Читать книгу The Rake - Mary Jo Putney - Страница 13

Chapter 7

Reggie raised his hand to the knocker of Rose Hall, the steward’s residence, then hesitated. He had accepted the dinner invitation because he thought that anything would be better than another evening alone in the big house, but now he wasn’t so sure. Two young boys, an aspiring femme fatale, and a magnificent Amazon who despised him were odd company for a man who usually socialized with hard-drinking sportsmen like himself.

Well, too late to retreat now. He grasped the knocker and rapped firmly.

The little housemaid that answered had a face that Reggie was beginning to recognize as typical Herald physiognomy. After she bobbed a quick curtsy, she wordlessly led him to the drawing room. It was not a large house, having no more than four or five bedrooms, but it was comfortable and well-maintained. Reggie had regularly visited the kitchen as a child. His father’s steward had a cook gifted at making tarts, and Reggie had ingratiated himself in the manner of all small boys.

Miss Weston was waiting in the drawing room. She rose at his arrival. Her height and natural dignity made her look like a queen, even in her extremely conservative dark brown dress. Reggie spent a moment wondering how she would look in Gypsy red, with her hair tumbling around her shoulders rather than in a no-nonsense coronet. As he bowed, he decided that she would be quite splendid.

Smiling, she said, “I thought you might like a few minutes of peace before the children join us. Would you like a sherry?”

Sherry was hardly his favorite drink, but since it was better than nothing, he accepted. As she poured two glasses, Reggie felt an insistent pressure on his shin. He looked down to see a very large, very shaggy cat twining suggestively around his ankles. With a small sound of distaste, he stepped back. The cat followed, apparently determined to be his best friend.

His hostess turned and saw his predicament. “Sorry. I thought Attila was safely out of the way. He must have been lurking under the sofa.” She handed Reggie a drink, then bent to scoop up her pet “I gather that you don’t like cats?”

Even for a woman as tall as Alys Weston, the beast was a very substantial armful, a patchwork of striped and white fur with great curving whiskers that framed an expression of supreme disdain. “Not much,” Reggie admitted. “They’re sneaky, unreliable, and selfish.”

“That’s true,” Alys said gravely, “and they have many other fine qualities as well.”

For a moment he wasn’t sure he had heard correctly. Nothing earlier in the day had led him to believe that his steward numbered a sense of humor among her formidable virtues. But a suspicion of dimple showed in her right cheek; he had noticed earlier that it came out before the left one. “Perhaps I don’t like cats because they’re too much like me,” he said with a grin.

Laughing, she took the cat to the door and dumped him, protesting, on the other side. “Go down to the kitchen, Attila. There must be something there to interest you.” Closing the door before her pet could whisk back in, she turned to her guest. “So you’re sneaky, unreliable, and selfish?”

“Oh, indubitably,” he said, sipping at his sherry. “And I have many other fine qualities as well.”

This time both dimples showed as she sat gracefully in one of the brocade-covered chairs. “What are your other fine qualities?” Then she paused, a stricken expression on her face. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked that.”

“Because it’s too personal a question, or because you’re afraid of what I might consider a fine quality?” Reggie asked as he took a seat opposite his steward.

“The latter reason, of course,” she said sweetly, then looked even more stricken at her unruly tongue.

Taking pity on her embarrassment, Reggie said, “Since you are not on duty, nothing you say can be held against you. Although I must say, I prefer your insults to having you frown me down.”

“Lord,” she said with a guilty start. “Is that what I was doing all day?”

“Yes,” he replied succinctly.

“It’s because of my eyebrows, you know,” she said earnestly. “Even when I’m in a good mood, people often think I’m about to bite them.”

“And when you’re in a bad mood?”

“Oh, then they fly in all directions.”

“I suppose that looking fearsome is a useful trait, given the work you do,” he said thoughtfully. “It can’t have been easy to get the Strickland tenants and workers to accept your authority.”

“There have been problems,” Alys admitted. “It is not a simple matter where one victory wins the war. They would take orders more easily if I owned the estate, but they don’t quite approve of a female steward. Still, after four years the tenants and I understand each other tolerably well.”

“I can understand their feelings. I don’t approve of you myself.” As she bridled, he raised one hand. “Nothing personal, but it’s a confounded nuisance that the ‘A’ in A. E. Weston doesn’t stand for Albert or Angus.” He studied her gravely. “If you value your reputation, you would be wise to look for another position.”

Alys froze, her sherry glass poised in midair halfway to her mouth. Then she lowered the glass, her face pale. “Are you discharging me?”

“No,” he said, feeling as guilty as if he’d struck her physically. “Just giving you some good advice.”

Relaxing fractionally, she said in a freezing tone, “In that case, just as you prefer to worry about your own dignity, leave me to worry about my reputation.”

“As long as you work for me, your reputation will be affected by mine, no matter how blameless your behavior,” he said bluntly. “When people hear that I have a female steward, they will chuckle knowingly and assume you’re my mistress, especially when it’s discovered that you are young and attractive.”

Alys’s face colored with embarrassment, and her gaze dropped. He wondered whether she was upset by the possibility that she might be taken for his mistress, or by his compliment. The latter, he suspected. Any suggestion that she was attractive seemed to throw her off balance.

She raised her head, her expression set. “I am no green girl who must always be above the merest hint of suspicion, and I am well-known in the neighborhood. It’s unlikely the local people will assume I have suddenly become lost to all propriety.”

“You might not be concerned about your reputation, but I am about mine,” he retorted. “Believe it or not, I have every intention of behaving circumspectly. Strickland is my home now. It always has been, really.” He studied his nearly empty glass as if fascinated by the remaining sherry. “I have no desire to offend everyone in Dorsetshire.”

“So you’ll save your outrageousness for London?”

“Perhaps.” He shrugged. “Or perhaps I will give it up entirely. Being outrageous all the time is a confounded amount of work.”

Reggie’s tone was light, but as he spoke he realized that his vague thoughts of the last few days had crystallized into a decision. It was time to put down the roots he had always yearned for, to stop filling his idle hours with gambling and drinking and wenching. In short, it was time to grow up—before it was too late.

He looked up to see that his steward was scrutinizing him closely, as if she sensed that his words were not casual and wondered what they implied for her. Both the brown and the gray-green eyes were bright and individually attractive. Though the contrast between them was startling, it exactly suited her. As a bonus, she had the longest eyelashes he had ever seen. Whoever had nicknamed her Lady Alys was perceptive. Miss Weston was not at all like the common run of females.

While honor had compelled him to warn her off, he was glad that she showed no desire to leave Strickland. It was true that her sex was a complication, but he admired her competence and integrity, and enjoyed her occasional flashes of barbed wit.

Besides, she was the best-looking steward he had ever seen.

She broke the lengthening silence, saying thoughtfully, “I suppose that outrageousness is boring once it has been mastered. Trying to be respectable should present all kinds of interesting new challenges.”

“It will certainly have the charm of novelty.” His mouth quirked into a half smile. “It does seem a pity to deprive high-sticklers of the pleasure of condemning me, but there are always new young rascals coming along to create scandal-broth.”

She tilted her head to one side consideringly. “You mean that you became a rake as a sort of public service?”

“Exactly so. Virtue needs vice for contrast.” He smiled wickedly, wondering if he could ruffle her feathers. She was very attractive when she forgot her dignity. “Good and evil are completely dependent on each other. Even God Himself needs Lucifer more than he needs his bands of well-behaved angels who never put one wing astray.”

She gazed wide-eyed into space, her expression arrested rather than shocked. “I’m not sure whether that is heresy or philosophy.”

“What’s the difference? Heresy is just philosophy that the establishment doesn’t approve of,” he said provocatively, thinking that Miss Weston had a much more flexible mind than his first impression of her had led him to expect.

Before the theological waters could grow any murkier, the door opened and Meredith floated into the room. Reggie rose at her entrance. The girl really was very lovely, not least because of the impression she gave of not taking herself and her beauty too seriously. He bowed over her hand, wondering what Julian Markham would think of her. He’d have to invite his young friend down for a visit.

Lady Alys gave Meredith a glass of sherry and refilled Reggie’s, and they exchanged commonplaces for a few minutes until the two Spenser boys entered, dressed in company best and bursting with curiosity. Reggie rose to meet them. The degree of excitement on their well-scrubbed faces was a reminder of how quiet life in the country was, and how seldom new people arrived to provide diversion. If he really intended to make his primary residence at Strickland, it would be an enormous change from the ceaseless variety of London. But then, it had been a long time since mere variety had afforded much pleasure.

Peter was an attractive stripling, his brown hair a contrast to his blond siblings. The height and starch of his shirt points and the complicated folds of his cravat showed aspirations to dandyism, but humor and intelligence showed in his blue-gray eyes. Shaking Reggie’s hand, he said politely, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Davenport. I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

While Reggie wondered what that meant, William, seven and effervescent, skipped the preliminaries to say enthusiastically, “That stallion of yours is a prime ’un, sir.”

“Bucephalus is the finest horse I’ve ever had,” Reggie agreed. “He has speed, style, and endless stamina.” He shook William’s small hand, which was not quite as well scrubbed as the round face. “He has a chancy disposition, though. Keep your distance unless I’m around. He broke the arm of one admirer who got too close, and he won’t allow anyone but me ride him.”

If he had been better versed in the ways of small boys, Reggie would have been suspicious of the gleam in William’s eye. However, the little housemaid entered to announce that dinner was served and the exchange slipped his mind as the group adjourned to the dining room.

While the dinner party was quite unlike any other Reggie had ever attended, it was not without amusement. Conversation was general around the table with everyone, even young William, accorded the courtesy of a hearing. Topics included local events, literature, and the boys’ progress in their lessons. Despite Lady Alys’s warning that a family meal might prove to be a strain for a bachelor, the young Spensers were excellent dinner companions.

Reggie applied himself to the simple but well-cooked meal and observed the family dynamics. And it was a family, even though the relationship was not one of blood. Alys was the center around which the three young people circled, gently and humorously guiding the conversation, monitoring William’s table manners, listening with total attention when one of her wards spoke. The Spensers were indeed very lucky, and Reggie’s respect for his steward increased again.

The meal had progressed to the sweet course when Peter overcame his initial diffidence enough to ask Reggie, “Is it really true that you once wagered a thousand guineas that you could ride a hundred and sixty miles in fifteen hours, and shoot forty brace of grouse at the midpoint of the trip?”

Considerably startled, Reggie said, “Good Lord, has that story made its way this far south? That happened in Scotland, years ago.”

“You mean, you actually did that?” Peter said, awed delight on his face.

“One of my odder wagers, but not quite as foolish as it sounds,” Reggie admitted. “The actual terms of the bet allowed twenty-four hours, which gave me some leeway in case the grouse were elusive.”

Not content with this episode, Peter said eagerly, “And you won a midnight coach race to Brighton?”

“It was midnight when we left. I reached Brighton about four in the morning,” Reggie said, bemused.

There was worse to come. His eyes round with incipient hero-worship, Peter said, “Did you really back your mistress in a race against the champion jockey, and win?”

His eyes flicking to the other members of the party, Reggie said dampeningly, “This is not the time or place to discuss my misspent youth.”

Peter was mildly chastened by the reproof, but ecstatic at Reggie’s implication that they were two men together, protecting the tender sensibilities of the women and children. Alys raised her brows slightly, amusement in her eyes. Remembering how fragile a young man’s pride was, Reggie frowned at her, forbidding any comments.

With a suggestion of smile, she rose and suggested that it was time for William to retire to the nursery. After a brief battle of wills, which she won, William withdrew and the older members of the party adjourned to the drawing room. Reggie thought wistfully of the joys of after-dinner port, but staying at the table to drink alone didn’t seem very mannerly.

Though he had intended to return home soon after dining, he found himself lingering. It had been a very long time since he had observed the interplay of a happy family, and he found that he enjoyed it. With her combination of beauty, wit, and blithe good nature, Meredith would be a sensation in London. A pity her birth was so mundane. If she were properly launched, she would have every eligible man in London at her feet.

Peter must be another source of concern for his guardian. He was on the verge of adulthood, unsure of himself, and ripe for hero worship. Clearly he was fascinated with their guest’s checkered past, and asked eagerly about several episodes Reggie himself had half forgotten. Heaven only knew where the boy got his information.

The admiring inquisition was damned uncomfortable, but Reggie, whose ability to wither pretensions was legendary, found himself unwilling to snub the boy. He remembered too clearly what it was like to be fatherless.

And for the first time in many years, he wondered what it would be like to have children of his own.

Merry was just finishing a sonata on the pianoforte when the housemaid entered the drawing room with a tall, full-bodied clerical gentleman at her heels. Alys stifled an oath. She should have realized that Junius Harper might pay a call; he was at Rose Hall almost as many evenings as at the vicarage. Junius was a very worthy man, high-minded and well-educated, with a genuine interest in the welfare of his parishioners. He had been an invaluable ally to Alys in most of her reformist projects.

He was also, alas, sometimes a self-righteous prig. Rising, Alys said, “Good evening, Junius. I imagine you have not yet met Reginald Davenport, the new owner of Strickland. Mr. Davenport, allow me to present the Reverend Junius Harper. He has been rector of All Souls for almost four years now.”

Though still in his early thirties, the vicar moved with a studied dignity that made him appear older than his years, but which would suit him very well if he ever became a bishop. After sketching a bow to Alys and Meredith and nodding at Peter, he turned to the newcomer. Davenport had risen from his chair and was offering his hand.

Refusing to take it, Junius said in accents of deep foreboding, “Surely, you are not the Reginald Davenport?”

“I suppose so. I don’t know of any others,” Alys’s employer said pleasantly, his hand still out.

A look of revulsion on his moonlike face, the vicar said in freezing accents, “I have heard of you, sir, and Strickland has no use for such as you.”

Davenport dropped his hand, his expression hardening. Gone was the quiet, amiable gentleman who had watched the young Spensers with an indulgent eye. His face fell into the practiced lines of a sneer and his weight shifted, so that he was lightly poised on the balls of his feet in a fighter’s stance. “Are you proposing to ban me from my own property?”

“Would that I could!” Junius drew in his breath, his hazel eyes glittering as his black-clad form expanded like a pouter pigeon. “Unfortunately, English law goes nowhere near far enough to the regulation of morals. However, I can say with confidence that the right-thinking people of Dorset will not tolerate your duels, raking, and debauchery. There is no place for you here, sir—you will be an outcast. Return to London at once and leave the good souls of Strickland to Miss Weston and myself.”

“Leave me out of this, Junius,” Alys said with alarm, loath to have her new employer think she shared the vicar’s intolerant views.

Davenport said with a cynical gleam in his light blue eyes, “If you think the good souls of the neighborhood will cut a man who has property, money, and influence, you know precious little of the world, Mr. Harper.”

The vicar’s eyes narrowed into angry slits. “When the full story of your licentious ways is known, even money and property will not suffice to buy your way into favor.”

“You are well-informed about my licentious ways,” Davenport drawled. “You must spend a good deal of time reading the scandal sheets. Hardly the most elevating material for a man of God.”

The vicar stiffened at the deliberate provocation in Davenport’s tone as Alys winced, wondering if the two men would come to blows in her drawing room. When Junius spoke again, there was a hint of snarl in his mellifluous voice. “I have influential relatives, sir, among the highest levels of society. Your name is a byword among them for every kind of low behavior. Your mistresses, your gambling . . .”

Davenport interrupted, saying in shocked accents, “You forget yourself, Vicar. Remember, there are ladies present.”

Indeed, Meredith and Peter were watching in fascination from their respective seats. While Junius flushed at having been caught in unseemly behavior, Alys glanced at her wards and said in a voice that brooked no opposition, “Both of you out now.”

Her wards departed reluctantly, probably to paste their ears against the door. Alys shrugged philosophically, feeling that she had done her duty. She could hardly leave her guests, for there was less likelihood of violence if she was present.

Besides, she didn’t want to miss the end of the confrontation. Seeing a saint and a sinner square off together had all the morbid fascination of a carriage wreck.

Raising her voice, she said, “Can I offer you gentlemen a glass of port?”

Without waiting for a reply, she went and poured three generous glasses, thrusting two into the hands of the combatants. She briefly considered stepping between the two men, but decided that it would be the better part of valor to let them settle matters on their own. She might end up like a bone between two mongrels if she interfered. Subsiding into a chair, she took a rueful swig from her goblet.

Davenport casually sipped his port. He seemed to be getting more relaxed as his opponent became more agitated. “Perhaps you should list the varieties of low behavior for me, in case I have missed any, Mr. Harper,” he said in a conversational tone. “I should hate to ruin my record for vice through ignorance or lack of imagination.”

Furious, Junius spat out, “You mock me, but God will not be mocked. Do not the faces of the three men you have killed in duels haunt your dreams?”

Davenport cocked his head to one side thoughtfully. “Surely it is more than three. Let me think a moment . . .” He pondered, then said with an air of discovery, “Ah, you must not have heard about the one in Paris last year. You really must try harder to keep up, Mr. Harper. We rakes don’t rest on our laurels, you know. Wickedness requires constant effort.”

Alys almost choked with suppressed laughter. Her employer was the picture of calm reason, while the self-appointed guardian of public morality appeared on the verge of an apoplexy.

His teeth audibly grinding, Junius Harper said, “Would that you had been prosecuted for dueling as you deserve!”

“When even Cabinet ministers duel, it’s hard to get a conviction,” Davenport pointed out. “Particularly since I’ve never actually killed anyone who didn’t deserve it.”

Unable to find a suitable riposte, the vicar abandoned dueling for another topic. “They say that you own a brothel in London.”

Arching his dark brows in surprise, Davenport said, “You are well-informed, Vicar. However, it’s only a partial ownership. I’m a”—he grinned maliciously—“sleeping partner, you might say.”

Junius gasped at the double entendre, then said furiously, “Don’t think you can kidnap our innocent country girls to supply the vile needs of your whorehouse, or ravish them so they must flee their homes from shame.”

“You certainly have a lurid opinion of me.” Davenport drank half of his port off. His voice was still casual, but his grip on the stem of his goblet showed increasing tension. “I don’t recall ever ravishing anyone, though. I’m sure I’d remember, unless I was too drunk, and then I’d be incapable of ravishing.”

The vicar barked, “You’ll burn in hell, Davenport, for eternity. Does that mean nothing to you?”

“I’ve always had my doubts about heaven and hell,” Davenport said genially. “Still, if they exist, I’ll be better off in the fire, since all my friends will be there. It might even be a pleasant change after a lifetime of damp English weather.”

“Bah, you are beneath contempt!” Junius shook with rage. “I despise you and your whoring, your lying, cheating ways. I—”

The rest of the diatribe was lost forever. Davenport’s right hand shot out and wrapped around Junius’s neck, the strong fingers tight against the nape and his thumb pressing the windpipe with carefully calculated pressure.

As the vicar gasped for breath, too shocked to fight back, Davenport’s gaze locked with his opponent’s, his eyes as cold and hard as his sharply enunciated words. “I do not cheat. Neither do I lie. So far, I have never killed a vicar in my blood-drenched career, but if you persist in slandering me, I will be tempted to make an exception. Do I make myself clear?”

Junius’s horrified reaction must have been satisfactory, because Davenport released him, disgust on his face. After draining off the last of his port, he turned to Alys and said courteously, as if he hadn’t just been involved in a near-brawl, “It is time I look my leave. Thank you for a most pleasant evening. If it’s not inconvenient, I would like to meet you in your office at nine in the morning.”

At her nod he set his empty goblet down and bowed twice, first with a distinctly mocking air to the vicar, and then more deeply to Alys. As he straightened up, his light eyes caught hers for a moment, but she couldn’t interpret his remote expression. Would his anger with Junius carry over to her? She hoped not.