The Rake

by Mary Jo Putney

  Ever since coming down from Oxford, Julian had been trying to persuade his father to let his heir assume some responsibility for the family fortunes. Lord Markham had steadfastly refused to yield a single shred of power. At the same time he complained that Julian was an extravagant wastrel, intent on destroying the family fortunes. If it would have helped, Reggie would have given his lordship a sharp lecture on how he was mishandling his heir, but Markham would never listen to a man whom he thought was corrupting his son.

  Though Julian was fond of his father despite their differences, if the older man continued to be so pigheaded it would end with the son praying for the father’s death. Having lost his own father so early, Reggie hated to see that. Unfortunately, he could think of no way to help.

  Keeping his gloomy thoughts to himself, he topped up both goblets with port. “It isn’t easy for a man who is aging to see himself supplanted by a young one in the prime of life, even when the younger one is his son. Perhaps especially when it is his son.”

  “But I don’t want to supplant my father. I just want him to treat me like an adult, not a schoolboy.” Julian sighed and leaned back against the oak settle. “Do you suppose if I married, he would decide that I was ready for responsibility?”

  “Perhaps, though I wouldn’t stake serious money on it.” On impulse Reggie suggested, “Come to Strickland for a visit. If you’re in the market for a leg-shackle, Dorset has its share of pretty girls.”

  Julian laughed. “I’d be delighted to see Strickland, and I never mind looking at pretty girls. I won’t be able to come down for another fortnight, though.”

  “Good. I’m going to Leicestershire to buy some mares, but I’ll certainly be back at Strickland by then.” It would be good to have some company. Reggie was also looking forward to his young friend’s first sight of the delectable Meredith Spenser.

  The evening was yet young when Reggie parted company with Julian and went to take care of another piece of business. This one, however, should be more of a pleasure.

  The muscular ex-pugilist who opened the door of the discreet house on the edge of Mayfair welcomed him with a broad smile. “Good to see you, Mr. Davenport. It’s been some time.”

  “It has,” Reggie agreed, surrendering his hat. “Will you find out if Mrs. Chester will see me?”

  “No need to ask, sir. Just go on up. You know the way.”

  Yes, he certainly knew the way. As he headed toward the stairs, he passed the open salon door and glanced in. This early, there were more females available than males to admire them. In their bright, revealing gowns the girls looked like the inhabitants of some exotic aviary. Several waved and beckoned to him while the men glanced up jealously to see who was causing such a flutter.

  A saucy redhead came to the door and draped herself against the frame, cooing, “I knew this would be a good night. You came to see me, didn’t you, Reg?”

  Reggie chuckled and patted her bouncy derrière. “Sorry, Nan, I’m here to see Chessie.”

  She pouted prettily. “Some girls get all the luck.” Her voice floated after him as he climbed the curving stairs.

  When he knocked on the paneled door, Chessie’s husky voice invited him in. She’d had a nearly unintelligible East End accent when they had met, but now she spoke the King’s English as correctly as any lady born.

  Her chamber was decorated with all the flamboyant richness that one of London’s most successful madames deserved. Chessie sat at her dressing table, surrounded by an elegant clutter of expensive perfumes and cosmetics. When she saw her visitor in the mirror, she immediately rose and crossed the room to give him an affectionate hug. “Where have you been, you rascal? It’s been an age.”

  Chessie had been a real dasher in her youth. Her blond hair now required assistance, and she had put on a good few pounds over the years, but she was still a fine figure of a woman. The extra pounds were soft and pleasant in a hug, and Reggie released her with reluctance. “In the country. I’m only in town for a few days, then I’ll be off again.”

  Chessie went to a cabinet and took out a bottle of the special brandy she kept for him, and poured two glasses. After they were seated, he regaled her with a brief account of Strickland.

  “So you’re turning respectable. A magistrate, no less!” Glancing down at her brandy, she absently traced the rim of the glass with one finger. “I suppose we won’t be seeing much of you now. I’ll be sorry in a way, but I’m relieved in another.”

  “Oh? Glad to get rid of me?” Reggie asked with amusement.

  “You know it’s not that.” Chessie tilted her head as if debating whether to say more. “I’ve been worried about you,” she said slowly. “You’ve changed in the last few years. You used to raise hell because you enjoyed it, but now it seems more like a bad habit that’s making you miserable. You carry on like a man condemned to die in the morning. If you don’t change your course, sooner or later that’s exactly what will happen.”

  “You think I can’t take care of myself?” he asked in a silky voice that masked his stab of irritation.

  “Not that you can’t, but that you won’t bother to try,” she answered bluntly. “I know men as well as any woman alive, and I know when one is sending himself to perdition.” Visibly gathering her courage, she continued, “Blast it, Reggie, you’re drinking far too much. If you don’t stop, it will kill you soon, either directly, or because you’ll break your neck riding, or because you’ll get into a fight and not be quick enough for once.”

  He finished his brandy and set the glass on the delicate end table with an audible clink. “Of course I drink too much. It’s part of being an English gentleman. A really serious politician, for example, needs to be able to put away at least three bottles of bad port a night, and five or six is better.”

  “Yes, and it’s killing a lot of them, too. But it isn’t just a matter of how much you drink. What counts is how it affects you.” She gave him a level look. “And it affects you very badly.”

  His temper rising, Reggie snapped, “You think I can’t hold my liquor?”

  “It used to be that you could drink anyone under the table and be as good as new the next day,” she admitted. “But over the last couple of years, I think the booze has gotten the upper hand.” She looked at him earnestly, willing him to really hear what she was saying. “Like I said, I’ve known a lot of men—”

  He cut in sharply, “Several regiments worth, at least.”

  Chessie flushed, but she refused to back down. “Do you remember the first time we met?”

  “Of course I do. A group of drunken bucks intent on gang rape is memorable.” It had been at Ranelagh, shortly before the pleasure garden closed for good. Chessie had been very young and very new at Venus’s trade. She had also been terrified and screaming for help, and he was the only man around who had seen fit to aid a prostitute.

  His chivalrous gesture had been rewarded with a broken nose, but he had been less damaged than any of the men who had been attacking Chessie. One of his better fights, if he did say so himself. He’d won because he had been sober and they had not.

  Uneasily, he shoved the last thought aside and added belligerently, “What has that got to do with anything?”

  “Reggie, I think you saved my life that night. Now I want to return the favor.” She spread her hands expressively. “Yes, almost everyone drinks too much, but sometimes it goes beyond a bad habit and becomes ... almost like a disease, or an addiction, like the opium eaters. Once that happens, a man can’t control his drinking anymore. He’s a drunkard, and booze becomes more important than anything else in his life. It ruins his health, rots his guts, turns him nasty. Eventually it kills him.”

  “What a pretty picture you’re painting,” he said, his self-control etched with acid. “However, I assure you that I am not addicted to any form of spirits. I can stop whenever I choose.”

  “Have you ever tried?” she asked, her eyes grave.

  Defiantly he reached for the bottle of brandy a
nd poured himself three fingers worth. “I’ve never seen any reason to.”

  Chessie sighed. She hadn’t thought he would be receptive to the idea that he was a drunkard; she had never known a man—or a woman, for that matter—who was. But she’d had to try. She and Reggie had lived together for several years after the night he had rescued her, and there had always been more between them than just business. It had hurt, these last years, to see him change. He had always had a quick temper, but in the past the clouds passed quickly and his usual good nature would reappear.

  These days he seemed to be depressed or angry most of the time, more prone to use his quick tongue in caustic, hurtful ways. His remark about her having known regiments of men was an example. The old Reggie had never been unkind to his friends. Well, Chessie did indeed know men; well enough to know that there was no point in saying any more. “Did you have some other reason for stopping by, besides for a scold?”

  He smiled faintly at that and reached inside his jacket for a folded paper which he handed to her. She opened it, then drew her brows in question. “Why are you handing me our original business agreement?”

  Reggie lounged back in the sofa, sipping his brandy. “It’s time the business was all yours. You do most of the work, and Martin does the rest. It isn’t right that I keep taking part of the profits.”

  Chessie studied the contract with bemused affection. Eight years before, she had been left in dire straits when her current protector abandoned her. No longer young, and tired by the precariousness of being a kept woman, she had turned to Reggie for temporary shelter.

  Not only had he rescued her again, but he had suggested that she go into business for herself, and lent her the money to get started. She had built the brothel up with plenty of hard work and fair treatment for both the girls and the customers, but she could never have done it without him.

  She rose and crossed to the sofa to give him an energetic kiss. “You’re a real gent, Reg. A quarter of this business is worth a lot. There aren’t many who would give it away for nothing.”

  He shrugged negligently. “I don’t need the income anymore, and I’ve made back my initial investment many times over.”

  “Are you sure there isn’t anything I can do to ... show my appreciation?” Mischievously she ran a practiced hand down his lean body.

  There was a flare of response in his eyes before he shook his head regretfully. “I don’t think Martin would like that.”

  “No, I don’t suppose he would,” she agreed with equal regret. Martin was the former boxer who greeted guests, kept order, supervised the kitchen and wine cellar, and generally helped run the house. He was a fine fellow, her partner in more ways than one, but a bit possessive about his woman. Stirring up old embers would only cause trouble.

  As Reggie stood to leave, Chessie asked wistfully, “Will you still stop by now and again to say hello? Even if you are respectable?”

  He grinned, his earlier irritation forgotten. “Of course. Since most of your male guests are respectable, I shan’t look out of place.” He gave her a light kiss and left.

  Chessie sighed after the door closed. She and Martin had a very good arrangement, but there had never been anyone quite like Reggie.

  The sun had reached its zenith and begun its downward path when Reggie woke the next morning. He lay very still, knowing that if he moved quickly he would probably be violently sick. Even the daylight glowing through his closed eyelids was a strain on his shattered nerves. His thoughts moving with painful slowness, he tried to piece together what had happened the night before.

  White’s and Blakeford, then dinner with Julian, but they had parted early. He started to roll onto his side, subsiding when a stab of pain lanced his eyeballs. Then Chessie, to return their business agreement. That visit he remembered all too clearly; she’d made a lot of damn’ fool remarks about his drinking.

  And you didn’t believe her?

  The inner voice that had given him bleak warning before echoed in his mind. He groaned, not wanting to think about the subject anymore. He should have brought Mac with him. Some of the valet’s magic elixir would have been a godsend just now.

  After dozing again, he was able to move, albeit slowly, the next time he woke up. Luckily there was water in the pitcher. Splashing his face helped clear his bleary eyes.

  Wondering how he had gotten home the night before, he was starting to strip off his crumpled clothing when he spotted an unfamiliar chamber pot on a table by the door. Even in his present state, he had enough curiosity to investigate.

  To his shock, he discovered that the china vessel was stuffed with banknotes. Good Lord, what had he been doing the previous night? He must have ended up in a gaming hell. Lifting a handful of notes, he tried to guess how much money might be there, but it was too much effort.

  Later, when a shot of Irish whiskey and fresh clothing had restored him to a semblance of life, he counted the money in the chamber pot. There was over a thousand pounds. He scowled at it in frustration. He would give the whole lot to know just what he had done last night. In a way, exact knowledge was unimportant. It had undoubtedly been a night of gaming and drinking like a thousand others, but he would never be sure unless he ran into someone who had been a witness to whatever had happened.

  Though Reggie had always taken risks, he had done so knowing the odds and feeling himself to be master of the situation. To lose his memory was to lose control of himself in a deeply disturbing way.

  As he bundled banknotes into a leather bag to take to his bank, Reggie remembered what Chessie had said the night before. His mouth tightened. Perhaps—just perhaps—she had a point. At Strickland he had drunk less and felt better.

  Now, after less than a day in London, he felt like death would be a welcome release, and for reasons stronger than just the physical results of carousing. Well, he would be out of London tomorrow. He would go to Leicestershire to look at some mares, and after that he could go home.

  It was such a natural thought that he wasn’t even surprised by how quickly Strickland had become home.

  Chapter 11

  A week had passed since Davenport had left Strickland. Alys had progressed from relief to a cautious hope that he would see fit to return soon, in spite of the inevitable awkwardness. The man was certainly a disgraceful reprobate and a complication in her orderly life, but it was ... interesting to have him around.

  She was hard at work in her office, checking accounts and thinking, for the thousandth time, that Britain ought to change to a decimal money system, when Davenport reappeared. A light knock sounded at the door, and she bid the visitor to enter without raising her head.

  Cat-footed, her employer crossed the room and was scarcely three feet away when he said, “Good afternoon.”

  Alys almost jumped out of her skin in surprise, her head whipping up and her pen spattering ink across the page. So much for dignity, she thought with an inward sigh. At least shock superseded the embarrassment she would have felt otherwise.

  Davenport was his usual collected self, though amusement glinted in his eyes. “Sorry to startle you,” he said mildly as he lounged against the edge of her desk, “but you did say come in. Anything noteworthy happen in my absence?”

  She laid down her quill. “Everyone on the estate has now been vaccinated against smallpox, as you wished.”

  His brows shot up. “That was quick work. Did anyone resist?”

  “Not for very long,” Alys said with satisfaction. Backed by the landlord’s authority, she had brooked no opposition. It had been a pleasure to accomplish so worthwhile a task.

  “Congratulations on a job well done. Anything else?”

  “I’ve been working on my proposal for improvements,” she said hesitantly.

  “What do you recommend?”

  “To begin with, I think we should increase the livestock herds. Grain prices have been depressed since the war ended, and I don’t see them getting better anytime soon. Some of the grain acreage can be convert
ed to growing mangel-wurzels.” Seeing a peculiar expression on Davenport’s face, she explained, “Mangel-wurzels are a kind of beet root that makes excellent cattle fodder.”

  “I’ve heard of them, but never actually conversed on the subject.” The corners of his mouth quirked up. “Come, Lady Alys, forget about their nutritional excellence and try to say mangel-wurzel with a straight face.”

  She had to smile. “You’re right. It is an absurd name, isn’t it?”

  “Even a poet devoted to Nature would have difficulty writing a decent sonnet to a mangel-wurzel.” He grinned. “Perhaps ‘One of nature’s major puzzles is the mangy mangel-wurzel.’”

  That was too much, even for a woman of habitual seriousness. Alys gave way to laughter. “I doubt that Wordsworth could do better,” she said when her mirth had subsided. Reggie’s gaze on her face was warm and amused. Remarkable how intimate shared laughter could be.

  Suddenly self-conscious, she rustled through the piles of papers in front of her. After extracting several sheets, she handed them to her employer. “Here is a list of new equipment we could use. Things are listed in order of usefulness, with estimated prices and notes on the advantages.”

  He ran his gaze down the column of neat printing. “I’ll study this in more detail later. It looks plausible, though it won’t be possible to buy everything at once. Anything else?”

  “We need to build more cottages for the laborers. The older ones are a disgrace, damp and unfit for human habitation, and all of them are overcrowded.” She produced another set of papers. “Here are the cost estimates.”

  He scanned the pages until he reached the last, where his lips pursed in a silent whistle that was definitely not approving. “This would be very expensive, and there are no direct financial benefits to the estate.”