The Rake

by Mary Jo Putney

  “But there are many indirect benefits.” She leaned across her desk earnestly. “Healthy, happy people are better workers.”

  His gaze was sardonic. “Possibly true, but unprovable. You used a similar argument in support of your school.”

  “Yes, and it’s as true now as it was then.” Alys rose, feeling that if there was going to be a battle, she would do better standing. “Those prices are extremely reasonable. Much of the work can be done by estate workers during the quiet season, and the materials are all local.”

  She was just getting her wind up for a more detailed presentation when Davenport raised his hand. “I didn’t say that we wouldn’t do it. Again, it will have to be in stages.” Then, with a half smile, he added, “I am not wholly wedded to practical return. To prove it, I’ll show you what I’ve brought back.”

  Alys followed him outside and across the yard to the stables. There, in stalls that had been empty, were three new mares. “You’re going to breed hunters?” she asked in surprise.

  “You’ve a good eye for horseflesh.”

  She reached out to the nearest mare, a lop-eared chestnut with powerful hindquarters and a deep chest. The mare gave Alys a friendly nudge in the shoulder. “These obviously aren’t showy enough to be Rotten Row hacks, but they would do very well in the field.”

  “That mare may have lop ears, but she’s very clever over fences and has the endurance to stay all day.” Then, without a shift in his tone, Davenport continued, “I was going to apologize for what happened here last week.”

  Alys gave him a quick, shy glance that contained all of the discomfort she had anticipated from this meeting. Davenport was regarding her with a thoughtful expression on his dark, almost-handsome face, the light eyes inscrutable.

  “I’ll be damned if I can honestly say I’m sorry it happened,” he continued, “but I am sorry if I embarrassed or distressed you in any way.”

  Alys’s gaze whipped back to the mare. She concentrated on stroking the velvety muzzle. “I can’t really say that I’m sorry, either,” she said awkwardly, “but it mustn’t happen again.”

  “Agreed. Subject closed?”

  “Subject closed,” she repeated. It had been a disgraceful episode, and she had behaved in a way quite unbefitting a lady of mature years and practiced dignity.

  So why did she feel so regretful that it would not be repeated?

  The day after his return to Strickland, Reggie visited the Stantons for the dinner that had been postponed when he went away. The evening proved to be surprisingly enjoyable. A round and smiling Aunt Elizabeth hugged him with almost as much enthusiasm as the collie had shown on his return from London.

  Several other members of the local gentry were present, and they greeted him with amiable acceptance, as befitted someone born in the neighborhood. Over port, the men discussed local issues on the assumption that he was one of them. Luckily there were no single ladies present, though the matrons eyed the newcomer speculatively. Probably they were deciding which of the available fillies they should throw in his path.

  Mindful of his resolve to drink less in general, and not to disgrace himself in front of the Stantons in particular, Reggie was moderate in his consumption of wine. Perhaps that was why he was so restless when he returned to Strickland. In the library he poured a very large whiskey, enjoying the familiar soothing glow that spread through his body. But the drink was not enough to relax him.

  He glanced around the room, thinking that he really must do some redecorating. After thirty or forty years, it was hardly surprising that the place was drab. Perhaps fresh wallpaper and draperies would make the house seem less tomb-like... .

  Exasperated, he finished his whiskey in a gulp and decided to go out. The collie, still unnamed and ownerless but ever eager for a walk, frisked along beside him. He was growing accustomed to the silly beast despite her penchant for tripping people.

  The night was warm and fresh with the scents of early summer. Reggie lit a cigar and wandered toward the lake, feeling more at peace with the world. The land was like a seductive mistress, beckoning him to partake of its charms. Nonetheless, as small creatures rustled in the bushes and the hoot of an owl haunted the night, he felt very alone. Not with the frantic loneliness of London, but with a kind of sad melancholy, a sense of years wasted and paths not taken.

  Without thought his feet had taken him past the lake and around to Rose Hall. The rambling outline of the steward’s house had a certain elegance in the gentle glow of the crescent moon. No lights showed, for the hour was late, well past midnight.

  He leaned against a tall elm that stood on the edge of the grounds, wondering if Alys Weston was ever lonely. She had her adopted family, and every person on the estate needed and respected her. Was that enough? She seemed a self-sufficient woman, so perhaps it was.

  He drew on his cigar again. The tip flared with momentary brightness, then subsided to a dull glow. A faint sound came from the far side of the house. Then, oddly, he thought he saw a shape moving away from Rose Hall, a darker black in the night.

  Reggie frowned and tried to make out more detail. Perhaps one of the children slipping away on some unsanctified expedition? That would probably be harmless in the case of the boys, less so if it was their nubile sister. Or perhaps it was a servant, or someone who had been visiting on one of the house’s residents, or perhaps nothing at all.

  He dropped the butt of his cigar and ground it under his heel, then quietly circled around the building to investigate. Less quietly, the collie pattered along beside him.

  Whatever Reggie had seen was gone by the time he reached the far edge of the grounds. He said softly, “Well, dog, are you any good at tracking?”

  With typical acuity the beast immediately turned away from the trail to face the house. She lifted her clownish head, ears pricked and shaggy tail still.

  “Remind me not to offer you to the local hunt,” Reggie said dryly.

  The collie growled, a deep, throaty sound, and began moving forward. “For heaven’s sake, quiet down,” Reggie hissed. “You’ll wake everyone in the house.”

  He caught the dog’s collar, but she still strained toward the building. Worse, she began to bark with agitation.

  Reggie swore under his breath and started to wrench her away by sheer force. Then he detected a scent that the collie’s sensitive nose had already recognized as different and wrong. The still night air carried a whiff of smoke, not the vegetal scent of his cigar but a sharp, acrid smell.

  Suddenly tense, Reggie scanned the house. A faint glow showed through the windows on the ground floor. As he watched, he saw the first tentative lick of fire, followed with horrifying speed by a multitude of hungry flames. Rose Hall was burning.

  Swearing, he released the dog’s collar and sprinted toward the front door.

  Haunted by memories of touch and vague longings, Alys had trouble falling asleep. When she did, she was seized by the familiar nightmare of rejection. Why marry a bossy Long Meg like her? Why, for money, of course.

  Once again she fled in despair to self-destruction and dishonor, but tonight there was a change in events. For the first time she dreamed that her father sent pursuers after her. Hoarsely shouting hunters on horseback and baying hounds closed in, panting for her blood as she sought frantically for a hiding place.

  Slowly her mind fought free of the depths of sleep to recognize that the barking was real but it came from a single dog, not a nightmare pack. And a man was shouting and pounding on the door. For a moment more she lay suspended in confusion.

  Then she smelled the smoke. Coming instantly alert, she uttered an oath under her breath as she scrambled from the bed.

  The floorboards were warm, dangerously warm, beneath her bare feet. She grabbed her robe and pulled it around her as she left her room and raced down the hall, shouting, “Merry, Peter, William, get up!”

  Throwing open Meredith’s door, she saw the girl sit up sleepily. “Quick, the house is on fire!” Alys said in a
staccato voice. “We must get out immediately.”

  Merry gasped, then jumped wordlessly from her bed and pulled on slippers and robe before following her guardian into the hall. This end of the house was still cool, but smoke was spreading along the ceiling, swirling ever lower in thick, eye-stinging clouds.

  The boys were emerging from their rooms. William rubbed his eyes drowsily, but Peter was alert and aware of the danger.

  “Peter and Merry, get outside and take William with you,” Alys ordered. “I’ll get the servants.”

  Peter opened his mouth to protest, and she cut him off sharply. “Just do it!”

  He nodded and took his little brother’s hand. Alys waited long enough to see her charges start down the center stairs, then headed to the attic, grateful that the narrow steps were at the far end of the house from the fire.

  She shouted a warning as she ran up. At the top of the steps, she found the cook, Mrs. Haver, emerging from her room, a dark shawl clutched around her plump shoulders.

  “The stairs are safe, just go down quickly and get outside,” Alys barked. The smoke had followed her up, and drawing in breath to speak made her cough.

  Mrs. Haver’s eyes widened in shock. Then she darted back into her room. Alys chased after her, swearing. “For God’s sake, whatever you have here isn’t worth the risk!”

  “Easy for you to say.” Mrs. Haver’s voice trembled on the edge of hysteria as she lifted one end of the mattress and pulled out whatever treasure she had hidden.

  Alys grabbed the cook’s arm and propelled her out the door and toward the stairs. “Move, dammit!”

  Not waiting to see if she was obeyed, Alys sped down the narrow, dark passage. The only other servant was Janie Herald, the young housemaid. Her bedroom was at the opposite end of the attic, and in the dark Alys couldn’t find the right door at first. She mistakenly entered two storage rooms before finding the correct one.

  The little, slant-ceilinged chamber smelled faintly of the cheap perfume Janie used, but there was no response to Alys’s call. She fumbled her way across the room, stubbing her toes painfully before falling onto the narrow bed.

  The bed was empty, the blankets unwrinkled. Momentarily breathless, Alys’s mind flashed through the possibilities. Janie had been walking out with a boy from the village. Perhaps she had slipped out to meet him?

  Praying that was the case, Alys pushed herself upright and ran out of the room, her long legs carrying her rapidly down the length of the attic hall. Smoke was heavy on the steps, but much worse on the lower floor, where ravenous flames were devouring what had been her own bedroom.

  Tickled by some vague memory, Alys dug a handkerchief from the pocket of her robe, then made a quick detour into Peter’s room to dip the fabric square into his water pitcher. Holding the wet cloth across her nose and mouth and bending low into clearer air, Alys forced herself to run toward the inferno, and the steps that led to safety.

  The staircase to the ground floor was still clear, but only just. Her left side scorched as she raced downward. She heard a hideous grinding noise, then a deafening crash as the timbers collapsed from the upper floors. A blast of hellish heat hit her, and the steps shook beneath her feet.

  As she reached ground level, a cloud of sparks swirled around her, burning tiny black holes in the robe and stinging exposed flesh. The lung-choking smoke was so thick that she could see almost nothing despite the fiery glare.

  She was starting toward the front of the house when she heard a wail of animal terror. Attila came flying toward her, his tail singed and smoking. She scooped the frantic, clawing cat into her arms, then turned the corner toward the front door.

  There she stopped in horror. The main hall in front of her was completely blocked by smoke and flame. She whirled back the way she had come, but fire now engulfed the stairs. Her fear erupted into a scream of pure terror. She was trapped in the inferno.

  She felt herself becoming dizzy as savage flames consumed the air. With no place left to run, she crouched on the floor, half fainting. Her suffocating lungs labored vainly for breath. The heat was unbearable, and there was no air left to breathe, no air at all. Her arms tightened around the cat’s trembling body.

  As she slid into unconsciousness, she wished with grim humor that she had seduced Reginald Davenport. Since she was going to burn in hell, it was a pity she didn’t have any really enjoyable sins to suffer for.

  When Reggie’s shouts and pounding on the door of Rose Hall produced no visible results, he pulled off his coat and wrapped it around one arm. He smashed the neared window and unlatched the casements, then scrambled into the drawing room. From the noise and the heavy smoke, the fire was spreading swiftly.

  He stepped into the main hall, and found the three Spensers racing toward him. Reggie shouted, “Merry, where is Lady Alys?”

  As Peter hurried his young brother toward the front door, Meredith paused, her hair a pale halo around her face. “She went to the attic to wake the servants.”

  “Get outside with your brothers and stay there.”

  She nodded and darted away.

  Reggie had been caught in a burning tavern once. No one who hadn’t had such an experience could appreciate the unbelievable speed with which fire could move. Praying that Allie and the servants were on their way out, he started along the center hall that led to the stairs. He’d gone only a few steps when a woman emerged from the smoke and ran right into him. Heavy and middle-aged, she was stumbling and gasping for breath.

  Reggie slipped an arm around the woman and half carried her to the front door. “Where is Lady Alys?” he asked sharply as he helped her outside.

  “She ... she went for Janie.” After an endless interval of coughing, the woman added hoarsely, “Should be right behind me.”

  Reggie turned to see the flames burst through the roof at one end of the house. The yard was lit by garish, wavering light. A safe distance from the house, the young Spensers stood watching the destruction of their home in mesmerized horror.

  From the direction of the tenants’ cottage, Reggie saw the dark forms of approaching people, several of them pulling a fire engine behind them. He doubted that it would do much good, but at least someone was thinking.

  Seeing the engine, Peter turned and ran to help. Meredith simply stood, her hand holding that of her little brother.

  Reggie turned back to the house, swearing. Allie should have been out by now with the missing servant, unless they had been overcome by smoke. He plunged into the house again.

  Flames had cut across the center hall a bare dozen feet in front of him. The incredible heat struck him like a weapon. He halted uncertainly, trying to remember the layout of the house. Was there a way around the blaze?

  Then he heard a soul-chilling scream from beyond the curtain of fire. Allie. His stomach turned as he realized that she must be trapped on the other side.

  The Oriental carpet in the drawing room. Instantly he darted into the room on his right, where a thick Persian rug held place of pride. Only a few light chairs weighed it down. With a ferocious jerk on the nearest edge, he tugged it free. The carpet was small enough for one man to handle, just barely. He folded it in half, then in half again, before pivoting and returning to the flaming hall.

  Going up to the searing edge of the fire, he hurled the weight of the carpet forward, keeping one fringed end in his hands. The heavy wool smashed down over the flames, creating a temporary fire-free zone. Eyes burning, he ran across between walls of flame, keeping low so he wouldn’t pass out from lack of air.

  Beyond the carpet the fierce, blazing light revealed Allie crumpled against the wall. Praying that she was still alive, he closed the distance between them and scooped her into his arms. Then, drawing on every shred of strength and stamina developed in an athletic life, he carried her back across the rapidly charring carpet. The walls of fire were nearer now, the flames scorching voraciously.

  Lungs burning with smoke and strain, Reggie staggered through the dimly vis
ible front door to safety. As he stumbled down the shallow steps, he thought dizzily that it was absolutely typical of Alys Weston that she would be rescued clutching a scorched and yowling cat in her arms.

  Blessed coolness surrounded her. Perhaps hell was ice and not fire. Her lungs were working again, drawing in air uncontaminated by smoke.

  Slowly Alys realized that she was being carried. A pair of familiar feline legs thumped against her stomach. Apparently Attila had just kicked away from her.

  Her eyes stung as she forced them open. With some effort she brought Reggie Davenport into focus as he lowered her to the ground. He stayed kneeling beside her, one powerful arm supporting her in a sitting position. His soot-smudged face was only inches away, the blue eyes pale as ice.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice quiet against the sounds of crackling fire and smashing timbers. Swathes of black marred his white shirt.

  When she nodded, he continued, “Is the other servant still inside?”

  Alys swallowed and attempted speech, her voice emerging as a charred croak. “I don’t think so.” She broke into a spasm of coughing.

  Davenport’s arm tightened around her as she struggled for breath. “I hope she isn’t,” he said grimly. “No one else will be coming out alive.”

  “I think Janie might have slipped out to see her young man,” Alys managed. “When I find her, I’m going to wring her neck.”

  “You’re entitled. You damned near died in there.”

  “I noticed.” Alys lifted a trembling hand to her face. Her thick braid had come undone, and long strands of hair trailed across her cheek. Brushing them back, she looked up to see the children’s concerned faces around her.

  Smiling with as much reassurance as she could muster, she tried to stand, but Reggie held her firmly against him. “Stay still until you get your strength back. There isn’t anything you can do.”

  Alys looked toward the house she had lived in for four years, just in time to see the slate roof crash inward with thunderous force. Flames shot high into the dark night air, illuminating the men pumping water onto the blaze. It was a futile effort.