Authors: Mary Jo Putney
The Rake (3 page)
“Much of the hard work has been done.” Alys stabbed at the blameless hot coals with the poker. “Any reasonably competent steward could run it profitably now.”
“Mr. Davenport won't find anyone more competent than you, or more honest, either!”
“Probably not. But that doesn't mean he won't discharge me anyhow.” Alys had heard of Reginald Davenport, though most of the tales were not fit for Merry's young ears. A rake was hardly likely to have advanced ideas of a woman's abilities.
It was so unfair! Feeling her hands curl into fists, she forced herself to relax.
Still seeking a silver lining, Merry said, “If Mr. Davenport doesn't want you, you can work for the earl elsewhere. Wargrave Park would be quite a plum.”
“How long do you think his lordship's offer would stand after he learned that I'm a woman?” Alys said bitterly, her hands beginning to clench again.
“Perhaps you could disguise yourself as a man,” Merry said with a twinkle. “You're certainly tall enough.”
Alys glared, momentarily tempted to box her ward's ears before the girl's humor penetrated her mood. With a wry smile she said, “How long do you think I could get away with a masquerade like that?”
“Well ...” Merry said thoughtfully, “perhaps ninety seconds? If the light was bad.”
Alys chuckled. “The light would have to be very bad indeed. Men and women simply aren't shaped the same way. At least not after the age of twelve.”
“True, and you have a very nice shape, no matter how hard you try to disguise it.”
Alys snorted. Merry stoutly maintained that her guardian was attractive, a campaign that was more a tribute to her kind nature than her good judgment. Her comment now was intended as a distraction, but Alys refused the bait. “Even assuming that Lord Wargrave is radical enough to hire me, my supervision is needed at the pottery works. We can hardly move that to Gloucestershire. And it would be a pity to take the boys from the grammar school when they are both so happy there.”
Even Merry's golden curls drooped a bit before she replied, “I think you are making a great many bricks out of precious little straw. Mr. Davenport may not come down here for a long time, and when he does, he might be delighted to keep you on to spare himself the work. All we can do is wait and see.”
Alys wished she could share the girl's optimism. As she glanced at her ward, she remembered what was said about her new employer and his womanizing habits, and felt a stirring of apprehension. What rake could resist a delectable golden sylph like Meredith? The girl had good sense and morals, but she was still an innocent. No match for a cynical, amoral man of the world. It was another anxiety, and a major one.
Alys looked into the fire, her mouth tightening. As a woman alone, she had spent the last dozen years fighting convention and prejudice to build a comfortable, productive life for herself. Now, through no fault of her own, all that she had worked for was threatened.
Sight unseen, she already hated Reginald Davenport.
Chapter 3
The Despair of the Davenports groaned and shifted. After the previous night's debauchery, the shattering jolt of nausea and wretchedness that swept through him at the slight movement was not unexpected.
He stilled, keeping his eyes tightly closed, since experience had taught him that mornings like this were best approached as slowly as possible. That is, if it was morning. His last memories were too fragmentary for him to be sure how much time had passed.
After his head stabilized, Reggie opened his eyes a fraction. The ceiling looked familiar, so he must be home. A little more concentration established that he was in the bedroom rather than the sitting room, and on his bed, which was softer and wider than the sofa.
The next question was how he had gotten here. He became aware of resonant breathing, and turned his head by infinitesimal degrees until the Honorable Julian Markham came into view. His young friend slept blissfully on the sofa, sprawled in a position that by rights should give him a sore back and neck, but probably wouldn't.
Moving with great deliberation, Reggie pushed aside the quilt that had been laid over him. He started to lever himself upright, then gasped and fell back on the mattress. He had been prepared for the aftereffects of drinking, but not for the sharp pain that sliced through his ribs. As his abused body ached and protested, he tried to remember what the devil had happened the previous night, but without success.
Deciding it was time to face the consequences, he cautiously sat up again and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The vibration of his boots hitting the floor sent a palpable shock wave through his system. He stopped moving until his brain recovered.
After a swift inventory of damages, he decided that nothing was broken, though his ribs and right arm felt badly bruised and the knuckles of both hands were raw. He must have been in a fight. He was fully dressed, his dark blue coat and buff pantaloons crumpled in a way that would make a really fastidious valet turn in his notice. Luckily Mac Cooper was made of sterner stuff, or he wouldn't have stayed with Reggie for so many years.
Mac proved his competence once again by choosing this moment to enter the bedroom, a tumbler of orange-colored liquid in one hand, a basin and a steaming towel in the other. Wordlessly he offered the towel. Reggie opened it and buried his face in the hot folds. The heat and moisture were invigorating.
By the time he had wiped down his face, neck, and hands, he was able to take the tumbler and down half the contents with one swallow. Mac's morning-after remedy was one of the valet's major talents, combining fresh fruit juice with a shot of whiskey and a few other ingredients that Reggie preferred not to think about.
He turned his head carefully a few times, relieved that it could be moved without making him sick. Then he sipped more slowly at his drink. Only when the glass was empty did he look at Mac directly. “What time is it?”
“About two in the afternoon, sir.” Though Mac's natural accent was an incomprehensible cockney and he had the wiry physique and scars of a street fighter, it pleased him to mimic the manners and style of the most snobbish kind of valet. Actually, valeting was only part of his job. He was equally groom, butler, and footman.
Yawning, Reggie asked, “Any idea what time we got in?”
“Around five in the morning, sir.”
“I trust we didn't disturb your slumbers too much.”
“Mr. Markham did require my assistance to get you upstairs,” Mac admitted.
Reggie dragged one hand through his dark tangled hair. “That explains why I made it as far as the bedroom.” Glancing at his friend, he saw signs of returning consciousness. “Make a pot of coffee. I imagine Julian will need some, and I could use a few cups myself.”
“Very good, sir. Will you be interested in a light luncheon as well?”
“No!” Reggie shuddered at the thought of food. “Just coffee.”
As Mac left the room, Reggie stood and removed his cravat. Someday he was going to be strangled in his sleep by one of the blasted things. He washed his face with the hot water Mac had brought, then sank into the wing chair that stood at right angles to the sofa, his legs stretched out before him. In spite of his ablutions and the change from horizontal to vertical, he still felt like death walking. He eyed Julian's cherubic smile with disfavor as the young man's eyes finally opened.
Julian sat up immediately. “Good morning, Reg,” he said brightly. “Wasn't that a great evening?”
“I don't know,” Reggie said tersely. “What happened?”
Julian smiled, undeterred by his companion's gruffness. He was a handsome, fair-haired young man, with a charm and future fortune that made him much sought after by society hostesses with marriageable daughters. “You won five hundred pounds from Blakeford. Don't you remember?”
The coffee arrived. After pouring a large, scalding mug and heavily sugaring it, Reggie crossed his legs and regarded his friend's clear eyes and cheerful mien morosely. It was his own fault for going about with a man a dozen years his junior, who could bounce back from a night's debauchery with such speed. Reggie used to be able to do the same, but not anymore.
He gulped a mouthful of coffee, swearing when it burned his tongue. “I remember going to Watier's. Then what happened?”
“Blakeford invited a dozen of us back to his place for supper and whist. Wanted to show off his new mistress, a flashy piece named Stella.” Julian poured himself a mug of the coffee. “She took quite a fancy to you.”
Reggie frowned. It was coming back slowly. He'd gone directly from the Earl of Wargrave's to a tavern and had drunk alone for a couple of hours. Then he'd met Julian at Watier's, and events began to get hazy. “This Stellaâa little tart with red hair and a roving eye?”
“That's the one. She sniffed around you like a bitch in heat. Blakeford was angry enough about losing the money, but when you disappeared for half an hour and he realized Stella was gone, too, I thought he'd explode. Did she waylay you for a little side action?”
Reggie closed his eyes, letting his head fall back against the chair. “More or less.” Ordinarily he would have avoided Stella, whose sensational figure was surpassed only by her stunning vulgarity. But she had chosen her moment carefully, accosting him when he had drunk too much for good judgment, and too little to be incapacitated.
His eyes still closed, he drank more coffee as the scene came back to him. The trollop had been waiting in the hall when he returned to the card game, her hot, demanding mouth and eager little hands making it clear what she wanted. His body, which had no standards to speak of, had responded immediately. A feverish, clawing exchange had followed, with only a closed door separating them from the rest of the party. Inflamed by the knowledge that her protector was in the next room, Stella had gouged Reggie's back through his shirt with sharp nails, her breath coming in little whimpering pants.
Thank God the card party was noisy enough to drown out her last hoarse cry. He must have been insane.
No, not insane. Drunk. Nothing unusual about that.
Hesitation in his voice, Julian broke into Reggie's reverie. “I probably shouldn't mention this, but you might want to be careful. Blakeford is insanely jealous of the wench. Between Stella and the money he lost, he seemed on the verge of calling you out.”
“Right. You shouldn't mention it,” Reggie said tiredly, his eyelids at half-mast and the invisible band across his temples aching acutely. Why did it have to be Blakeford, of all people? He was a brooding, unpredictable sort, and Reggie avoided him when possible. “If Blakeford is going to issue a challenge every time that tart waves her muff at someone, he'll have to fight every man in London.”
Julian gave a nod of acknowledgment. “After we left Blakeford's, we went to that new gaming hell off Piccadilly.”
“We did?” Reggie's eyes came fully open as he tried to remember that part of the evening, but he drew a complete blank. “Did anything noteworthy happen?”
“I lost a hundred pounds, and you got into a fight.”
“Wonderful,” Reggie muttered. “With whom, why, and who won?”
“Albert Hanley. Said you were cheating,” Julian said succinctly. “You won, of course.”
“Hanley said what?” Reggie jerked upright too abruptly, and his head went spinning. Swallowing bile, he slouched down again. “No wonder we fought.” In most ways Reggie had a terrible reputation, much of it richly deserved, but in sporting circles his honesty was never questioned.
“You did such a good job of putting him in his place that a challenge was unnecessary,” Julian said enthusiastically. “It was quite a mill. Hanley outweighs you by two stone, and he has good science, but he never laid a fist on you. It took only a couple of minutes for you to break his jaw. Everyone agreed he should pay for the wrecked furniture, since his accusation was quite unfounded.”
“Did Hanley agree?”
“Don't know. With his broken jaw, we couldn't understand a word he said.”
Reggie inspected his scraped and bruised knuckles. “If I defeated him so thoroughly, why do I feel as if a horse kicked me in the ribs?”
“Because you fell down the steps when Mac and I were hauling you upstairs,” Julian explained. “You ended by smashing into the newel post. I was worried at first, but Mac said you weren't permanently damaged.”
“Is there anything else I should know?” Reggie asked in a dangerously gentle tone.
“Well ...” Julian cleared his throat uncomfortably. “We saw m'father at Watier's, and he gave you the cut direct.”
Reggie shrugged. “No need to look so guilty. He always gives me the cut direct.”
Lord Markham was convinced that Reggie was leading his heir down the road to perdition. Ironically, it was Reggie who had taught the lad how to safely navigate London's more dangerous amusements. He'd even rescued him from an adventuress called the Wanton Widow, who had decided that Julian was the perfect answer to her financial problems.
No matter. Reggie had used his influence for Julian's sake, not because he expected gratitude from his young friend's father.
Julian returned to the safer topic of the fight, but Reggie stopped listening. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands as profound depression engulfed him.
The worst deeds of a disgraceful life had always been done when he was drinking, but at least he had always been aware of his actions. He had deliberately chosen to live in defiance of normal social strictures, and had willingly accepted the consequences. That had been fine, until the year before, when the memory losses had begun. With every month that passed, the lapses came more often and lasted longer.
Now he could no longer be sure what he had done or why, and that lack of control terrified him. The obvious answer was to drink less, so he had resolved to moderate his habits. But somehow his resolution always dissolved once he swallowed his first drink.
This way of life is killing you.
The words were very clear in his head, spoken in a calm male voice.
The words were very clear in his head, spoken in a calm male voice.
It was not the first time he had heard such a warning. Once the voice had told him to beware moments before two murderous footpads had attacked. He had dodged barely in time to avoid a knife in the back. On another occasion the voice had warned not to board a friend's yacht. Reggie had made some clumsy excuse, incurring much taunting from his companions. But a squall had blown up, and the boat sank with no survivors.
This way of life is killing you.
His fingers tightened, digging into his skull, trying to erase the sick aching, the memoriesâand the lack of memories. He had always lived hard, courting danger and skirting the edge of acceptable behavior. In the months since the earldom of Wargrave had vanished from his grasp, he had gone wild, taking insane chances gambling and riding, drinking more than ever.
His fingers tightened, digging into his skull, trying to erase the sick aching, the memoriesâand the lack of memories. He had always lived hard, courting danger and skirting the edge of acceptable behavior. In the months since the earldom of Wargrave had vanished from his grasp, he had gone wild, taking insane chances gambling and riding, drinking more than ever.
Ironically, his luck had been phenomenal. Perhaps because he hadn't much cared what happened, he had won, and won, and won. He was completely free of debt, had more money in the bank than he'd had in years.
And what was the bloody point of it?
This way of life is killing you.
The words repeated in a litany, as if expecting some response, but Reggie was too drained to answer. He was weary unto death of his whole life. Of the endless gaming and drinking, of coarse tarts like Stella, of pointless fights and ghastly mornings after like this one.
The words repeated in a litany, as if expecting some response, but Reggie was too drained to answer. He was weary unto death of his whole life. Of the endless gaming and drinking, of coarse tarts like Stella, of pointless fights and ghastly mornings after like this one.
At the age of twenty-five, Julian was on the verge of outgrowing his wild oats phase, while Reggie was doing exactly the same things as when he'd first come down from university. He'd been running for sixteen years, yet was still in the same place.
The depression was black and bitter. He wished with sudden violence that someone like Blakeford or Hanley would become furious enough to put a bullet in him and end the whole exhausting business.
Why wait for someone else to do the job? He had pistols of his own.
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