The Rake

by Mary Jo Putney

  Well, he’d said to tell the truth, no matter how appalling. “It was a logical assumption,” she admitted. “A good part of your cherished reputation concerns gambling.”

  “I always gambled to make money, Allie. Now that I have a good income, I don’t need to play deeply.”

  She tilted her head and considered that. “I usually think of gamesters as losing fortunes. But if there are losers, there must also be winners.”

  “Exactly, and I have usually been one of the winners.” His half smile was rueful. “I’ll admit there have been times when I’ve been badly dipped because of a long run of bad luck, or because I was too drunk or pigheaded to quit. But over the last twenty years of gaming, I’ve won thousands of pounds more than I’ve lost. That’s what has bridged the gap between my allowance and my style of living. Vice isn’t cheap, you know.”

  “How did you manage to win so often?”

  “Honestly, if that’s what you’re wondering,” he said with an icy edge in his voice.

  “I didn’t doubt it, Reggie,” she said mildly.

  “Sorry.” He grimaced. “I’ve won so consistently that my honesty has been questioned more than once. The trick to winning is to avoid games that are purely chance. A man who restricts himself to forms of gambling that require skill should be able to win more than he loses. At least he will if he develops the skill.”

  She leaned forward and crossed her arms on the desk. “This sounds interesting. Tell me more.”

  He thought a moment. “Well, take hazard as an example. It’s a dice game, and the object is to throw certain number combinations. Since some combinations are easier to achieve than others, a knowledge of the mathematical odds makes it possible for an astute player to do very well, especially if he hedges his bets.”

  He grinned at her expression. “Am I losing you? You may take my word for it that most gamesters have neither the ability nor the desire to calculate odds, particularly not in the heat of play. There are also games where remembering the cards that have been played greatly improves your chances.” He shrugged. “I have a good memory.”

  And also, she would guess, excellent judgment and nerves of steel. Intrigued by this glimpse into a masculine world, she asked, “What about the turf?”

  He shook his head. “Very chancy. No matter how well a man knows horseflesh, there are too many variables, both in horses and riders. I generally don’t bet much on races unless I’m riding or driving myself. Then if I lose, at least I know whom to blame.”

  “And you don’t lose often.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Losing is a bore, Allie. And I dislike boredom of all things.” He stood, looking down at her from his great height. “I’ll leave you to your labors. Do they still do the sheep washing at the same pool in the stream, by the clump of beeches?”

  She nodded. “As far as I know, the sheep have been washed there for centuries. Things don’t change very fast in Dorset.”

  “The land might not, but the people do.” Putting his hat on, he touched his fingers to the brim in a brief salute. “As I recall, the sheep have usually been gathered in by noon. I’ll be there then.”

  After he left, Alys looked at her list of tasks for the day without seeing it. She supposed it wasn’t surprising that a rake would be physically attractive, nor that he would have charm.

  But who would have guessed that a rake would be so amusing?

  Back at the manor house, Reggie sought out his housekeeper and with a few short, sharp words ensured that in the future there would always be an adequate supply of alcohol in the house, no matter what else was neglected. Then he went to his study and started to make plans.

  For years he had wanted to breed horses, mostly hunters, with the best trained for steeplechase racing. He’d never had the means, but now his dream was within reach. Bucephalus would be the foundation. The stallion had superb bloodlines, incredible stamina and jumping ability, and speed that would do credit to a racehorse. Reggie had won the horse at hazard, playing an earl who had no talent for calculating odds.

  In the short term, the existing stables would be adequate, but new paddocks and training rings would be required, and as many good mares as he could afford. In the long run ... His pen flew across the page, estimating costs, jotting questions to himself, laying down the outlines of what needed to be done.

  He became totally absorbed, and the hours passed unnoticed. It was early afternoon when his concentration was broken by the entrance of one of the housemaids, a rosy young creature called Gillie. Like all of the maids, she looked at him as if half hoping, half fearing that he would pounce on her. “Excuse me, sir, you have a visitor,” she announced as she handed over a calling card.

  Jeremy Stanton, Fenton Hall, Dorsetshire. The man whom Mrs. Herald had said was his nearest maternal relation. Reggie stood and stretched, then went to the front hall.

  A slightly built, distinguished gentleman with silver hair and shrewd gray eyes smiled at him. “You may not remember me, Mr. Davenport, but I knew you when you were a child. I want to welcome you back to the neighborhood.”

  Reggie’s brows furrowed for a moment. Then an image clicked into place, followed by others. “Good God, Uncle Jerry! I’d forgotten your existence until now. How do you do, sir?” He offered his hand.

  Stanton shook it heartily. “So you do remember. Of course I’m not your uncle, but”—he thought a moment—“cousin once removed. And your godfather.”

  “Whatever.” Reggie waved his visitor into the drawing room. “It’s good to see you again. Would you like some refreshment?”

  “Some tea would do nicely.” Stanton glanced around the faded drawing room reminiscently as he took a chair. “I haven’t been here in near thirty years now. The gentleman who rented the house was a recluse and never received visitors.”

  After ringing for tea, Reggie went to pour himself some brandy from the new stock. As he did, another vivid image flashed across his mind, chilling him to the bone. He saw this very room, full of adults, dressed in black or wearing mourning bands. It had been before the funeral. Reggie had staggered down in his nightshirt, knees weak and head whirling. The coffins had been in a row by the windows. He had been near collapse when Stanton scooped him up and carried him back to his room, talking softly, keeping him company while he cried himself to sleep.

  He shoved the stopper into the decanter with unnecessary force, then joined his visitor for an exchange of pleasantries. Jeremy Stanton had a sharp and well-informed mind, and it was a pleasure talking with him, but Reggie sensed that he was being weighed and judged. Measured against his father, perhaps? Or as a Stanton? Oddly he realized that the old man’s opinion mattered to him.

  He must have passed inspection, because after half an hour Stanton asked, “Do you intend to spend much time in the district?”

  “Perhaps.” Reggie shrugged. “I’m inclined that way, but I’ve only just arrived.”

  “We could use another magistrate,” Stanton said tentatively.

  Reggie stared at him. “Good God, are you suggesting I should be a justice of the peace? I’m not qualified in the least. In fact, there are those who would say you would be setting a fox to watch the hens.”

  The older man laughed. “Despite your colorful past, you are amply qualified to be a magistrate. You’re a principal landowner in the county, and you come of a fine old local family. Most of what a justice does is common sense and simple fairness. I’m sure you could manage that.”

  Reggie found himself at a rare loss for words, not sure whether to be touched or amused at his cousin’s vote of confidence. Yet he realized that the idea of being a justice was not without appeal. Magistrates were the true local authorities, as involved with administering the Poor Law and fixing the roads as with judging lawbreakers. It might be interesting. Not ready to make a commitment, he said, “The Lord Lieutenant of Dorsetshire might not agree to me.”

  “He’ll agree to whomever I suggest,” Stanton said peaceably. “We�
��re shorthanded at this end of the county, and he’s been after me to find another justice for an age. I’ll forward your name to him. Official confirmation should come in a few weeks.”

  Arching his brows sardonically, Reggie said, “Aren’t you rushing your fences?”

  Most men found that expression quelling, but Stanton was unaffected. With a faint smile, he said merely, “Am I?”

  Reggie opened his mouth to say something caustic, then slopped. Hadn’t he been thinking it was time to make some changes in his life? Becoming a part of the establishment would certainly be a change. And he was arrogant enough to believe that he would make a capable magistrate. “No, I suppose you aren’t.”

  “Good.” Stanton gave a satisfied nod before adding slowly, “I’m surprised that you didn’t return to Dorset earlier. I’d almost given up hope that you would.”

  “You had that much interest in me?” Reggie was surprised, and moved. It had never occurred to him that anyone had cared about the departure of an eight-year-old boy.

  “Of course. You are my cousin Anne’s boy, your father was my friend. This is where you belong,” Stanton said, as if the statement was inarguable.

  Reggie was silent as he thought about that. Perhaps he did belong here. Certainly he had belonged nowhere else. “I really don’t remember much about my childhood. Nothing at all before I was—oh, four or so. Only bits and pieces afterward.” Which was odd, now that he thought of it. In general, his memory was outstanding. But much of his early childhood seemed swathed in mists.

  Stanton’s eyes narrowed. “Nothing before you were four? Interesting.”

  “Is there some significance to that?”

  Stanton seemed about to answer, then changed his mind. “If there is, doubtless it will come back to you.” Deliberately changing the subject, he said, “I was sorry you never wrote back to me, but not surprised. You were just a lad, and there were so many changes in your life. My own boys were never good correspondents. Still aren’t,” he added with a chuckle.

  “Write back? I never received any letters from anyone,” Reggie said, frowning.

  Stanton looked surprised. “I sent you a letter every month for a year or so, then stopped when you never replied. I wrote to Wargrave Park, care of your uncle. You never received any of them?”

  Reggie swore, his language furiously fluent. “That’s another mark to my guardian’s account.” He explained how his uncle had deprived him of Strickland.

  Stanton was shocked, and as angry as Reggie himself. “Good Lord, if I’d had any idea that Wargrave was deliberately separating you from your mother’s family, from your whole background, I’d have gone to Gloucestershire and brought you home. I was your godfather, but Wargrave was much more nearly related than I, so I didn’t argue when he sent for you.” He made a sharp gesture with one hand. “Your father had asked once if I would become guardian to his children if something happened to him and Anne, but he never got around to writing his will. Unfortunately.”

  Startled, Reggie said, “You would have challenged Wargrave over me?”

  “If I had known what was going on, of course,” Stanton said, surprised in his turn. “You’re family.”

  “The idea of family as helpful is new to me,” Reggie said with desert dryness.

  “With Wargrave as your guardian, I’m not surprised that you have a low opinion of relatives.” Stanton shook his head sorrowfully. “I should have known there was a reason why you didn’t write. You were always a considerate lad—your father was proud of how responsible you were. I should have tried harder to keep in touch with you.”

  “Don’t blame yourself. Who could have expected my uncle to be so determined to isolate me?” Feeling as if he’d had enough shocks for one afternoon, Reggie stood and offered Stanton his hand. “For what it’s worth, I appreciate what you tried to do. You were a busy man, with your own responsibilities and family. There’s a limit to what you could be expected to do for a distant relative.”

  “I should have done more,” Stanton said simply. “But it’s past mending.” He stood and shook Reggie’s hand with a firmness that belied his silver hair. “My wife asked if you could come to dinner Friday night. Will you be free?”

  Another image clicked into place. A round, smiling face, placid in the midst of family chaos. “I’d be happy to come. I trust that Aunt Beth is well?”

  “Elizabeth has the rheumatics, which sometimes make it hard for her to get around, but she’s well enough otherwise. She’ll be delighted to see you again. You were always a favorite of hers.” Then, with a grin, “Don’t be surprised if there is a single lady or two at the dinner table.”

  Reggie groaned. “Tell Aunt Beth that if that’s the case, I may have a sudden attack of illness that will require me to return home instantly.”

  Stanton chuckled. “Perhaps I can keep her in check this time, but in the future, you’re on your own.”

  The old man left Strickland with a sense of satisfaction. Through the years he had kept an eye on the doings of the notorious Reginald Davenport. Even if only half of what was said about him was true, there had been ample reason to worry. Stanton had feared that there would be no trace of the bright, good-natured lad he remembered, that vice and dissipation had corrupted what had been so promising.

  But now that they had met, Stanton was sure that somewhere inside, in spite of outrageous fortune and a malicious guardian, Anne’s son still existed. Oh, doubtless the boy had done things he shouldn’t have, and it was likely that he suffered from his father’s near-disastrous weakness. But there was honor there, and intelligence and humor. Get him involved in the community, encourage him to find a wife ...

  Full of plans, Stanton cracked the whip over his placid horse. He couldn’t wait to get home and tell Elizabeth the conclusions he had formed.

  After his guest left, Reggie found it impossible to concentrate on his future plans. His godfather’s visit had released a whole whirl of memories, most of them happy ones. The Stantons and Davenports had been in and out of each other’s houses all the time in the old days. The youngest Stanton boy had been a particular playmate of Reggie’s. James was in India now and doing very well, according to his father.

  Looking back, it was obvious why Reggie had suppressed so much of his childhood. As soon as his uncle had taken him in charge, Reggie had been packed off to school. In the fierce jungle of Eton, remembering a happy past that he could never return to would have weakened him, so he had tried not to think of what he had lost. He had been all too successful. Even after the visit from Stanton, he could remember nothing from when he was very small.

  His musings were interrupted by the arrival of his valet, Mac Cooper, looking dignified despite being covered with dust. “Am I glad to see you!” Reggie stood and went to the brandy decanter. Generally servants and employers didn’t drink together, but the two men had an unconventional relationship. “Did you have trouble on the journey?”

  “Broken axle,” Mac said laconically as he accepted a glass of brandy. Then he settled his wiry frame into a chair with a sigh of satisfaction. “Quite a place you have here. Will we be staying awhile?”

  “Permanently.”

  Mac’s eyebrows shot up. “Not live in London?” he said incredulously.

  “I’ll want to go up to town sometimes, but I intend to make my headquarters here.” Reggie cleared his throat, then added gruffly, “I know you’re city bred, Mac. If you can’t stand the country, I’ll understand.”

  Mac gave him a look of intense disgust. “Did I say anything about leaving?”

  “No,” Reggie admitted, “but you’ve only been here ten minutes.”

  “If they have women and whiskey in Dorset, I’ll manage.”

  “There’s no shortage of either.” Reggie smiled. “Including the most extraordinary female I’ve ever met.”

  “Extraordinary in what way?” Mac asked with interest.

  “Any number of ways. Her name is Alys Weston, and she happens to be my lan
d steward.”

  Mac choked on his brandy. “She’s what?”

  It was rare to surprise the imperturbable Mac. Reggie enjoyed giving a brief explanation of how his steward had reached her present position.

  Mac shook his head in amazement. “All very well that she’s good at her work, but is she pretty?”

  Reggie thought of the strong, sculptured features, the tall, graceful body, the dimples he was learning to coax out. “Not pretty.” He smiled to himself. “Something a good deal more interesting than that.”

  Chapter 9

  Sheep washing was a communal affair, and neighboring flocks were included with Strickland’s. As Reggie rode into the heathlands at midday, he could hear complaining sheep and barking dogs from two hills away.

  He crested the last ridge and looked down at the stream that had been dammed to form the washing pool. On the east bank, several thousand sheep were crowded into a large fold as well-trained herd dogs paced menacingly around the stone walls. Close up, the anxious bleating was cacophonous.

  Clustered by the pool were a dozen or so men, plus the unmistakable, willowy form of Alys Weston. Reggie swung off his mount and tethered it, then joined the group.

  Alys interrupted her conversation with a burly shepherd when Reggie approached. “Mr. Davenport, this is Gabriel Mitford, Strickland’s chief shepherd.”

  Reggie stared at the broad, muscular figure, not quite believing his eyes. Then he offered his hand with a slow smile. “We’re acquainted.”

  Mitford nodded as he took Reggie’s hand in a powerful grip. “Aye. I’ll be bound I can still best you at wrestling, two falls out of three.”

  Laughing, Reggie clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t count on it, Gabe. But if we still have the energy after washing a couple of thousand sheep, we can give it a try.”

  “Only a damn fool would want to wash sheep,” the shepherd proclaimed, his dour voice belied by the amused gleam in his eyes.

  “It’s not the first time I’ve been called a damned fool,” Reggie agreed pleasantly.