Read The Last Days of a Rake for Free Online Page A

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