commit himself verbally to precisely what he is doing. Then he will have damned himself out of his own mouth. With witnesses against him such as yourself, a disinterested party whose reputation no man would question, then I think he will not dare to press his case further. He could have as much to lose as I, or perhaps even more. No man of honor can tolerate a blackmailer."

"Quite!" Henry said almost eagerly. "I do believe you have the answer, Mr. Darcy. And I have half a dozen acquain­tances at the very least, who would be happy to dispatch such a fellow and count it a service to humanity to do so. Lord Jes-mond leaps to mind most readily. If he is agreeable to you, I shall approach him tomorrow."

"Most agreeable, sir," Darcy said quickly. "An admirable gentleman, and his condemnation could ruin Albury, or any man fool enough to earn it. I cannot begin to express to you how grateful I am. I shall be forever in your debt, as will my dear Lizzie, although she will never know it." He rose to his feet and held out his hand impulsively. "Thank you, Mr. Rathbone, with all my heart!"

It was two days later on a sharp, frosty afternoon, with ice cracking in the puddles and a bleached winter sky that promised a bitter night, when Henry Rathbone and Lord Jesmond alighted from their hansom cab and presented themselves at Darcy's lodgings in Mayfair. They had not used Lord Jesmond's carriage in case its presence in the mews might cause the black­mailer to suspect a witness to his dealings.

They were welcomed at the door by Darcy, who was quite understandably in a state of considerable anxiety. His eyes were bright and his color feverish. He moved jerkily, all but drawing them inside, with a hand on Henry's arm which he released with a stammered apology as soon as he realized his unwarranted familiarity. Henry introduced him to Lord Jesmond.

"I am most heartily grateful, my lord," Darcy said ear­nestly. "It is an inestimable kindness for you to have taken up my cause in this way. I can never repay you."

"No need, my dear fellow," Jesmond assured him, taking the offered hand and shaking it warmly. "Dastardly thing, black­mail. Fellow deserves to be horsewhipped, but I daresay a damned good fright will serve the purpose, and without jeopar­dizing your good name or your future happiness. Now, where may we wait so as to observe this wretch without ourselves being seen?"

"This way, my lord." Darcy turned on his heel and led them into a most agreeable room furnished with armchairs and a small carved table of Oriental style. The fireplace was after the fashion of Adam, and above the mantel was a highly individual collection of paintings of the scenery of the Cape of Good Hope. There were brass candlesticks of some elegance at either end, and a brisk fire which made the room most comfortable.

Darcy led them to a door at the farther side, and the chilly, apparently unused, bedroom beyond, in which there was no fur­niture except a large Chinese silk screen.

"I'm sorry," he apologized. "I know it is miserably cold in here, but were I to set a fire, Albury might wonder why, and I am desperate to get this matter over with. I fear if I do not succeed this time, I shall not have another opportunity. He is a blackguard, but he is not a fool."

"Quite, my dear fellow," Lord Jesmond said immediately. "Might choose to meet you somewhere in the open next time, what? Damn the cold and the rain! This will do very well, I assure you. Handy having the screen there, in case he should look in. Daresay you thought of that, what?" He smiled, perhaps attempting to put Darcy in good heart.

Darcy smiled back. It was a pained expression, the specter of fear too sharp in it for Henry at least to miss.

"Don't worry," he said gently. "He won't raise the issue again, once we've caught him fairly at his game. But anxiety in your manner will be all to the good. Now pull the door to, and we will wait here, behind the screen."

"Thank you again, gentlemen," Darcy said with feeling, then did as he was bid. The next moment the door was all but closed, and Henry and Jesmond were alone, seeing nothing but the delicately embroidered silk of the screen. The silence was so complete it all but crackled. There were no footsteps or voices of domestic service. Possibly whoever cared for Darcy's needs had been sent out of the house on errands of one sort or another. There was not even the hiss of flames or the settling of coals beyond the door. The whole house seemed to have held its breath.

Then at last it came, a voice which was not Darcy's, a soft, insinuating, well-bred voice of a man used to charm and ease of good manners. But Henry heard in it the higher pitch of ner­vousness, the added sharpness, the little space for an indrawn breath of a man who knows he is about dangerous business, and has something to win or lose.

"Right, Darcy, let us not waste time with pleasantries nei­ther of us means. I hope you are well. You wish I would meet with lethal mischance which would free you from all risk from me. Let us assume it has been said. But I am alive and in excellent health, and look set to remain so-unless you are rash enough to try to murder me! But I have taken some precautions against that." He laughed abruptly. "And it would seem an ex­cessive reaction to what is, after all, a fairly modest request to a man of the means you will have when you have married Miss Elizabeth Carlton." There was a moment's silence.

"Damn you!" Darcy said chokingly.

"And I know of nothing which will prevent that," Albury went on, "except your failure to oblige me."

Darcy's voice came sharply. "In what manner 'oblige you'?"

"Oh, come!" Albury said in disgust. "Don't be coy with me. You understand me very well. We have already made our positions quite plain." There was no impatience in his voice. To Henry, standing in the chill behind the Chinese screen, there was a note of pleasure in it, as if he savored his power and was in no haste to have the moment over.

The same thought must have come to Darcy, because the next instant his voice came quite clearly, raised a little.

"You are enjoying this, you wretch! I used to consider you, if not a friend, at least a person worthy of respect. My God, how wrong I was! You are not fit to cross the threshold of any decent house!"

"You are in no position to criticize, my dear Darcy, let alone to fling insults," Albury replied with amusement. "How many thresholds do you suppose you would be permitted to cross were it generally known that you pocketed two of your host's most delicate and valuable Persian miniature paintings?"

"I did not!" Darcy said desperately. "I-"

"Indeed," Albury said with disbelief. "Then no doubt you will prove it and have me for false accusation when I tell every­one what I know."

"I . . ." Darcy was all but sobbing. Henry glanced at Jes­mond. Darcy was playing his part extremely well. Perhaps he had less confidence in his plan than he had seemed to have earlier. Albury had apparently robbed him of his faith. Henry's anger against him almost boiled over. Blackmail was among the most despicable of crimes, a slow and quite deliberate torture.

"You could always pay me, as agreed," Albury said dis­tinctly. "Twenty pounds a month, I think, will keep me in the luxuries to which I would like to accustom myself, quite without beggaring you. You will have to forgo a few of the pleasantries of life you now enjoy. Your good claret may have to go, your visits to the opera, your rather regular new shirts. You will have to wear your boots a trifle longer than you do now. And I daresay, at least until your marriage, you will not be able to be quite so generous to Miss Carlton."

"Damn you!" Darcy said fiercely. "That is blackmail!" "Of course it is!" Albury replied, his tone filled with amusement. "Do you mean to say you have only just appreciated that?"

"No." Now the confidence was back, Darcy sounded like a different man. "No, I have always known it was; I simply wanted to hear you say so. Because blackmail is a crime, quite a severe one, and I have witnesses to our conversation. And that, I think, gives me an equal advantage with you."

"What?" Albury was aghast. "Where?"

Henry moved from behind the screen just as the door was flung wide and a dark, lean young man faced them, his mouth open, his eyes filled with horror.

"Mr. Darcy is quite correct," Henry said, moving forward to allow Lord Jesmond also to be seen. "We have overheard your entire exchange, Mr. Albury, and you would be well ad­vised to leave here and never mention the matter to anyone as long as you live. Count yourself fortunate to have escaped ruin and prosecution. You will not get a penny from Darcy. In return, neither Lord Jesmond nor myself will speak of your contempt­ible behavior. It will remain as secret as it is now."

Albury backed away, turning to stare at Darcy with loath­ing.

"Nothing," Darcy reaffirmed, pointing to the farther door and the way out. "Leave my house and do not set foot here again. Should I chance to meet you socially, I shall treat you with civility, as if nothing had happened between us, for the sake of our bargain."

Henry and Jesmond came into the sitting room, glad of the warmth. The fire crackled in the grate. Darcy had set more coals in it. There was an ease in the air, a sense of victory.

"Bargain?" Albury looked from one to the other of them in rage and frustration. "I get nothing, and you get away with theft! What are those miniatures worth? A hundred, two hun­dred? More? You'll sell them and do very nicely."

"I didn't take them," Darcy said earnestly. "I have never stolen a thing in my life."

"No?" Albury's eyes widened in exaggerated disbelief.

"No," Darcy said firmly.

"Then why did you not say so at the time, and tell me to go to hell?" There was a smirk on Albury's face and his eyes were bright and hard.

"Because to do so I should have to admit that I was alone in the company of a young lady other than my betrothed, and for a longer time than she might understand. Also, it would provoke speculation that-" Darcy stopped suddenly, perhaps realizing he had said far more than he needed to, and raised the very questions he wanted to avoid.

Albury smiled, showing very fine teeth, transforming his face.

"You mean that it might suggest that Miss Carlton took them herself? Of course it might! In fact it would! And there would be a certain justice in that."

"It would be monstrous!" Darcy said furiously. He took a step forward, his fists clenched by his sides. "Don't you dare say such a thing ever again. Do you hear me? Or I shall take great pleasure in thrashing you till you are obliged to eat your meals from the mantelpiece, sir."

"It would also be true," Albury returned without moving a step.

"You go too far, sir," Jesmond stepped forward at last. "To blacken a lady's name when she is not here to defend herself is inexcusable. You will retract your calumny immediately, and then leave while you still have a whole skin and can walk away with nothing but your honor injured."

Henry was staring at the two younger men and the emo­tions written so deeply in them. A strange thought was stirring in his mind.

"It makes no sense," Darcy protested. "Lizzie would never do such a thing. Anyone who knows her knows that! She has all the means she could wish, and she is as honest as the day."

"But a woman," Albury said, ignoring Lord Jesmond and looking only at Darcy. "And as capable of feeling jealousy as the next."

Darcy swallowed. "Jealousy?" he said hoarsely.

"Of course! Did you imagine she did not know you were in the conservatory with Belle Bartlett, or picture in her mind only too clearly what you may have been doing in between the orchids and the potted palms? Then you are a fool!"

Darcy gulped. He seemed to be shaking very slightly, as if in spite of the heat in the room he were cold within.

"She took them," Albury went on. "In order to compro­mise you. She knows of a surety, better than anyone else, that you did not take them. But either she will see you, or Miss Bartlett, accused of the theft, in thought if not in word, or failing that, she will hold it over your head for the rest of your life together."

"Never say that again!" Darcy said between dry lips, his voice strangled in his throat. "Never, do you hear me?"

Albury held out his hand. "Fifty pounds, once only."

Darcy turned and went to a small bureau at the far side of the room. He opened the top, and from a pigeonhole took out several Bank of England notes. Without a word, he held them out to Albury.

"Just a moment!" Henry reached across and closed his hand over Darcy's, preventing Albury from taking the money. "You do not need to pay him."

"Yes, I do!" Darcy said desperately. "God knows, I cannot marry Lizzie now. It would be a torment every day, every night. I should see this jealousy in her eyes each time I looked at her. Our life would be intolerable. Every time I spoke civilly to an­other woman I should fear what she might do. But one cannot kill the habit of love so easily, not in one blow, however hard. I shall protect her honor in the eyes of others. No one need know but herself and her father." He bit his lip. "I shall have to speak to him. Our understanding cannot remain. But I shall do this for her at least. Free my hand, sir."

Henry kept hold of it.

"What you wish to give Mr. Albury, or why, is your own affair, Mr. Darcy, but you do not need to pay him in order to protect Miss Carlton. She is guilty of nothing more than perhaps a misjudgment of character."

"I don't know what you mean," Darcy protested. "She has behaved despicably. She has attempted out of jealousy to brand Miss Bartlett a thief!"

"Because she knew that you and she were in the conserva­tory together?" Henry asked.

"Apparently."

"Then she knew that just as Miss Bartlett could swear to your innocence of theft, so you could, and would, swear to hers! That would leave her own guilt suspect, in just the manner Mr. Albury has said."

Darcy paled, glanced at Albury, then back at Henry Rath-bone. He made as if to speak, but no words came.

"But my dear chap, it makes no sense," Jesmond said in utter confusion. "You must be mistaken."

"It makes perfect sense," Henry explained. "If you con­sider the story from the beginning, not as Mr. Darcy would have us believe. Take all the facts as he described them. A young man, betrothed to one young lady, finds himself most attracted to another, perhaps more vivacious. He cannot break his word to the first. That is legally breach of promise, and socially suicidal to one who has considerable aspirations. Also it would be unlikely to gain him the hand of the lady he desires. Her father, also wealthy and of eminent position, would not countenance it."

Darcy was ashen now.

"He must find another way out," Henry continued. "The young lady will not leave him. He must create an honorable cause to leave her, one in which he remains untarnished, free to pursue his ambitions. At a country house party the opportunity presents itself and the idea is born. He needs only the help of a clever actor." He glanced at Albury, who was now in an extrem­ity of embarrassment. "And two witnesses of reputations above question, and by nature honorable, eager to right a wrong, and perhaps a trifle innocent in the ways of young men with too few scruples and too much appetite for success."

"Good heavens!" Jesmond was appalled.

Henry looked again at Darcy.

"Don't feel you have failed entirely, Mr. Darcy. As soon as I acquaint Miss Carlton with the facts, she will free you to pursue Miss Bartlett, or whomsoever else you wish. Although I doubt Sir George Bartlett will accept you into his family, any more than I should. I have not been the service to you that you intended, but I have indeed served a purpose. Come, Jesmond." He led the way to the door, then, with Jesmond at his heels, turned back. "Don't forget you owe Mr. Albury for an excellent piece of acting! Good day, gentlemen!"