The Last Days of a Rake

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