The Rake

by Mary Jo Putney

  Reggie felt a chill that began deep inside, curling icy tendrils around his heart. His Allie had to be the missing heiress—the two stories fitted together too well. Dear God, she was the only child of a duke.

  And Blakeford had been next in line to inherit. Alys had said Blakeford had reason to kill her, and she was right. The duchy and fortune of Durweston would have tempted a better man than George Blakeford. And damnably, Reggie’s own careless words had brought Blakeford to Dorsetshire, intent on murder. Though it was impossible to prove, Reggie would wager a thousand pounds that the fire that destroyed Rose Hall had been set by Alys’s cousin.

  Her husky voice interrupted his thoughts. “Why are you looking so serious?”

  He focused his attention on her. The Despair of the Davenports was sharing a bed with the greatest heiress in England. When she’d had her come-out Season in London, he would not have been allowed under the same roof with her.

  No wonder command came naturally to Allie—she had been raised to be ruler of the small kingdom of Durweston. She’d said that Lady Alys was an ironic nickname, but he suspected that it had started when Jamie Palmer absentmindedly used her title.

  If only she hated her father, but it was obvious that she cared deeply about their estrangement. And though she might think the duke would never welcome back a prodigal daughter, Reggie knew better.

  In sixty seconds everything had changed. With a sickening sense of inevitability, he accepted what must be done. Then, invoking the control of a lifetime, he found a smile. “I was trying to calculate how many more times tonight I can make love to you before I must leave so your reputation won’t be in shreds.”

  She gave him a slow, devilish smile. “You’ll never find out by just thinking.”

  “You’re right. There have been enough words.” He kissed her hard, a sense of doom increasing his urgency. How could he have believed there might be a happy ending for him?

  But for tonight, at least, she was his. And he would ensure that it was a night neither of them ever forgot.

  The hours of darkness spun past with a thousand small discoveries, with passion and laughter and the mingling of quiet breath. The more he gave her, the more she was able to give back. Alys knew that if she died tomorrow, she would be content that she had been well and truly loved.

  Surely such fulfillment could not be only a fortunate conjunction of bodies. She wanted to say aloud that she loved him, that no other man had ever touched her heart or spirit or body as he did, that none ever could. But she kept silent, not wanting to mar this perfect night.

  Besides the mysteries of the senses, the darkness held another revelation. As Alys lay across Reggie’s chest in a calm between tempests, she murmured, thinking aloud, “Besides Gillie’s baby, how many other children do you have?”

  He raised his head. “What are you talking about?”

  Unable to withdraw her words, she stumbled forward. “About natural children, like the one Gillie is going to have in a few months. Surely over the years there must have been others.”

  “Why do you think I fathered her child?” he asked, more curious than angry.

  Alys said awkwardly, “I saw her leave your room one night. And you allowed her to stay on here. May Herald said there weren’t many men who would be so tolerant.”

  “I see,” he said, his amusement obvious. “However, I deny all charges. I guarantee that her baby will arrive fewer than nine months after I came to Strickland.” He went on to explain Gillie’s desperate attempt to involve him in her pregnancy.

  Alys was startled, and overwhelmingly relieved. “You didn’t pay Mac Cooper to take her off your hands?”

  “Don’t suggest that to Mac, or he might forget that you’re a lady,” Reggie warned. “Getting married was his own idea, and he’s very pleased with himself about it.”

  “Oh.” Alys felt clumsy and not very bright.

  The silence stretched, until he abruptly answered her earlier question. “Over the years I have been careful not to sow bastards. I would not want a child of mine growing up an outcast. But there may be one.”

  The last candle was burned almost to the socket, and its dying flicker showed Alys his impassive profile. “You don’t know for sure?” she asked softly.

  “I had an affair with one of the aristocratic Whig ladies whose life is as liberal as her politics. Her first two children were by her husband. After that, I think she took pride in making sure that each was fathered by another man.” His words were clipped. “Years later, I saw her in the park driving with several of her children. There was a girl who looked a little like me, poor wight. I made inquiries. The child is the right age.”

  “The lady won’t tell you?”

  He shrugged. “She may not know. And if the girl is mine, what could I do about it? She’s being raised with more than I could give her. Her parents are good people in their way. It would be no kindness to disrupt her life.”

  The harshness of his tone revealed how much he cared about that child who was lost to him. Would his ache be less if he had another child, one he could raise himself and guide through life’s tribulations, as he had not been guided?

  Alys had always wanted children, but now, with a ferocity that astonished her, she wanted them to be his children. Though she had not dared dream for years, for an instant, she contemplated a lifetime at Strickland, raising tall children with Reggie, sharing laughter and friendship and occasional explosions. And most of all, with thousands of nights like this one, when their spirits were as intimate as their bodies.

  It was too soon to dream. But he liked and desired her. Perhaps in time he would come to care more deeply. She would do her damnedest to win him, and what better way to woo a rake than through passion?

  So as roseate dawn softened the darkness, Alys set out to demonstrate to her beloved what she had learned in one night, making love to him with as much intensity as he had made love to her. And as they reached new heights of joy, it was easy to believe that love bound them.

  Chapter 24

  Reggie left Alys with a kiss just before the household began stirring. She luxuriated in happiness for the minutes before a maid appeared with her coffee. She had not known there was such bliss in the world. Though she should be exhausted after such an energetic night, she felt that today she could move mountains single-handed.

  After her coffee arrived, she rose and dressed. It was a shock to glance in the mirror. For just a moment, she saw the beautiful woman Reggie claimed that she was.

  Then reality set in and she was simply Alys, albeit a bright-eyed, glowing Alys. But for an instant, she had been beautiful.

  She went outside, whistling. A pity that she would be spending the whole day at the far end of the estate. She wouldn’t see Reggie again until dinner. Habit got her through her duties, but she kept finding herself staring blankly into space with a smile tugging at her lips and the delicious sensation of melting.

  Late in the afternoon Alys returned to her office. She felt a swift curdle of panic when she saw the letter that awaited her, addressed in Reggie’s bold hand. Could last night’s passion have resulted in a letter of dismissal? She stared at the creamy paper for long minutes before daring to open it.

  Lips tight, she broke the wafer. The terse but not unfriendly message was a relief. Reggie had unexpectedly been called away. Might be gone for as long as a fortnight, though probably less. Sorry to leave so abruptly. Fondly, R.

  She stared at the note. Fondly? Was that a mark of affection, or indifference? She read and reread his words, trying to find deeper meanings without success.

  Carefully she refolded the paper, her eyes fixed sightlessly across the room. Every time there had been any intimacy between them in the past, he had run away, but he had always come back.

  She must remember that he always came back.

  In London Reggie called on Julian’s great-aunt, a redoubtable dowager with a passion for gossip and a weakness for rogues. Over a pot of tea he learned that the
long-lost Durweston heir was Lady Alyson Elizabeth Sophronia Weston Blakeford, called Lady Alys. She’d had one London Season, was extremely tall and rather shy, but with a great deal of countenance. There had been general approval of her engagement to her father’s choice, Lord Randolph Lennox, a handsome and honorable young man with no need to marry for money.

  Finally, and damningly, the dowager mentioned that Lady Alyson Blakeford had mismatched eyes.

  It took three days to reach Carleon Castle, the great seat of the Durwestons. Carleon encompassed a large part of the county of Cheshire, and it took Reggie half an hour just to ride up the avenue of elms from gatehouse to castle.

  His practiced eye evaluated the estate, and found it vast and prosperous. Strickland could be lost here a dozen times over. Carleon had begun life as a castle, and over the centuries the building had grown and changed to reflect the power and wealth of its owners. The ruler of England would not be shamed to live within these golden stone walls, and kings and queens had visited here.

  The closer he came to the heart of the estate, the angrier Reggie became. That Alys had left this for a life of uncertainty and poverty was a measure of how deeply she had been wounded. If offered the chance, he would have cheerfully cut out the heart of Lord Randolph Lennox and of the Most Noble, the Duke of Durweston, and the anonymous drunken merchant, and every other man who had ever hurt Allie. He took grim satisfaction in the knowledge that he actually had killed George Blakeford.

  The entry hall soared thirty feet high, its proportions designed to put mortals in their places. Reggie was greeted by a butler with more dignity than the Archbishop of Canterbury. His chilly eyes flicked over the visitor’s travel-stained clothing. “The Duke of Durweston is not receiving.”

  Reggie pulled out one of his cards and scrawled in pencil I know where your daughter is. “Give him this,” he told the butler curtly. Durweston would not be far away; it was said that the duke had not left his estate in a decade.

  The butler glanced contemptuously at the card. His face grew stiffer, if that was possible. Wordlessly he turned and vanished into the castle depths. He returned within five minutes. “His Grace will see you.”

  The butler turned and led the way through a series of passages that made Reggie wish he had emulated Theseus and brought a ball of string. Eventually they reached the duke’s private audience room, another lofty chamber decorated with a royal ransom in furniture and art.

  Durweston himself was seated behind an ornate gilded desk. Any faint hope Reggie had that his Allie was not Lady Alyson Blakeford died at the sight of that handsome hawk face. This man had to be her father. The duke looked to be in his late sixties, tall and lean and fierce, with a shock of white hair and the expression of a man who is never opposed. He neither rose nor greeted his visitor, merely scanned him with gray-green orbs the exact shade of Allie’s right eye.

  Refusing to be intimidated, Reggie inclined his head once, then stared back, making his expression faintly bored as he waited for the other man to speak.

  The duke’s gaze fell to the card on the desk. “Reginald Davenport. I’ve heard of you. You’re a rake, a wastrel, and scoundrel, a disgrace to a fine old family. You learned that my heir George Blakeford died and decided there was an opportunity for profit.” The wintry gaze went to Reggie again. “Now you’re here like a vulture with a trumped-up tale about my daughter. I am no lamb for the fleecing. My daughter is dead. Get out.”

  Reggie’s anger was tinged with compassion. Over the last dozen years, there would have been others who had come with spurious tales of the missing heiress. Durweston’s hopes must have been raised and dashed more than once, making him bitter and wary. But he must still have hope that his daughter was alive, or he would not have admitted a stranger. The duke craved news of his only child; he wanted to be proved wrong.

  Equally cool, Reggie said, “You’re right that I know of George Blakeford’s death. In fact, I shot him myself, with a Baker rifle. One bullet through the heart.”

  “Good God, you’re the one who killed him?” Durweston stared at him in amazement, his composure pierced. “It came as no surprise to hear that George died in a brawl, but I have trouble believing that even a man like you would come here to boast about it. You’re either a murderer or a madman, Davenport.” A strong, bony hand reached for the bell cord. “Probably both.”

  “I killed Blakeford because he was doing his level best to put a knife in a woman called Alys Weston,” Reggie said tersely. “He seemed to think Alys is your daughter.”

  The duke’s hand halted in midair. Then, a tremor in the long fingers, his hand returned to the desk. “Tell me about this Alys Weston.”

  “She’s the steward of my estate, Strickland, which lies between Dorchester and Shaftesbury,” Reggie said crisply. “She’s a couple of inches under six feet tall and has bright brown hair, improbable dimples, and a figure like Diana the Huntress. She is thirty years old, was born on All Hallows Eve, and she has the stubborn pride of Lucifer.”

  With clinical detachment Reggie watched the duke’s craggy face quiver, as if from an internal earthquake, then added the clincher. “Her eyes are two different colors, the left one brown, the right gray-green.”

  “My daughter is dead.” Blue veins stood out on the backs of Durweston’s hands as his grip tightened on the tooled leather surface of the desk. “Don’t think you can pass off an imposter. I would know instantly.”

  “And Great Britain is overrun with six-foot tall females with mismatched eyes,” Reggie said ironically. “Very well, if you don’t want her, I’ll keep her for myself.” He pivoted on his heel and headed toward the massive door.

  “Wait!”

  Reggie hesitated, then turned back. Having decided to come here, he must finish what he had begun.

  Durweston had risen to his feet, his face working convulsively. “Alyson never would have stayed away so long.”

  “Then you can’t have known her very well,” Reggie said coolly. “When she wanted to end her betrothal, you refused to support her. You said she was no daughter of yours, and locked her in her room. Not surprisingly, she felt that you had betrayed her. That you wouldn’t want her to come back.”

  White-faced, Durweston sagged back into his chair. “Only she and I knew what happened that night,” he whispered. He waved at a chair with a shaking hand. “Sit down. Please.”

  The duke looked so stricken that Reggie wondered if he should ring for help, but after a minute the old man’s color improved. “Do you know why she refused to marry Lord Randolph?”

  “Yes, but if you want to learn the reason, you’ll have to ask her yourself.”

  Durweston nodded, accepting that. “You say she’s your steward, of all the outlandish things. How did that come to happen? She ran off with her groom.”

  “She ran off alone,” Reggie corrected. “Her groom, Jamie Palmer, followed her to make sure that she took no harm.”

  Briefly he explained how Alys had taught, then gov-ernessed, and finally chanced into the position of steward. He also mentioned the radical reforms that she had instituted on his estate, and that she was guardian of three young people.

  As Reggie spoke, disbelief melted away in the duke’s face. He must know his daughter well enough to believe that not another woman in England would have behaved in quite the same way.

  Silence followed Reggie’s explanation, until Durweston asked, “Is she a good steward?”

  “The best.”

  A flicker of smile lightened the duke’s face before he returned to brooding. “Why didn’t she come home?” he asked. “She knows I don’t mean half of what I say when I’m angry.” Vulnerability sat oddly on that arrogant face.

  “She was badly hurt,” Reggie said quietly. “After that, pride took over. I daresay you can understand that.”

  Durweston gave an infinitesimal nod. “Will ... will she come home?”

  “I think so, but you must go to her. She will never come to you.”

  T
he duke’s face hardened. “Does she expect me to crawl to her?”

  Suddenly weary of a man whose pride stood in the way even now, Reggie snapped, “She expects nothing. She doesn’t even know I’m here.” He stood. “Allie said that her father never apologized or admitted fault. Obviously she knew her man. It was a mistake to come.”

  “Davenport.” Durweston spoke gruffly, hating the truth in his visitor’s words. “You say that she’s at your estate, Strickland. That’s in Dorsetshire?”

  Davenport nodded. Durweston said, “I’ll be there in four days. How much do you want for your information?”

  Davenport’s cool blue eyes could have chipped flint. “Keep your money. Just treat Allie better in the future than you have in the past.”

  Durweston hated Davenport at that moment, hated him for being strong and virile, in the prime of life, hated him for having had Alyson’s company when her own father had been alone in his luxurious mausoleum.

  More than any of that, the duke hated himself for having driven her away. “What is my daughter to you, Davenport?” he said harshly. “Your mistress, and now you’ve tired of her?”

  No longer cool, Davenport’s eyes blazed with fury, his body taut and dangerous. In a remote corner of his brain, the Duke of Durweston knew that he stood closer to death than at any time since his own wild, risk-filled youth. His visitor looked ready to cross the room and do murder with his bare hands.

  Instead, after a Herculean effort to control himself, Davenport said in a soft, whip-edged voice, “Your daughter is what she has always been. A lady.”

  Then he turned and walked out the door.

  Hard at work in her office and not expecting Reggie back for days, Alys paid no attention to the sound of a single horse cantering into the yard. She was vaguely aware of the booming hooves of a team pulling a vehicle several hours later, but dismissed that as a loaded dray, since a delivery of timber was expected for the cottage construction.