Читать книгу The Rake - Mary Jo Putney - Страница 9

Chapter 3

The Despair of the Davenports groaned and shifted. After the previous night’s debauchery, the shattering jolt of nausea and wretchedness that swept through him at the slight movement was not unexpected.

He stilled, keeping his eyes tightly closed, since experience had taught him that mornings like this were best approached as slowly as possible. That is, if it was morning. His last memories were too fragmentary for him to be sure how much time had passed.

After his head stabilized, Reggie opened his eyes a fraction. The ceiling looked familiar, so he must be home. A little more concentration established that he was in the bedroom rather than the sitting room, and on his bed, which was softer and wider than the sofa.

The next question was how he had gotten here. He became aware of resonant breathing, and turned his head by infinitesimal degrees until the Honorable Julian Markham came into view. His young friend slept blissfully on the sofa, sprawled in a position that by rights should give him a sore back and neck, but probably wouldn’t.

Moving with great deliberation, Reggie pushed aside the quilt that had been laid over him. He started to lever himself upright, then gasped and fell back on the mattress. He had been prepared for the aftereffects of drinking, but not for the sharp pain that sliced through his ribs. As his abused body ached and protested, he tried to remember what the devil had happened the previous night, but without success.

Deciding it was time to face the consequences, he cautiously sat up again and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The vibration of his boots hitting the floor sent a palpable shock wave through his system. He stopped moving until his brain recovered.

After a swift inventory of damages, he decided that nothing was broken, though his ribs and right arm felt badly bruised and the knuckles of both hands were raw. He must have been in a fight. He was fully dressed, his dark blue coat and buff pantaloons crumpled in a way that would make a really fastidious valet turn in his notice. Luckily Mac Cooper was made of sterner stuff, or he wouldn’t have stayed with Reggie for so many years.

Mac proved his competence once again by choosing this moment to enter the bedroom, a tumbler of orange-colored liquid in one hand, a basin and a steaming towel in the other. Wordlessly he offered the towel. Reggie opened it and buried his face in the hot folds. The heat and moisture were invigorating.

By the time he had wiped down his face, neck, and hands, he was able to take the tumbler and down half the contents with one swallow. Mac’s morning-after remedy was one of the valet’s major talents, combining fresh fruit juice with a shot of whiskey and a few other ingredients that Reggie preferred not to think about.

He turned his head carefully a few times, relieved that it could be moved without making him sick. Then he sipped more slowly at his drink. Only when the glass was empty did he look at Mac directly. “What time is it?”

“About two in the afternoon, sir.” Though Mac’s natural accent was an incomprehensible cockney and he had the wiry physique and scars of a street fighter, it pleased him to mimic the manners and style of the most snobbish kind of valet. Actually, valeting was only part of his job. He was equally groom, butler, and footman.

Yawning, Reggie asked, “Any idea what time we got in?”

“Around five in the morning, sir.”

“I trust we didn’t disturb your slumbers too much.”

“Mr. Markham did require my assistance to get you upstairs,” Mac admitted.

Reggie dragged one hand through his dark tangled hair. “That explains why I made it as far as the bedroom.” Glancing at his friend, he saw signs of returning consciousness. “Make a pot of coffee. I imagine Julian will need some, and I could use a few cups myself.”

“Very good, sir. Will you be interested in a light luncheon as well?”

“No!” Reggie shuddered at the thought of food. “Just coffee.”

As Mac left the room, Reggie stood and removed his cravat. Someday he was going to be strangled in his sleep by one of the blasted things. He washed his face with the hot water Mac had brought, then sank into the wing chair that stood at right angles to the sofa, his legs stretched out before him. In spite of his ablutions and the change from horizontal to vertical, he still felt like death walking. He eyed Julian’s cherubic smile with disfavor as the young man’s eyes finally opened.

Julian sat up immediately. “Good morning, Reg,” he said brightly. “Wasn’t that a great evening?”

“I don’t know,” Reggie said tersely. “What happened?”

Julian smiled, undeterred by his companion’s gruffness. He was a handsome, fair-haired young man, with a charm and future fortune that made him much sought after by society hostesses with marriageable daughters. “You won five hundred pounds from Blakeford. Don’t you remember?”

The coffee arrived. After pouring a large, scalding mug and heavily sugaring it, Reggie crossed his legs and regarded his friend’s clear eyes and cheerful mien morosely. It was his own fault for going about with a man a dozen years his junior, who could bounce back from a night’s debauchery with such speed. Reggie used to be able to do the same, but not anymore.

He gulped a mouthful of coffee, swearing when it burned his tongue. “I remember going to Watier’s. Then what happened?”

“Blakeford invited a dozen of us back to his place for supper and whist. Wanted to show off his new mistress, a flashy piece named Stella.” Julian poured himself a mug of the coffee. “She took quite a fancy to you.”

Reggie frowned. It was coming back slowly. He’d gone directly from the Earl of Wargrave’s to a tavern and had drunk alone for a couple of hours. Then he’d met Julian at Watier’s, and events began to get hazy. “This Stella—a little tart with red hair and a roving eye?”

“That’s the one. She sniffed around you like a bitch in heat. Blakeford was angry enough about losing the money, but when you disappeared for half an hour and he realized Stella was gone, too, I thought he’d explode. Did she waylay you for a little side action?”

Reggie closed his eyes, letting his head fall back against the chair. “More or less.” Ordinarily he would have avoided Stella, whose sensational figure was surpassed only by her stunning vulgarity. But she had chosen her moment carefully, accosting him when he had drunk too much for good judgment, and too little to be incapacitated.

His eyes still closed, he drank more coffee as the scene came back to him. The trollop had been waiting in the hall when he returned to the card game, her hot, demanding mouth and eager little hands making it clear what she wanted. His body, which had no standards to speak of, had responded immediately. A feverish, clawing exchange had followed, with only a closed door separating them from the rest of the party. Inflamed by the knowledge that her protector was in the next room, Stella had gouged Reggie’s back through his shirt with sharp nails, her breath coming in little whimpering pants.

Thank God the card party was noisy enough to drown out her last hoarse cry. He must have been insane.

No, not insane. Drunk. Nothing unusual about that.

Hesitation in his voice, Julian broke into Reggie’s reverie. “I probably shouldn’t mention this, but you might want to be careful. Blakeford is insanely jealous of the wench. Between Stella and the money he lost, he seemed on the verge of calling you out.”

“Right. You shouldn’t mention it,” Reggie said tiredly, his eyelids at half-mast and the invisible band across his temples aching acutely. Why did it have to be Blakeford, of all people? He was a brooding, unpredictable sort, and Reggie avoided him when possible. “If Blakeford is going to issue a challenge every time that tart waves her muff at someone, he’ll have to fight every man in London.”

Julian gave a nod of acknowledgment. “After we left Blakeford’s, we went to that new gaming hell off Piccadilly.”

“We did?” Reggie’s eyes came fully open as he tried to remember that part of the evening, but he drew a complete blank. “Did anything noteworthy happen?”

“I lost a hundred pounds, and you got into a fight.”

“Wonderful,” Reggie muttered. “With whom, why, and who won?”

“Albert Hanley. Said you were cheating,” Julian said succinctly. “You won, of course.”

“Hanley said what?” Reggie jerked upright too abruptly, and his head went spinning. Swallowing bile, he slouched down again. “No wonder we fought.” In most ways Reggie had a terrible reputation, much of it richly deserved, but in sporting circles his honesty was never questioned.

“You did such a good job of putting him in his place that a challenge was unnecessary,” Julian said enthusiastically. “It was quite a mill. Hanley outweighs you by two stone, and he has good science, but he never laid a fist on you. It took only a couple of minutes for you to break his jaw. Everyone agreed he should pay for the wrecked furniture, since his accusation was quite unfounded.”

“Did Hanley agree?”

“Don’t know. With his broken jaw, we couldn’t understand a word he said.”

Reggie inspected his scraped and bruised knuckles. “If I defeated him so thoroughly, why do I feel as if a horse kicked me in the ribs?”

“Because you fell down the steps when Mac and I were hauling you upstairs,” Julian explained. “You ended by smashing into the newel post. I was worried at first, but Mac said you weren’t permanently damaged.”

“Is there anything else I should know?” Reggie asked in a dangerously gentle tone.

“Well . . .” Julian cleared his throat uncomfortably. “We saw m’father at Watier’s, and he gave you the cut direct.”

Reggie shrugged. “No need to look so guilty. He always gives me the cut direct.”

Lord Markham was convinced that Reggie was leading his heir down the road to perdition. Ironically, it was Reggie who had taught the lad how to safely navigate London’s more dangerous amusements. He’d even rescued him from an adventuress called the Wanton Widow, who had decided that Julian was the perfect answer to her financial problems.

No matter. Reggie had used his influence for Julian’s sake, not because he expected gratitude from his young friend’s father.

Julian returned to the safer topic of the fight, but Reggie stopped listening. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands as profound depression engulfed him.

The worst deeds of a disgraceful life had always been done when he was drinking, but at least he had always been aware of his actions. He had deliberately chosen to live in defiance of normal social strictures, and had willingly accepted the consequences. That had been fine, until the year before, when the memory losses had begun. With every month that passed, the lapses came more often and lasted longer.

Now he could no longer be sure what he had done or why, and that lack of control terrified him. The obvious answer was to drink less, so he had resolved to moderate his habits. But somehow his resolution always dissolved once he swallowed his first drink.

This way of life is killing you. The words were very clear in his head, spoken in a calm male voice.

It was not the first time he had heard such a warning. Once the voice had told him to beware moments before two murderous footpads had attacked. He had dodged barely in time to avoid a knife in the back. On another occasion the voice had warned not to board a friend’s yacht. Reggie had made some clumsy excuse, incurring much taunting from his companions. But a squall had blown up, and the boat sank with no survivors.

This way of life is killing you. His fingers tightened, digging into his skull, trying to erase the sick aching, the memories—and the lack of memories. He had always lived hard, courting danger and skirting the edge of acceptable behavior. In the months since the earldom of Wargrave had vanished from his grasp, he had gone wild, taking insane chances gambling and riding, drinking more than ever.

Ironically, his luck had been phenomenal. Perhaps because he hadn’t much cared what happened, he had won, and won, and won. He was completely free of debt, had more money in the bank than he’d had in years.

And what was the bloody point of it?

This way of life is killing you. The words repeated in a litany, as if expecting some response, but Reggie was too drained to answer. He was weary unto death of his whole life. Of the endless gaming and drinking, of coarse tarts like Stella, of pointless fights and ghastly mornings after like this one.

At the age of twenty-five, Julian was on the verge of outgrowing his wild oats phase, while Reggie was doing exactly the same things as when he’d first come down from university. He’d been running for sixteen years, yet was still in the same place.

The depression was black and bitter. He wished with sudden violence that someone like Blakeford or Hanley would become furious enough to put a bullet in him and end the whole exhausting business.

Why wait for someone else to do the job? He had pistols of his own.

The idea flickered seductively for a moment before he recoiled mentally. Bloody hell, was he really at such a standstill? His mind hung suspended in horror as Julian’s words sounded at a great distance.

Then the inner voice spoke once more. Strickland.

Strickland, the one place in the world that he had ever belonged. He had thought it lost forever, and then his damned honorable cousin had given it back to him. Strickland, where he had been born, and where everyone he loved had died.

It wouldn’t be home anymore—but by God, now it was his, demons and all.

There was no conscious decision. He simply opened his eyes and broke into Julian’s dissertation, saying, “I’ve changed my mind about going to Bedford for that race. Have to go to Dorset to look over my estate.”

“Your what?” Julian blinked in confusion.

“My estate, Strickland. I’ve become a man of property.” Reggie stood, not bothering to explain away the bafflement on his friend’s face.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror above the mantel. He looked much the same as usual, with the casual, damn-your-eyes elegance that was much imitated by the younger bucks. Yet inside, he felt brittle and old.

He wandered to the window, and gazed down into Molton Street. He’d had these rooms on the edge of Mayfair for all the years he’d lived in London. The place was comfortable, entirely suitable for a bachelor. But he had never thought of it as home.

Behind him Julian asked, “When will you come back to town?”

“I have no idea. Maybe I’ll stay in Dorset and become a country squire, complete with red face and a pack of hounds.”

Julian laughed, treating the statement as a joke, but Reggie half meant the words. The opinionated Dr. Johnson had said that a man who was tired of London was tired of life. Well, maybe Johnson was right; Reggie was tired of London and life both.

Perhaps there would be something at Strickland that would make life worth living. But he doubted it.

The rolling pastures and woodlands of Dorset were hauntingly familiar, though Reggie had not seen them since he was eight years old. He remembered the bleak heath of the high downs, too. In contrast to that starkness, Strickland included some of the richest agricultural land in Britain.

After deciding to leave London, he had packed and left while Julian Markham was still asking puzzled questions from the sofa. Mac would follow later with the curricle and enough clothing for an indefinite stay. Reggie preferred to ride, and to ride alone. He slept at Winchester. By early the next afternoon, he was approaching Strickland, his once and future home.

Though he had ridden hard most of the distance, he slowed his horse to a walk on the long drive that led to the house. The road was lined with three hundred sixty-six beech trees, one for every day of the year, including the extra needed for leap year. At one point there was a gap in the row. Next to the blackened fragments of a lightning-struck stump, a brave young sapling grew.

He studied the sapling, wondering who had cared enough for tradition to plant that tree. The exemplary Mr. Weston, perhaps? More likely one of the local people. The Davenports had come and gone, but the tenants who had worked this land for generations remained.

The drive curved at the end, and the house came into view all at once, without warning. He pulled up involuntarily, his eyes hungrily scanning the facade. Strickland was a manor house, midway in size between the humble cottage and the great lordly mansions. Built of the mellow Ham Hill stone that was quarried locally, it was similar to a thousand other seats of the English squirearchy.

When he was a child, the summit of his ambition had been to become master of Strickland. He’d always known that as the eldest son he would someday inherit, and his goal had been to make himself worthy of wearing his father’s mantle. He, too, would care for the land, would know every tenant’s name, and have a sweet for every child he met. He, too, would be a man greeted everywhere with respect, not fear. And, like his father, he would have a wife who glowed when her husband entered the room.

Then, in a few short, horrifying days, everything had changed. When his uncle’s secretary had come to take the orphan to Wargrave Park, Reggie had gone without question, dazed but obedient to adult authority. He’d yearned for the day when he could finally return to Strickland, until his uncle had told him in harsh, unfeeling words that the estate was not his, nor ever would be.

After that he had no longer thought of Strickland as his home. He tried not to think of Strickland at all. During the years when he’d believed he would become the next Earl of Wargrave, he had known that his boyhood home would be a minor part of his inheritance, but he never intended to live there again.

Now, in the end as in the beginning, there was only Strickland. His great expectations had vanished, and he was merely a man of good family and bad reputation, no longer young.

But for the first time in his life, he was a landowner, and in England land was the source of power and consequence. If he ever hoped to find a meaning for his existence, it must be found here. If only he weren’t so weary. . . .

His mouth tightened into a hard line when he realized that his thoughts were dangerously close to self-pity. Urging his horse forward again, he tried to recall what he knew about his mother’s family. Her maiden name had been Stanton, but apart from that and his personal memories of her, he could recall nothing.

Strange how children accept their surroundings without question. He had never guessed that the estate belonged to his mother. Her family must have been solid, prosperous country squires, but after the aristocratic Davenports had taken charge of him, he had buried all memory of the Stantons.

Strickland had been built in Tudor times, a sprawling two-story house with gables, mullioned bay windows, and bold octagonal chimneys. It faced south so that the sun fell across it all day long, while the back commanded a view of gardens, lake, and rolling countryside.

The fact that the house was typical didn’t mean that it was not beautiful.

The really shocking realization was how little had changed. The grounds were well kept, the house in good repair. Only a faint air of emptiness said that his parents or young brother and sister would not walk through the door and down the front steps.

He shivered, his hand tightening so hard that his horse whickered and tossed its head. Forcing himself to relax, he dismounted and tethered the stallion at the bottom of the stairs. He went up lightly, two steps at a time, driven by an uneasy mixture of anticipation and apprehension.

His hand paused for a moment over the heavy knocker, a brass ring in the mouth of a lion. He had admired it greatly as a child, longing for the day when he would be tall enough to reach it. He buried the memory and rapped sharply. When there was no quick response, he experimentally turned the knob. After all, he owned the place, didn’t he? He would begin as he intended to go on, and that was as master of Strickland.

The knob turned under his hand, and the massive door swung inward, admitting him to a large entry hall with carved oak wainscoting. He passed through to the main drawing room, then stopped, the hair on the back of his neck prickling. He had anticipated many things, but not that there would be virtually no changes at all.

Everything was neat, with only a slight suggestion of mustiness. The colors, the hangings, the furniture dimly visible under holland covers—all were unchanged. Faded certainly, and shabbier, but the very same pieces that had defined his world when he was a boy. Ghost memories of his parents sat at the blind-fretted mahogany card table, laughing over a game.

He turned sharply away, stalking across the room to the passage beyond. Wasn’t anyone here? There had better be, or someone had better have a damned good explanation for why the front door was open.

He circled around to the right, toward the morning room. There he found a plump woman removing covers from the furniture.

She looked up in surprise as he entered, wiping her hands quickly on her apron and bobbing a curtsy. “Mr. Davenport! You gave me a start. You made good time. We only just heard the news, and there hasn’t been time to set everything to rights.”

Reggie wondered how she knew he was coming, then decided it was logical for a new owner to inspect his property. “You have the advantage of me. You are . . .?”

She was in her forties, a rosy-cheeked country woman who was polite but hardly obsequious. “I’m Mrs. Herald. You wouldn’t remember, but I was a housemaid here when you were a lad. I was May Barlow then.” Looking him up and down, she added with approval, “You’ve grown tall, like your father.”

His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “One of the tenant farms was worked by a Herald.”

“Aye, I married Robbie Herald. We’re at Hill Farm.”

“The house is in excellent condition.” Reggie spoke absently as his eyes scanned the morning room. The proportions were pleasant, and there were large mullioned windows on two walls. His mother had always particularly liked it here.

“Aye. It was leased to a retired naval captain for a good few years. He maintained the place well enough, but never bothered making changes. It’s been vacant since about the time the old earl died. I’ve kept an eye on things, watching for leaks and dry rot so the estate carpenters could make repairs as it was needful.”

“You’ve done a good job.” Over the years, Reggie had learned the value of an appreciative word, and Mrs. Herald beamed at the compliment.

“I’m glad you think so, sir. We’ve done our best.” She hesitated a moment, then blurted out, “We’re all ever so glad to have a Stanton here again. It’s not right, the way Wargrave ignored this place for so many years. The old earl never once set foot here, just took money out and put naught back in.”

She blushed then, remembering that the old earl had been her new master’s uncle and guardian, but Reggie only said mildly, “I’m a Davenport, not a Stanton.”

“Your mother was a Stanton, that’s what counts in Dorset,” she said with a firm nod. “There have always been Stantons at Strickland.”

Her words reminded Reggie of the way a judge pronounced a sentence. After a moment’s reflection he asked, “You’ll think this a foolish question, but do I have any Stanton relations?”

“The closest would be Mr. Jeremy Stanton at Fenton Hall. He was your mother’s cousin, and he and your father were good friends. He’s getting along in years now, but a fine gentleman.” Mrs. Herald shook her head with regret. “Your mother, Miss Anne, was an only child. Pity that her branch of the family had dwindled down to just her. If there had been any nearer relations, they never would have let the earl take you away after . . .” She stopped, then decided not to continue that sentence. She finished with, “The Stantons always took care of their own.”

Perhaps that’s why they died out, Reggie thought cynically, but he kept the words unsaid in the face of Mrs. Herald’s vicarious family pride. Aloud he said, “My man will be along in a day or so with my baggage, but I came by myself.”

“Shall I be putting your things in the master bedchamber?”

A vivid image of the room flashed in front of Reggie. His parents had unfashionably shared it, sleeping together in the carved oak four-poster. It seemed wrong to sleep in their bed. “No, I’ll take the room above this one. The blue room it was called, I think.”

“Very well, sir. Would you like something to eat? The house is all at sixes and sevenses, but my sister-in-law Molly Barlow is down in the kitchen, cleaning and stocking the pantry. She could do a cold collation quick enough.”

“Later, perhaps. Now I’d rather see Mr. Weston. Do you know if he’s in the estate office, or is he out on the property somewhere?”

Mrs. Herald paused, her normal garrulity temporarily deserting her. “It’s hard to say, sir. The steward is very active. Could be most anywhere.”

“I’m told Weston is very good.”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Davenport. There isn’t a better steward anywhere,” she said with an odd, guilty expression.

Reggie eyed her curiously, wondering why mentioning Weston had such an effect. Maybe the housekeeper was having an affair with the steward? Or didn’t country folk have such vices? If they didn’t, Dorset would prove dull indeed.

He left the morning room. As he made his way through the house, he caught sight of two girls polishing wood and scrubbing floors. They stared with open curiosity, giggling bashfully and bobbing their heads when he nodded at them. An odd feeling, being lord of the manor.

The side door led to a wide cobbled yard surrounded by buildings of the same golden-gray stone as the manor house. It was all so familiar. He glanced up, and remembered the day he’d climbed the ladder left by a man repairing the roof. He’d skittered happily around on the slates, having a wonderful time, until his mother appeared and ordered him to come down right now. Having no conception of what a fall to the cobbles would do to his life expectancy, he had been surprised by her alarm, but he’d come down readily enough.

He had been obedient in those days. That was one of many things that had changed when he left Strickland.

His steps led him unerringly to the estate office on the opposite side of the yard. The door opened silently under his hand, and he stepped inside. The room seemed dim after the bright afternoon sun. Behind the desk a man stood in front of a rack of books, searching for a particular volume. The fellow didn’t hear the door open, so Reggie had time to study him. A lean build and very erect posture, garbed in comfortable country garments—a brown coat, tan breeches, and well-worn boots.

Reggie’s eyes adjusted to the light, and he realized with a shock that he was observing not a man, but a woman dressed in male clothing. His gaze ran appreciatively down her long, shapely legs even as he wondered who the devil she was. Another of the numerous Heralds, perhaps? Hard to imagine one of that conservative clan dressed so outrageously.

He cleared his throat and asked, “Do you know where Mr. Weston is?”

She jumped like a startled hare, then whirled to face him. The woman was the tallest he’d ever seen, with wide eyes and strong, regular features. A wealth of rich brown hair was coiled into a severe coronet that glowed in the afternoon sun and gave her a regal air that even surprise could not eliminate.

Now that he could see her clearly, he couldn’t imagine how he’d mistaken her for a man. Despite her rigorously masculine clothes, she was quite splendidly curved in all the right places. In fact, the male garb made her look downright provocative.

His interest quickened. Perhaps Dorset would prove more amusing than he had anticipated. The woman appeared to be in her mid-twenties and was obviously no shy virgin; her expression was forceful to a point just short of belligerence. On the other hand, she gave every evidence of being mute.

He repeated, “Do you have any idea where the steward, Mr. Weston, is?”

There was a moment of absolute silence. Then she drew a deep breath, which did fascinating things to her linen shirt, and said militantly, “I’m Weston.”