The Last Days of a Rake

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