The Rake

by Mary Jo Putney

  “That’s not all. Listen.”

  They became very still. Inside the wool room was a gentle sound almost like breathing. At Reggie’s questioning glance, Alys said, a little shy at what a simple thing it was, “The fleeces will rustle softly like that all night long. The fibers are interlocked and tense, and they shift to get comfortable, like people.”

  His expression eased. “Life really is full of small wonders. Thank you for showing me this one.”

  His somber gaze held hers, and she thought his words were for more than just the rustling fleece. It was one of those moments of inexplicable intimacy that sometimes connected them. In that instant she determined not to move her charges away from Strickland. At least not if he stayed sober. He was going to need people who cared about him nearby.

  Reggie returned the fleece to its place, and they started back toward the manor house. They were almost there when Nemesis came galumphing toward them, her clownish white face vivid in the dark. Wagging happily, she reared up and planted her front paws against Reggie in a demand to be caressed.

  He caught the collie’s head in his hands and tousled her ears, a process that sent her into raptures. “Where have you been, you worthless creature?” He paused, then glanced warily at Alys. “Did something happen with Nemesis last night?”

  Reluctantly she said, “You kicked her, but she wasn’t really injured. Just startled.”

  He grimaced and returned the collie’s forepaws to earth. “It’s a poor sort of man who will kick his own dog.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s pretty clear that you’re forgiven.”

  “Would that all one’s crimes could so easily be set aside.” Then, harshly, he said, “I don’t know if I can do it, Allie. It was hard to stop drinking when it was temporary. Now to face a lifetime ...” A thread of despair, of being defeated before he even began, sounded in his deep voice.

  Alys tried to imagine herself in his position. What if she had to deny herself her cherished morning cup of coffee? The mere thought of a lifetime of that denial gave her a shiver of empathy. Yet that was only coffee, something she enjoyed, but did not crave. How much worse it must be for Reggie, who had drunk heavily for perhaps twenty years, who suffered from the disease called drunkenness ...

  Her exercise in empathy gave her an idea. “A lifetime is too long a time. Can you refrain from drinking for the rest of tonight?”

  He exhaled wearily. “That I think I can manage.”

  “Then think only of that,” she said. “Tomorrow morning, think only of the morning. What is forever but a collection of minutes or hours? Surely you can always refrain for the next five minutes. Or if that is too much, then the next minute.”

  It was full dark now, and Reggie’s face was a pale blur as he turned to her. “Perhaps ... perhaps I can do it after all.” He raised one hand and touched her cheek. “Thank you, Allie, for everything.”

  She laid her hand over his for a moment of silent promise. Then she turned to enter the house. As she went inside, she thought wryly that it was a sign of her low mind that even as she rejoiced to hear that Reggie would try to stop drinking, that even as she pledged to do whatever she could to help, she felt a stab of deep regret in knowing that when he was sober, he would never kiss her again.

  Chapter 19

  The Earl of Wargrave was admitted to Ashburton House, and immediately greeted by his host, Lord Michael Kenyon. “Richard, I’m so glad that you happened to be in London.” Michael grinned. “Except for my old friend Rafe, we have a small reunion of former officers of the 95th Rifles.”

  Kenneth Wilding, Viscount Kimball and new husband, stepped forward to shake hands. “Lord, it’s been a long time since we’ve seen each other. Waterloo?”

  Richard nodded. “Right. I was brought back to London with a shattered leg, and you went to Paris with the army of occupation. I think you got the better of that duty.”

  They all laughed. Richard greeted Michael’s friend, Rafe, the Duke of Candover, whom he knew from the House of Lords. Then the four of them adjourned to the dining room. They had progressed to casual conversation over the after-dinner port when Michael remarked, “You’re unusually silent even by your standards, Richard. Is impending fatherhood weighing that heavily?”

  “Sorry, Michael,” Richard said apologetically. “Impending fatherhood is splendid. I was just wondering how my black sheep cousin is faring.”

  His friend raised a sardonic brow. “There are no reports that Dorsetshire has been destroyed or blown into the sea, so perhaps Reggie is behaving himself.”

  Richard smiled. “I didn’t realize that you knew my cousin.”

  “He’s a legend at Eton. Everyone who attended during the years Reggie was there knew him.” Michael slid the decanter of port along the polished mahogany table to Rafe. “To our sorrow.”

  The duke said mildly, “Reggie wasn’t that bad.”

  Wry humor gleamed in Michael’s eyes. “I’ll admit bias, since Reggie and I have known each other for nigh onto thirty years, and have rubbed each other wrong the whole time. Rafe got along with him much better.”

  Kenneth Wilding said curiously, “You wrote me about this cousin, Richard, but apart from mentioning that he’s your heir and that you settled an estate on him, you said very little. What makes him so black a sheep? Is he dishonest?”

  When Richard cocked an inquiring eye at Michael, that gentleman said, “Reggie Davenport has always defied classification. He’s not dishonest—quite the contrary, in his own perverse way he’s belligerently honorable—but he can be supremely maddening.”

  An artist who was always interested in people, Kenneth asked, “In what way?”

  “The problem with Reggie is that he always went one step too far,” Rafe said reflectively. “The fashionable world is surrounded by an invisible fence. I always knew exactly how far to go without breaking the limits. That made me dashing.” He gave a self-mocking smile. “Reggie always chose to be one step outside the line. That made him dangerous.”

  “Was he always like that?” Richard asked.

  “Not really,” Michael admitted. “I met Reggie when he had just become his uncle’s ward. Since my father and his uncle were friends and the Wargrave estate is more or less on the way from Ashburton to Eton, someone had the brilliant idea of sending us off to school together. The weather was dreadful, which slowed the coach to a crawl, so we had three endless days in a coach to become acquainted.” He sipped his port thoughtfully. “Reggie had just lost his whole family and been pitched into one hostile environment, and was now being sent into another. He was like”—Michael searched for a phrase—“like a rabid dog, snarling and snapping in all directions. If I had been older, I would have made more allowances for him, but at that age I was merely angry.”

  Rafe took up the story. “Reggie was a King’s Scholar, what was called a Colleger by the other students.” He grimaced. “You all know how savage the English public school system can be. Bad enough to be a regular student, but the Collegers lived in such appalling conditions that even the most neglectful parents hesitated to subject their sons to that. There were always vacant spaces for King’s Scholars.”

  “This despite the fact that Collegers received full scholarships at Eton, automatic admission to King’s College at Cambridge, and if they wanted it, an assured, comfortable lifetime as a Fellow of King’s,” Michael added.

  “I see,” Richard said slowly. “My grandfather must have put Reggie in for a scholarship as the simplest, cheapest way to settle him in life.”

  “Simple, but cruel,” Rafe said acerbically. “Collegers were treated like animals in a zoo. They got only one meal a day, usually roast mutton and boiled potatoes. They shared a huge room at the top of a drafty stone building that was over three hundred years old. Every evening they were locked in the Long Chamber at eight o’clock and not released until seven the next morning.” He shook his head. “The whole lot, all fifty or sixty of them, were left to their own devices without any
masters or other adults to keep order. Thank God there was never a fire, or they’d have all burned to death.”

  Kenneth winced. “And I thought Harrow was bad. What you’re describing is law of the jungle.”

  Rafe took a sip of port, his eyes flinty. “Reggie had the dubious distinction of being the youngest and smallest of the Collegers his first several years. And he was a good-looking boy, which made things worse.”

  Understanding the implication, Richard’s eyes narrowed. “He was abused by the older boys?”

  “Not really. That was how your cousin’s legend was forged.” Michael signaled a servant to refill the decanter. “Reggie fought like a bull terrier. He wouldn’t surrender, no matter what was done to him. Once or twice he was beaten unconscious, yet he came up swinging when he woke. Even the worst bullies in the college didn’t want to deal with that.” He shook his head admiringly. “Damnedest thing you ever saw—sixteen-year-old boys wary of a child half their age and size. It was the same with the masters. No matter how much they birched him, he would never break.”

  “A pity he didn’t go into the army,” Kenneth said, compassion in his voice. “He would have made quite a soldier.”

  “I believe he wanted the army, but his uncle wouldn’t buy him a commission.” Michael smiled ruefully. “I would have died rather than admit it at the time, but I admired Reggie tremendously. Besides being tougher than an East End stevedore, he was one of the best scholars and best athletes in the school. But he and I had a bad beginning and never overcame it.”

  “I appreciate your explaining more of my cousin’s background,” Richard said, his hazel eyes abstracted. “I think I understand him a little better now.”

  Kenneth grinned. “I hope I have the opportunity to meet this man someday.”

  “Perhaps I’ll pay a call on my cousin later in the summer,” Richard said thoughtfully. “I have some business in Hampshire, so I’ll be near Strickland.”

  Privately Michael thought that Richard took his position as head of the Davenport family too seriously. His difficult cousin was unlikely to welcome the earl with common civility, much less open arms.

  Yet sometimes men did change for the better. Michael had. As they rose from the table, the part of Michael that had admired the young Reginald Davenport hoped that the blasted man would turn his life around, before it was too late.

  Reggie knew he was going to fail, could feel himself slipping inexorably toward disaster like a man on a steeply pitched roof. When he had stopped drinking earlier, it had been very difficult, but at least he had known the deprivation was temporary.

  Now, no matter how desperately he followed Allie’s suggestion to think in terms of a day, an hour, a minute, he could feel himself sliding toward the moment when his will would break. Such thoughts did not make him an easy companion.

  He spent much of his time training his hunters, since he had discovered that mental engagement was a stronger defense than mere physical activity. In the evenings he stayed with the rest of the household, speaking little but listening to the young people’s chatter as a way to keep the craving at bay.

  At Allie’s suggestion Meredith and Peter were working on plans to redecorate the manor house. The project gave Merry something to think about besides Julian’s absence, and offered Peter an outlet for his excellent taste in all things visual. The two young Spensers would discuss their ideas with Reggie, since he had the final say. Reggie had to admire the neatness with which Allie had involved all three of them.

  He acquired a pipe, both for the smoking and the endless fidgeting it took to keep the damned thing going, and he continued with his compulsive late night swimming. Only Allie and Mac understood what he was trying to do. He could feel both of them watching him while trying to be unobtrusive about it.

  When his nerves became dangerously frayed and he was on the verge of defeat, Allie always seemed to be there. Calmly she ignored his flashes of irritation and anchored him to sanity. He supposed that to her he was another project, a piece of property of doubtful value that would benefit by improvement.

  Whatever her motives, he was grateful. After the young people went to bed, he and Allie would stay up late talking, their conversations ranging over farming, politics, literature, and a hundred other things. Two topics they never discussed were her past, or his future. More and more he wondered about her life before she had become a governess, but she never mentioned that, and he felt that he had no right to ask.

  As the endless days dragged by, few incidents were intense enough to pierce his inner ferment. One event occurred when he and Meredith and Peter went into Dorchester to look at wallpaper and fabric that had just arrived from London. Peter had driven them, proud to demonstrate his growing skill with the ribbons.

  Merry’s lovely face was serene, but she was too quiet. Allie had privately told Reggie that Julian wrote often, saying how he missed her and declaring his intention of returning to Strickland within a month. However, the fact that he never mentioned how his father had received news of the proposed marriage was ominous.

  In Dorchester, Reggie let Peter and Merry off at the shop, then took the barouche around to a livery stable. He was just leaving after bestowing his horses when he came face-to-face with George Blakeford. With an inward groan but determined civility, Reggie said, “Morning, Blakeford.”

  The other man stopped in his tracks and glared, his thick, muscular body stiff with anger. “I should call you out for what you did to Stella.”

  “What did your ladybird say I did to her?” Reggie asked with some curiosity.

  “She told me that you ravished her the first evening you met her, and publicly insulted her at that assembly,” Blakeford growled.

  “I plead innocent to the one charge, and guilty to the other,” Reggie said, suddenly bored. Stella was obviously every bit as much a troublemaker as he had suspected. “The insult was very bad of me, but not a dueling matter. Now, if you’ll excuse me ...”

  Blakeford’s beefy hand shot out and clutched Reggie’s arm fiercely. “Don’t you brush me off! If you come near Stella again, you’re a dead man.”

  With shocking suddenness their positions changed as Reggie broke the other’s grip, then grasped Blakeford’s wrist and twisted bone and tendon with a force just short of breaking the joint. “Don’t threaten me, Blakeford,” he said in a low, menacing voice. “Use that fire and vinegar to give Stella what she needs so she doesn’t go around putting her hands in other men’s breeches.”

  “You bastard!” Blakeford turned almost purple with fury as he tried to wrench himself free.

  “Don’t be fool enough to get into a public brawl about a whore’s virtue,” Reggie said contemptuously as he released the other man’s arm. “If you really believed that I had ravished her, you would have come after me with a horsewhip weeks ago.”

  His words checked Blakeford. Restraining himself with visible effort, the other man growled, “You’ll regret this, Davenport. For too many years you’ve done what you wanted and not given a damn for anything, but retribution is just around the corner.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Reggie said coolly. “But in the meantime I have an engagement.” He circled around Blakeford and headed toward the High Street with an itchy feeling between his shoulder blades. He had no doubt that if Blakeford had been carrying a pistol, Reggie would have been a dead man.

  Gloomily be recognized that it had been a mistake to lose his temper and talk about the little trollop the way that he had. Where women were concerned, men could be very irrational. Reggie had an uneasy feeling that the encounter might have repercussions.

  As he entered the draper’s shop and was drawn into Peter and Merry’s debate on the relative merits of figured, cream-colored satin damask versus blue and dove gray–striped brocade, he shrugged philosophically. His reputation was already so bad that it couldn’t be blackened much further.

  George Blakeford wanted to crush Davenport’s throat with his bare hands—to beat that cool, c
ontemptuous face to a bleeding pulp. Only the memory of his greater goal kept him from indulging his blood lust. It was far more important that Alys Weston die, and in a manner that could not be traced to Blakeford.

  A pity that the fire had failed. Though he had racked his brain, he could think of nothing else that would appear so much like an accident. A second fire would be too suspicious. Besides, fire had proved to be an inefficient method for killing.

  He was finding it surprisingly difficult to reach someone who spent virtually all her time on an estate where everyone knew her, and where strangers stood out like red flags. What made it even harder was Blakeford’s determination that both Alys Weston and Reggie Davenport must be destroyed.

  He eventually realized that he would have to arrange an ambush, the sort of thing that could be attributed to a roving band of cutthroats. There were plenty of those since the war had ended and thousands of soldiers had been turned off to starve. Still, it was taking time to find men for the task. They couldn’t be local, and they mustn’t be connected to Blakeford.

  But he had already found two desperate men who would do anything for money, one of them a former army sharpshooter. When he had located two or three more, all he would need was an event that would lure his two victims away from the estate. It might take weeks or months, but he was prepared to wait as long as necessary to ensure that there would be no escape.

  For now, he would contemplate the sweetness of his victory, and of his revenge.

  Alys entered her bedroom, and almost tripped over the housemaid, Gillie, who was cleaning the room. The girl bobbed her head. “Excuse me, miss, I’ll leave.”

  “No need. I’m just here to change into a cooler shirt.” Alys went to her dresser and opened a drawer. “It’s turned warmer than I expected. Rain coming, I think.”

  She pulled out a fresh shirt, and turned just in time to see Gillie sway and drop Alys’s china washbasin, one of the pottery’s prettiest products. The maid’s face had a distinctly greenish cast.