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Authors: Mary Jo Putney

BOOK: The Rake
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He had been obedient in those days. That was one of many things that had changed when he left Strickland.
His steps led him unerringly to the estate office on the opposite side of the yard. The door opened silently under his hand, and he stepped inside. The room seemed dim after the bright afternoon sun. Behind the desk a man stood in front of a rack of books, searching for a particular volume. The fellow didn't hear the door open, so Reggie had time to study him. A lean build and very erect posture, garbed in comfortable country garments—a brown coat, tan breeches, and well-worn boots.
Reggie's eyes adjusted to the light, and he realized with a shock that he was observing not a man, but a woman dressed in male clothing. His gaze ran appreciatively down her long, shapely legs even as he wondered who the devil she was. Another of the numerous Heralds, perhaps? Hard to imagine one of that conservative clan dressed so outrageously.
He cleared his throat and asked, “Do you know where Mr. Weston is?”
She jumped like a startled hare, then whirled to face him. The woman was the tallest he'd ever seen, with wide eyes and strong, regular features. A wealth of rich brown hair was coiled into a severe coronet that glowed in the afternoon sun and gave her a regal air that even surprise could not eliminate.
Now that he could see her clearly, he couldn't imagine how he'd mistaken her for a man. Despite her rigorously masculine clothes, she was quite splendidly curved in all the right places. In fact, the male garb made her look downright provocative.
His interest quickened. Perhaps Dorset would prove more amusing than he had anticipated. The woman appeared to be in her mid-twenties and was obviously no shy virgin; her expression was forceful to a point just short of belligerence. On the other hand, she gave every evidence of being mute.
He repeated, “Do you have any idea where the steward, Mr. Weston, is?”
There was a moment of absolute silence. Then she drew a deep breath, which did fascinating things to her linen shirt, and said militantly, “
I'm
Weston.”
Chapter 4
Alys stared at the stranger, frozen with shock. Of all the ill luck ... ! She hadn't expected Davenport to arrive so soon. She had no doubt whatsoever about the man's identity—he'd entered the office with the easy confidence of ownership.
She read the London papers regularly to monitor the world she had fled, and Reginald Davenport's name was one that turned up regularly. He was a Corinthian, one of a sporting set known for racing, roistering, and raking. Now the man in front of her confirmed her worst fears.
He might have been handsome if his aristocratic nose hadn't been broken and reset somewhat less than straight. He must be around forty, his dark hair untouched with gray, but the long face marked by years of dissipation. Despite his obvious strength and athletic build, there was a sallow, unhealthy tint to the dark skin. The wages of sin, no doubt.
Her only satisfaction was that Davenport was as shocked as she was. He said incredulously, “A. E. Weston, the steward of Strickland?”
“Yes.” Her one syllable was unforthcoming.
A look of unholy amusement on his face, he sauntered across the room, his insolent glance scouring her, lingering on her breasts and hips. His eyes were striking, the light, clear blue of aquamarine, and he moved beautifully, with an intensely masculine swagger that reminded her of a stallion.
He was also half a head taller than she, a fact she did not appreciate. She was used to looking down on men, or at least meeting them eye to eye. Having to look up was disconcerting.
Her back to the bookcase, Alys stiffened as he approached, her face coloring hotly. His piercing gaze made her feel as if she were being stripped naked, a pursuit in which Davenport must be highly practiced.
He halted no more than three feet away. His complexion was the weathered tan of a man who was much outdoors. He drawled, “I do believe you are a female.”
Suddenly furious, Alys subjected him to the same scrutiny he had given her. Her eyes slowly scanned down his lean body, from powerful shoulders to expensive riding boots, with special attention for the buckskin riding breeches that clung to his muscular thighs. Her voice as pointed as her gaze, she said, “Gender is not difficult to determine.”
He grinned wickedly. “Not usually. And if vision is insufficient, there are surer tests available.”
His implication was as obvious as it was insulting. If looks could kill, Reginald Davenport would be a dead man. Alys knew she was not the kind of woman men desired, and only an arrogant rooster who pursued anything female would speak so to her. She opened her mouth for a furious reply. Years of supervising recalcitrant laborers had given the ability to wield her tongue like a lash.
Barely in time she remembered that she was supposed to placate this man, not alienate him. Her mouth snapped shut. The yearning to reply in kind was so great that her jaw ached as she struggled for control. Finally she was able to say in a level voice, “I presume you wish to see the books. Or would you rather tour the property first?”
He studied her measuringly. “What I would really like is a discussion and a drink. Do you have anything here?”
Wordlessly she pulled open the door of the cabinet and removed a bottle of whiskey and a pair of tumblers, then poured two fingers worth for each of them. She seldom drank herself, but visitors sometimes appreciated a wee dram. Maybe the spirits would help soften Davenport.
Taking the glass from her stiff fingers, he sat and stretched out his legs, as relaxed as she was tense. “I assume the late earl didn't know you were female. He would have never permitted it.” He took a sip of his drink. “Does the present earl know?”
Alys sat down behind the desk. “No, the only time Wargrave visited Strickland, I made an excuse to be away.” She drank some of her whiskey, needing its warmth.
“How nice to know that my cousin didn't arrange this as an insult,” he murmured.
Too tense to be tactful, Alys asked brusquely, “Are you going to discharge me because I'm a woman?”
The cool gaze slid over her again. “Don't put ideas in my head. Discharging you is a tempting prospect.”
“Do you think a woman can't do the job?” Alys said, fearing that she had lost this battle before it had started.
Davenport shrugged. “You are demonstrably doing it. Though I've never heard of a female steward, it's hardly unknown for a woman to run property that she has inherited.”
“Then, why would you want to get rid of me?”
He finished his whiskey and leaned forward to pour some more. Instead of answering directly, he asked, “Are you single, married, widowed, or what?”
“Single, and why should it matter?” Alys was having trouble keeping her belligerence under control.
“First of all, you're rather young for the job, even if you were male. The fact that you're also single is a potential source of gossip when the owner of the estate is a bachelor.”
Alys stared at him aghast. Of all the things that Davenport might have said, this surprised her the most. “A rake is concerned about
propriety
?”
He laughed aloud at the shock in her voice, humor softening his hard face. “I have the feeling that my reputation has preceded me. Is it so unthinkable that a rake should have some concept of decorous behavior?”
Alys had the grace to blush. Calling him a rake to his face was an unforgivable impertinence. Thank heaven he was amused, not insulted. She said carefully, “I can't imagine that my gender would cause any eyebrows to raise. I'm thirty, hardly a girl, and I've had this position for four years. Everyone in this part of Dorset is used to me.”
“
I'm
not used to you,” he said bluntly. “It's obvious from the way you talk that you're the respectable sort of female, a breed I'm almost completely unacquainted with. In the nature of things, you will be working with me regularly. I don't relish having to watch my tongue around you.”
She shrugged. “After four years of working with every kind of laborer, I'm very hard to shock. Treat me like a man.” She couldn't resist adding, “It will probably be safer for me that way anyhow.”
His mouth tightened. “It sounds as if you expect me to pounce on every female on the estate.”
She gave him a challenging look. “Will you?”
“Not when I'm sober,” he answered shortly.
Alys wished that she had not let the conversation go in this direction. She hoped that Reginald Davenport wasn't the sort to leave a trail of bastards across the county, but if that's what he wanted to do, there wasn't a thing she could do to stop him.
Luckily, he changed the subject. “Care to explain how you came to be a steward, Miss Weston?”
Alys stared down at the tumbler clasped between her hands. “I was the governess at a nearby estate. The widowed owner, Mrs. Spenser, was having problems with her steward. I had ... grown up on a farm, and was able to advise her. Eventually she discharged her steward and had me take over his duties.”
“I see.” His eyes watched her expressionlessly over the tumbler as he drank more whiskey. “How did you come to Strickland itself?”
Alys hesitated, choosing her words. “Mrs. Spenser knew she was dying and that her husband's nephew, who was heir to her property, wouldn't keep me on. When the Strickland steward was discharged, she suggested I apply for the situation. She gave me excellent references, and persuaded several of the local gentry to do the same. They all thought it a great joke to play on the Earl of Wargrave—absentee landowners are not much liked around here. Because of the references, the Wargrave business manager hired me sight unseen. The estate has done very well under my management, so there was no reason to question my credentials later.”
Mrs. Spenser had extracted a price for her aid: that Alys would become guardian to the older woman's niece and nephews after her death. Alys had been quite willing to take charge of her former students. However, she preferred not to mention them to her new employer. The situation was already quite complicated enough.
Davenport frowned at the toes of his boots, weighing her future in the balance. She studied his expression anxiously, but his thoughts were impossible to divine.
The silence was broken by the entrance of the groom. Alys said, “Yes, Bates?”
“Excuse me, Lady Alys, but I think one of the plow horses has a splint forming.” His question was for her, but his frankly curious gaze was for the new owner.
Alys said impatiently, “Apply a cold water bandage, and I'll take a look at it later. Is there anything else?”
Bates considered for a moment. “No, ma'am.” Slowly he withdrew.
“Are you consulted about everything that happens at Strickland?” Davenport asked, his eyebrows rising.
“Of course not, that was merely an excuse for him to get a closer look at the new owner. Everyone is perishing of curiosity. After all, you have the power to make or break anyone on the estate.”
Alys was pleased to see that her words took him slightly aback. Good, the more he thought about his new responsibilities, the better. He didn't look like a man who'd had more than a nodding acquaintance with responsibility in the past.
With a sardonic glint in his eye, he turned the conversation back to her. “Lady Alys? From what noble family do you spring to merit the title?”
“It's only a nickname. Someone called me Lady Alys, and it stuck.” Under his probing gaze, she added, “Because of my dictatorial tendencies, I imagine.”
He smiled at her explanation. “Lady Alys. It does suit you. Shall I call you that, or do you wish to be Miss Weston?”
“Whatever you prefer, Mr. Davenport,” she answered, doing her level best to sound like an obedient employee even though her stomach was churning. She sipped more whiskey, hoping it would have a soothing effect.
They drank in silence, Davenport frowning to himself, until Alys could stand the suspense no longer and asked, “Well?”
He glanced up. “Well, what?”
Her chin lifted at his deliberate obtuseness. “Are you going to discharge me?”
“I decided before I arrived here to make no changes until I was more familiar with the situation.” He studied her with shuttered eyes. “It will be a confounded nuisance to have a female steward, but everyone seems to hold you in high regard. Since you can do the work, it would be foolish to release you for a reason that is not your fault and which apparently doesn't hinder your performance.”
Alys released her breath, almost giddy with relief. She really hadn't expected such an enlightened attitude from a libertine.
Reading her expression, he went on, his heavy brows drawn together. “I will keep you on for the time being, but I want to make two things perfectly clear. First, I intend to take you at your word and treat you like a man, so I don't want to hear any spinsterish outrage about my crude language and behavior.”
He waited until she gave a nod of acknowledgment, then continued, “Secondly, for the last four years you have been running Strickland, with authority for everyone and everything on the estate, answerable only to a London lawyer who never visited. For all practical purposes, you might have been the owner. Now, however, Strickland is
mine.
If I tell you to plant orange trees in the water meadow, you will do it. If I want the laborers to cut a Saxon horse into the chalk of the hillside, you will give the orders. If I want to color the sheep pink, you will order the dye.”
He set his tumbler on the desk and leaned forward for emphasis, his dark face stern. “I am quite willing to take advice on estate matters, since your experience is greater than mine. However, once I make a decision, I will expect you to implement it without further questions. Your will is no longer supreme; what authority you have is derived from me. For you, it will be a change for the worse. I don't expect you to like it, but I do expect you to accept it and behave in a civil and cooperative manner. If you can't, you had better leave right now.”
Alys stared into his cold aquamarine eyes, and realized that it would be very easy to hate Reginald Davenport. Before today, she hadn't had time to worry beyond the question of whether he would discharge her out of hand. Now she had survived the first fence, only to discover that the rest of the course would be much harder.
Her new employer had gone to the heart of her dilemma with uncanny perception. For years she had ruled Strickland like a private fiefdom. Because of her position and the fact that she was an enlightened despot, her orders had been accepted, and she was proud of what she had achieved. Now he was saying in unmistakable terms that her reign was over. She was as much an employee as the youngest field hand.
Authority came very naturally to Alys; subservience did not. Unfortunately, she had no real choice. She would never be able to find an equivalent situation anywhere else.
As the silence stretched, he prompted, “Well?”

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