The Rake

by Mary Jo Putney

  Swearing softly for any number of reasons, he made his way to the lake. The moon was nearly full, and sheets of light silvered the water. He followed the shore to the thicket that concealed his private clearing. As branches slapped him in the face, he made a mental note to have the old path cleared.

  His temper had ebbed by the time he made it through the thicket to the smooth water of the lake. Half of his anger had been because of Mac’s officiousness, he decided, but the other half was pure frustration. His hands tingled with the remembered feel of her lithe body. Just thinking of her fiery, uninhibited responsiveness made his temperature begin to rise again.

  It was on this very spot that he had learned to swim as a boy. On impulse he stripped off his damp clothing and dove headfirst into the lake.

  The chill waters brought a measure of reason back to his brain. He surfaced, sputtering, and admitted that Mac, damn him, had a point. He usually did. Alys Weston might be willing, even eager, to experience what she had been missing, but Reggie would do her no favor by taking advantage of that fact. Any affair posed the risk of physical, social, and emotional damage. Remembering the dazed, shaken look in Allie’s wide eyes when they had been interrupted, he bestowed a particularly scathing curse on himself.

  During his lengthy career as a rake, Reggie had learned that few females could enjoy an affair without having their emotions become involved, and Allie wasn’t in the small number. Besides passion, she had a great capacity for selfless love. Look at the family she had created for herself. Look at what she had done for everyone on the estate. She was a giver by nature, and would be unable to prevent herself from giving away more than she could afford to lose.

  His powerful strokes had carried him the full width of the lake, so he turned to swim back. Alys Weston might be physically ripe for an affair, but she was the sort of female who needed a man she could respect, while Reggie represented everything that decent, God-fearing folk despised. If she indulged her perfectly natural desires with him, she would hate herself, and him as well. It was a curiously unappealing thought.

  He rolled onto his back and floated lazily in the moon-kissed water, stroking just enough to stay afloat. With Allie’s looks and passionate nature, it was amazing that she had gotten to her present age unwed. Her height, forceful intelligence, and independence must intimidate most men. A waste; such a very great waste.

  While he certainly lusted after that lovely body, he also liked and respected the woman inside. He had no desire to see her hurt. Which meant that he had damn well better stay sober around her, because he didn’t trust himself an inch when he had been drinking. Reggie had resolved to behave himself in Dorset, yet when that stupid dog knocked her into his arms, her warm, willing body had caused him to instantly forget his good intentions.

  With wry humor Reggie realized that the water wasn’t cold enough to cool his rude male instincts. He had better find a topic other than Alys Weston to think about.

  Distraction was provided when something splashed into the water at the edge of the lake. Automatically watchful, he floated and listened, though there shouldn’t be any animals in the area that could threaten a human.

  Then he identified the creature paddling valiantly toward him. The collie was ecstatic to find him, almost sinking in her attempts to wag her tail while swimming. Raising one hand from the water to scratch her head, he asked, “Haven’t you caused enough trouble for one night?”

  A raspy tongue across his face was the only reply. “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, having been routed by a mangy cat?”

  Shame was apparently as foreign to the collie as herding instinct. The dog just tried to climb into Reggie’s arms, not easily done when both man and beast were in the water. He pushed the collie away. “Come ashore before you drown, you idiotic creature.”

  Side by side, they swam back to the shore. The collie managed to shake an amazing amount of water out of its shaggy fur while Reggie pulled on his clammy, uncomfortable clothes, shivering in the brisk night air.

  As he walked back to the house, collie at his heels, he decided to go up to London for a few days. He had hared off so quickly that he had left some business undone. Besides, a brief absence would give Alys Weston some time to recover from her embarrassment. And if he was being strictly truthful, which he preferred to be in the privacy of his own head, he wasn’t looking forward to the next time he saw her. She probably despised him just now, and with justice.

  Back in his room to change, he found Mac unpacking and brushing out his master’s wardrobe, unperturbed by the row that had occurred in the stable. Reggie felt a stab of guilt, remembering his uncharitable thoughts earlier. While he had helped the cockney out in the beginning, Mac had more than repaid Reggie’s casual generosity. Hard to imagine anyone else putting up with Reggie’s drinking, mood swings, and ups and downs of fortune. There had been times when Mac’s pay had been months in arrears, and never once a complaint from him.

  His valet glanced up, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the collie. “In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a dog following you.”

  Reggie took off his coat and began to unbutton his shirt. “So there is,” he said with an elaborate show of surprise. “Fancy that.”

  Mac snorted. “What kind of dog is it?”

  “A boarder collie, b-o-a-r-d-e-r collie,” Reggie spelled out as he stripped off his wet pantaloons and drawers. “She’s a hopelessly incompetent sheepdog. The shepherd was going to have her put down, so I decided to see if someone would take her as a pet.”

  Unaware of the plans for her future, the collie sat on her haunches, tail wagging, black fur matted with water, and an expression of imbecilic happiness on her face. Mac looked at her dubiously. He didn’t know much about dogs, but this one seemed to think she had already found a home. “What’s her name?”

  “She doesn’t have a name. Once you’ve named an animal, it’s yours for life.” Reggie toweled himself off vigorously, then pulled on the dry clothing Mac handed him. “I’m going to London for a few days. Anything you’d like me to get?”

  “See if you can find some sanity,” Mac suggested dourly. “You’ll be needing it.”

  Reggie just laughed. In spite of everything, he felt better than he had for years. Snapping his fingers at the collie, he said, “Come on down to the library, and I’ll let you watch Mac and me test the quality of the local whiskey.”

  With a clicking of toenails, the dog trotted after him downstairs. The collie might be a hopeless herder and not very bright by some standards, but she knew a good offer when she heard it.

  Chapter 10

  Having spent a sleepless night mustering her courage to meet her employer without blushing, Alys found the note waiting in her office distinctly anticlimactic. In a few terse words, Davenport informed her that he would be in London for several days. In his absence, he hoped she would think further about possible improvements to the property. Also, please see that a path was cleared through the brush to the little clearing by the lake. Yours, etc., R. Davenport.

  It was as if the previous night’s incident in the stable had never happened. Perhaps he had already forgotten it. As she stared at his bold, slashing handwriting, Alys wished vehemently that she could forget as easily. But how could she forget, when she could still feel the shape of his body in her arms?

  Since he had been gone from London only a week, it was unlikely that the metropolis was any more crowded and noisome than when Reggie had left. Nonetheless, it seemed as if it were, as drays and peddlers and pedestrians fought for space while expressing themselves at the top of their lungs.

  He arrived in the early evening. After stopping by his flat to change, he went out again to take care of business. Reggie had won five hundred pounds from George Blakeford the night before leaving London, but his opponent hadn’t had the cash and had given a vowel instead. With all that he wanted to do at Strickland, Reggie could use the money. Blakeford should be at White’s at this hour.

  There was al
so the matter of Blakeford’s mistress, whom Reggie had plowed that same night. If he had been attracted to the very available Stella, Reggie would have pursued her openly. But he hadn’t been interested, and he felt an odd kind of guilt for having casually succumbed to the doxy’s lures. Blakeford was damned possessive about his women, and Reggie preferred not to stir up trouble without a good reason. He had enough enemies without creating more unnecessarily.

  Blakeford was in his usual spot at White’s, making inroads on a bottle of port, so Reggie went over. “Mind if I join you?”

  Blakeford nodded without enthusiasm, but did not look overly distressed at the company. Apparently Stella had the sense not to taunt her protector with her infidelities.

  Reggie sat down opposite and signaled for more wine. Though they moved in the same circles, he and the other man were not really friends. Blakeford was tall and burly, a good boxer and heavy gambler with a face whose color showed his homage to port. He seemed a typical man about town, but Reggie had always sensed a dark, unpleasant side to Blakeford and preferred to keep his distance.

  Unfortunately, a certain amount of socializing could not be avoided under the circumstances. Crossing his long legs casually, Reggie said, “I’ve been out of town for a few days and just got back. Would it be convenient ... ?” The question hung in the air.

  Blakeford nodded. “Lady Luck has been with me. Have the vowel on you?”

  Reggie produced the note and exchanged it for a handful of bills. Blakeford’s mood improved when he challenged Reggie to flip a coin for fifty pounds and Blakeford won. Reggie didn’t mind. Tossing coins was a fool’s way to gamble, but fifty pounds was not a bad tithe to pay for goodwill.

  Good cheer abounding, they ordered another bottle of port while Blakeford recounted the news of the last week. Reggie carefully suppressed any indications of boredom. After he downed another bottle of port, perhaps knowing who had won or lost at whist would sound more interesting.

  As Blakeford broached the third bottle, he remarked, “I never really had a chance to mention it before, but I was sorry when you were cut out of inheriting Wargrave. It must be hell seeing some upstart enjoying what should have been yours.”

  Reggie shrugged. That was old news by now. “I was only a nephew, and always knew I might be superseded.”

  “You’re more philosophical than I.” Blakeford grimaced, his heavy face sour. “I’ve been heir presumptive to Durweston for the last dozen years. I wouldn’t wish the uncertainty on anyone.”

  Reggie’s lips formed a silent whistle. “You’re heir to the Duke of Durweston? That’s a prize indeed.”

  He searched his memory for information about the duke, but with little success. Durweston was an elderly widower who lived in northern England, seldom coming to London. And when he did, he didn’t move in the same circles as Reggie. “Are you concerned about Durweston marrying and getting a son, or is this another case of a missing heir, as with Wargrave?”

  “The Duke of Durweston’s only child ran away from home at eighteen and hasn’t been heard from since.” Blakeford shook his head in disgust. “Surely dead by now, though Durweston refuses to admit it.”

  “I’ve never met the duke, but I’ve heard him called a stiff-rumped old Croesus,” Reggie remarked.

  “To put it charitably.” Blakeford look a deep swig of port, his face brooding. “The old boy hates knowing everything will come to me. I’m only a second cousin, but there’s no one closer, so he’ll damn’ well have to make the best of it.”

  Reggie felt a surge of unexpected sympathy for Blakeford. “It’s a bad business, waiting for some old autocrat to die.”

  It was more than a bad business; it was a postponement of real life, as Reggie knew to his cost. He sipped his port, then offered what consolation he could. “Granted, being superseded was a shock at first, but I didn’t come out badly. My cousin Wargrave just signed over an estate to me as a sort of compensation. If the missing Durweston heir turns up, perhaps he’ll be equally fair to you.”

  “No joy there. My cousin and I never got on. Besides, what is one paltry estate compared to Durweston?” Blakeford’s face twisted into an ugly scowl for an instant before he said with determined civility, “Hadn’t heard that you had come into property. Tell me about it.”

  “The estate is called Strickland. It’s between Shaftesbury and Dorchester. About three thousand acres, and it’s been very well managed.”

  “That’s unusual for an estate that hasn’t had an owner in residence,” the other man said idly.

  “Strickland has been blessed with a first-class steward.” Reggie found himself smiling. “A female, and a most redoubtable one. An odd-eyed reformer who’s nearly as tall as I am.”

  “You don’t say!” Blakeford had been about to pour more port, but his hand stopped in mid-gesture. “What do you mean by odd-eyed?”

  “One eye is brown, the other gray,” Reggie explained. “Very striking.”

  “I knew a woman with eyes like that once,” Blakeford said slowly. “What’s her name?”

  “Alys Weston.”

  Blakeford resumed pouring the port, his hand not quite steady. “The one I knew was called Annie. Short and round and sassy. I can’t imagine her as a steward, but she had other talents,” he added with a broad wink.

  Something was not quite right about the other man’s manner, but Reggie shrugged the thought off. Probably Blakeford had been as obsessed with his Annie as he now was with his Stella. Some men were weak that way.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a familiar voice.

  “Reggie! When did you get back to town?” Julian Markham’s handsome young face shone with pleasure as he came up to them.

  As Reggie stood and offered a handshake and a smile, Julian continued, “Have you dined yet? No? Then come and explain what took you out of London so quickly.” Turning, he added, “Care to join us, Blakeford?”

  Blakeford shook his head and rose to his feet. “No, I’ m expected elsewhere. Good evening to you.”

  As he stared sightlessly at the other men’s departing backs, Blakeford’s mind was dominated by one horrific thought. The bitch was alive; there couldn’t be another woman in England who fit that description.

  Who would have believed it possible, after so many years?

  Spurning the dining room at White’s, Reggie and Julian Markham went to a nearby tavern renowned for its roast beef. As they settled down at a corner table, Julian commented, “I’m glad Blakeford couldn’t come. He always seems angry about something. Makes it dashed difficult to relax.”

  After tearing his appreciative gaze from the round backside of the barmaid who had taken their dinner order, Reggie said, “I know what you mean, but now I understand why he acts like a bear with a sore ear. It must be a confounded nuisance wondering if the missing heir to the Duke of Durweston is going to reappear and cut him out.”

  “That’s bad enough,” Julian agreed, “but I suspect that what makes it worse is that the heir is female.”

  “Good God, surely you’re joking. Since when can a woman become a duchess in her own right? Even with baronies, that’s rare,” Reggie said, startled but intrigued.

  Julian wrinkled his brow in thought. “I have a great-aunt who loves prosing on about such things. As I recall, the case was similar to that of Marlborough. The title was originally granted to a military hero with no surviving sons. However, he had daughters, so the patent of nobility specified that the title could pass through his eldest daughter. In the case of Durweston, there’s the added wrinkle than an incumbent duke has the option of willing the title to the nearest male heir if he doesn’t want his daughter to inherit. However, even if the missing heir is alive, I’m sure Durweston would pass over her, so Blakeford is worrying needlessly.”

  “How bizarre. There can’t be another patent of nobility in England written that way,” Reggie observed. “Why do you say that Durweston would consider his daughter unworthy even if she is still alive?”

 
; Julian grinned. “My great-aunt loves scandals even more than genealogy. Apparently Durweston’s daughter was betrothed to some thoroughly appropriate fellow—the Marquess of Kinross’s younger son, I believe. But instead of marrying him, she eloped with her groom. If Durweston wasn’t such a tough old devil, the shock would have killed him. He publicly disowned her, and not a word has ever been heard of the wench from that day to this. My aunt’s theory was that she died in childbirth, and the servant she married was afraid to inform his noble father-in-law.”

  “That sounds likely,” Reggie agreed.

  Their dinners arrived then, and both men tucked into the beef and boiled potatoes. After they had finished and begun on their port, Reggie told his interested friend about Strickland, but the earlier discussion stayed on his mind.

  When the conversation slowed, he said thoughtfully, “Primogeniture really is an iniquitous system. I suppose in feudal times it made sense to pass the entire property to a single heir, because concentrating the power helped everyone survive. But now it means younger sons being raised in a luxury they will never be able to afford when they’re grown, so they go into the church or the army or the government and spend the rest of their days resenting being poor relations.”

  “And heirs kick their heels, powerless to do anything but drink, gamble, and wait for their fathers to die.” There was rare bitterness in Julian’s voice.

  Reggie said sympathetically, “Does that mean your father turned down your proposal for managing the estate at Moreton?”

  Julian scowled. “I was so sure that he would agree. I had it all worked out, the crop plan, the cost of cattle to improve the herd, income forecasts ...” He broke off with a sheepish smile. “Of course you know that, since you were the one who spent weeks helping me develop the proposal.” He shook his head in exasperation, a lock of brown hair falling loose across his brow, “It simply doesn’t make any sense. I could double the estate’s income, and he would also save the cost of keeping me here in London.”