The Rake (13 page)
Authors: Mary Jo Putney
A slightly built, distinguished gentleman with silver hair and shrewd gray eyes smiled at him. “You may not remember me, Mr. Davenport, but I knew you when you were a child. I want to welcome you back to the neighborhood.”
Reggie's brows furrowed for a moment. Then an image clicked into place, followed by others. “Good God, Uncle Jerry! I'd forgotten your existence until now. How do you do, sir?” He offered his hand.
Stanton shook it heartily. “So you do remember. Of course I'm not your uncle, but”âhe thought a momentâ“cousin once removed. And your godfather.”
“Whatever.” Reggie waved his visitor into the drawing room. “It's good to see you again. Would you like some refreshment?”
“Some tea would do nicely.” Stanton glanced around the faded drawing room reminiscently as he took a chair. “I haven't been here in near thirty years now. The gentleman who rented the house was a recluse and never received visitors.”
After ringing for tea, Reggie went to pour himself some brandy from the new stock. As he did, another vivid image flashed across his mind, chilling him to the bone. He saw this very room, full of adults, dressed in black or wearing mourning bands. It had been before the funeral. Reggie had staggered down in his nightshirt, knees weak and head whirling. The coffins had been in a row by the windows. He had been near collapse when Stanton scooped him up and carried him back to his room, talking softly, keeping him company while he cried himself to sleep.
He shoved the stopper into the decanter with unnecessary force, then joined his visitor for an exchange of pleasantries. Jeremy Stanton had a sharp and well-informed mind, and it was a pleasure talking with him, but Reggie sensed that he was being weighed and judged. Measured against his father, perhaps? Or as a Stanton? Oddly he realized that the old man's opinion mattered to him.
He must have passed inspection, because after half an hour Stanton asked, “Do you intend to spend much time in the district?”
“Perhaps.” Reggie shrugged. “I'm inclined that way, but I've only just arrived.”
“We could use another magistrate,” Stanton said tentatively.
Reggie stared at him. “Good God, are you suggesting I should be a justice of the peace? I'm not qualified in the least. In fact, there are those who would say you would be setting a fox to watch the hens.”
The older man laughed. “Despite your colorful past, you are amply qualified to be a magistrate. You're a principal landowner in the county, and you come of a fine old local family. Most of what a justice does is common sense and simple fairness. I'm sure you could manage that.”
Reggie found himself at a rare loss for words, not sure whether to be touched or amused at his cousin's vote of confidence. Yet he realized that the idea of being a justice was not without appeal. Magistrates were the true local authorities, as involved with administering the Poor Law and fixing the roads as with judging lawbreakers. It might be interesting. Not ready to make a commitment, he said, “The Lord Lieutenant of Dorsetshire might not agree to me.”
“He'll agree to whomever I suggest,” Stanton said peaceably. “We're shorthanded at this end of the county, and he's been after me to find another justice for an age. I'll forward your name to him. Official confirmation should come in a few weeks.”
Arching his brows sardonically, Reggie said, “Aren't you rushing your fences?”
Most men found that expression quelling, but Stanton was unaffected. With a faint smile, he said merely, “Am I?”
Reggie opened his mouth to say something caustic, then slopped. Hadn't he been thinking it was time to make some changes in his life? Becoming a part of the establishment would certainly be a change. And he was arrogant enough to believe that he would make a capable magistrate. “No, I suppose you aren't.”
“Good.” Stanton gave a satisfied nod before adding slowly, “I'm surprised that you didn't return to Dorset earlier. I'd almost given up hope that you would.”
“You had that much interest in me?” Reggie was surprised, and moved. It had never occurred to him that anyone had cared about the departure of an eight-year-old boy.
“Of course. You are my cousin Anne's boy, your father was my friend. This is where you belong,” Stanton said, as if the statement was inarguable.
Reggie was silent as he thought about that. Perhaps he did belong here. Certainly he had belonged nowhere else. “I really don't remember much about my childhood. Nothing at all before I wasâoh, four or so. Only bits and pieces afterward.” Which was odd, now that he thought of it. In general, his memory was outstanding. But much of his early childhood seemed swathed in mists.
Stanton's eyes narrowed. “Nothing before you were four? Interesting.”
“Is there some significance to that?”
Stanton seemed about to answer, then changed his mind. “If there is, doubtless it will come back to you.” Deliberately changing the subject, he said, “I was sorry you never wrote back to me, but not surprised. You were just a lad, and there were so many changes in your life. My own boys were never good correspondents. Still aren't,” he added with a chuckle.
“Write back? I never received any letters from anyone,” Reggie said, frowning.
Stanton looked surprised. “I sent you a letter every month for a year or so, then stopped when you never replied. I wrote to Wargrave Park, care of your uncle. You never received any of them?”
Reggie swore, his language furiously fluent. “That's another mark to my guardian's account.” He explained how his uncle had deprived him of Strickland.
Stanton was shocked, and as angry as Reggie himself. “Good Lord, if I'd had any idea that Wargrave was deliberately separating you from your mother's family, from your whole background, I'd have gone to Gloucestershire and brought you home. I was your godfather, but Wargrave was much more nearly related than I, so I didn't argue when he sent for you.” He made a sharp gesture with one hand. “Your father had asked once if I would become guardian to his children if something happened to him and Anne, but he never got around to writing his will. Unfortunately.”
Startled, Reggie said, “You would have challenged Wargrave over me?”
“If I had known what was going on, of course,” Stanton said, surprised in his turn. “You're family.”
“The idea of family as helpful is new to me,” Reggie said with desert dryness.
“With Wargrave as your guardian, I'm not surprised that you have a low opinion of relatives.” Stanton shook his head sorrowfully. “I should have known there was a reason why you didn't write. You were always a considerate ladâyour father was proud of how responsible you were. I should have tried harder to keep in touch with you.”
“Don't blame yourself. Who could have expected my uncle to be so determined to isolate me?” Feeling as if he'd had enough shocks for one afternoon, Reggie stood and offered Stanton his hand. “For what it's worth, I appreciate what you tried to do. You were a busy man, with your own responsibilities and family. There's a limit to what you could be expected to do for a distant relative.”
“I should have done more,” Stanton said simply. “But it's past mending.” He stood and shook Reggie's hand with a firmness that belied his silver hair. “My wife asked if you could come to dinner Friday night. Will you be free?”
Another image clicked into place. A round, smiling face, placid in the midst of family chaos. “I'd be happy to come. I trust that Aunt Beth is well?”
“Elizabeth has the rheumatics, which sometimes make it hard for her to get around, but she's well enough otherwise. She'll be delighted to see you again. You were always a favorite of hers.” Then, with a grin, “Don't be surprised if there is a single lady or two at the dinner table.”
Reggie groaned. “Tell Aunt Beth that if that's the case, I may have a sudden attack of illness that will require me to return home instantly.”
Stanton chuckled. “Perhaps I can keep her in check this time, but in the future, you're on your own.”
The old man left Strickland with a sense of satisfaction. Through the years he had kept an eye on the doings of the notorious Reginald Davenport. Even if only half of what was said about him was true, there had been ample reason to worry. Stanton had feared that there would be no trace of the bright, good-natured lad he remembered, that vice and dissipation had corrupted what had been so promising.
But now that they had met, Stanton was sure that somewhere inside, in spite of outrageous fortune and a malicious guardian, Anne's son still existed. Oh, doubtless the boy had done things he shouldn't have, and it was likely that he suffered from his father's near-disastrous weakness. But there was honor there, and intelligence and humor. Get him involved in the community, encourage him to find a wife ...
Full of plans, Stanton cracked the whip over his placid horse. He couldn't wait to get home and tell Elizabeth the conclusions he had formed.
Â
Â
After his guest left, Reggie found it impossible to concentrate on his future plans. His godfather's visit had released a whole whirl of memories, most of them happy ones. The Stantons and Davenports had been in and out of each other's houses all the time in the old days. The youngest Stanton boy had been a particular playmate of Reggie's. James was in India now and doing very well, according to his father.
Looking back, it was obvious why Reggie had suppressed so much of his childhood. As soon as his uncle had taken him in charge, Reggie had been packed off to school. In the fierce jungle of Eton, remembering a happy past that he could never return to would have weakened him, so he had tried not to think of what he had lost. He had been all too successful. Even after the visit from Stanton, he could remember nothing from when he was very small.
His musings were interrupted by the arrival of his valet, Mac Cooper, looking dignified despite being covered with dust. “Am I glad to see you!” Reggie stood and went to the brandy decanter. Generally servants and employers didn't drink together, but the two men had an unconventional relationship. “Did you have trouble on the journey?”
“Broken axle,” Mac said laconically as he accepted a glass of brandy. Then he settled his wiry frame into a chair with a sigh of satisfaction. “Quite a place you have here. Will we be staying awhile?”
“Permanently.”
Mac's eyebrows shot up. “Not live in London?” he said incredulously.
“I'll want to go up to town sometimes, but I intend to make my headquarters here.” Reggie cleared his throat, then added gruffly, “I know you're city bred, Mac. If you can't stand the country, I'll understand.”
Mac gave him a look of intense disgust. “Did I say anything about leaving?”
“No,” Reggie admitted, “but you've only been here ten minutes.”
“If they have women and whiskey in Dorset, I'll manage.”
“There's no shortage of either.” Reggie smiled. “Including the most extraordinary female I've ever met.”
“Extraordinary in what way?” Mac asked with interest.
“Any number of ways. Her name is Alys Weston, and she happens to be my land steward.”
Mac choked on his brandy. “She's what?”
It was rare to surprise the imperturbable Mac. Reggie enjoyed giving a brief explanation of how his steward had reached her present position.
Mac shook his head in amazement. “All very well that she's good at her work, but is she pretty?”
Reggie thought of the strong, sculptured features, the tall, graceful body, the dimples he was learning to coax out. “Not pretty.” He smiled to himself. “Something a good deal more interesting than that.”
Chapter 9
Sheep washing was a communal affair, and neighboring flocks were included with Strickland's. As Reggie rode into the heathlands at midday, he could hear complaining sheep and barking dogs from two hills away.
He crested the last ridge and looked down at the stream that had been dammed to form the washing pool. On the east bank, several thousand sheep were crowded into a large fold as well-trained herd dogs paced menacingly around the stone walls. Close up, the anxious bleating was cacophonous.
Clustered by the pool were a dozen or so men, plus the unmistakable, willowy form of Alys Weston. Reggie swung off his mount and tethered it, then joined the group.
Alys interrupted her conversation with a burly shepherd when Reggie approached. “Mr. Davenport, this is Gabriel Mitford, Strickland's chief shepherd.”
Reggie stared at the broad, muscular figure, not quite believing his eyes. Then he offered his hand with a slow smile. “We're acquainted.”
Mitford nodded as he took Reggie's hand in a powerful grip. “Aye. I'll be bound I can still best you at wrestling, two falls out of three.”
Laughing, Reggie clapped him on the shoulder. “Don't count on it, Gabe. But if we still have the energy after washing a couple of thousand sheep, we can give it a try.”
“Only a damn fool would want to wash sheep,” the shepherd proclaimed, his dour voice belied by the amused gleam in his eyes.
“It's not the first time I've been called a damned fool,” Reggie agreed pleasantly.
A small chuckle escaped Alys Weston. Hastily arranging her face to sobriety, she was about to signal the workers to their places when one of the sheepdogs came galloping up with a stick and laid it at Reggie's feet. The animal was a rough-coated female, mostly black with white paws and band around the ribs, plus a white face marked with a clownish black mask.
Reggie regarded the young dog in bemusement as she wagged her tail hopefully. “What kind of sheepdog wants to play fetch?”
Gabriel Mitford waved a disgusted hand at the animal. “A bad one. Been trying to train her. Only collie I ever had who wasn't born knowing how to herd. Couldn't even work ducks.” He looked glumly at the dog, who rolled over and waved her white paws playfully in the air. “Going to have to put her down.”
As if understanding that she was under sentence of death, the collie jumped to her feet and hopefully licked Reggie's hand. He scratched the shaggy head and received a lolling-tongued grin of pleasure in return. “Any chance someone might want her for a pet? She's a friendly beast.”
“Hill folk don't want an animal that can't work.” The shepherd waved the dog away. Floppy ears drooping, the collie headed back to the milling group of herd dogs.
Alys raised her arm and signaled the men to their positions so work could begin. Reggie pulled off his coat and boots and tossed them aside before joining Gabriel Mitford and a shepherd named Simms in the icy, thigh-deep water.
Aided by dogs, a lad drifted sheep out of the fold two or three at a time. Alys and an ancient, wizened shepherd did a quick check on heads, mouths, and ears, sending animals to a smaller fold if they needed medical attention.
Sheep that passed inspection were wrestled into the water by three muscular young fellows. It was a process the sheep much resented, and they protested long and loud as they kicked and fought their fate.
Once forced into the water, they floated easily. Reggie pulled the first one over to him. Despite their staggering stupidity, he'd always liked sheep, though it had been a grave disappointment when he first hugged one as a child and learned that the soft-looking fleece was dense and dirty.
There was a trick to flipping a sheep onto its back and scrubbing its belly without being kicked by a flailing hoof. Reggie watched Gabriel for a moment before he tried it himself. The outraged ewe managed to catch him in the ribs with a kick; he'd have a ferocious bruise there later. Still, he managed to clean her filthy underside without drowning either of them. Then he turned the animal upright and squeezed the thick wool in large handfuls, forcing out most of the dirt and grease.
When he was done, he pointed his indignant victim toward the other side of the stream and released her. The fleece got a good rinse as the ewe swam across the pool.
On the far bank she scrambled out of the water and was rewarded with a handful of hay. Then she was guided into another fold to dry in the late spring sunshine. By the end of the day, most of the lambs would be weaned by the simple fact that they could no longer identify their mothers' scents.
A good washer could clean a hundred sheep an hour, and clearly Gabriel and Simms were first-rate. It took time for Reggie to pick up the technique, but soon he was working at a creditable speed.
Within minutes of starting, he was as wet as any of the sheep. He wondered with an inward chuckle if any of his London acquaintances would recognize him. No matterâhe was enjoying himself. The work was satisfyingly physical, and the resultâa clean sheepâwas something that could be immediately appreciated.
The workers settled into a steady rhythm with little conversation. Every half hour or so, a pewter tankard of hot water liberally mixed with whiskey was passed to the washers to help them keep warm in the bone-chilling water. All three of them partook liberally.
The second time the whiskey came around, Reggie accepted it from Simms and took a deep pull, clasping the tankard with both hands so it could warm his numb fingers. Handing it on to Gabriel, he asked, “What do you think of Miss Weston as a steward?”
“Does well enough.” The burly shepherd tilted his head back, draining the last of the tankard, then tossed it up on the bank. “Likes sheep.”
Coming from Gabriel, that was high praise. But then, if the shepherds didn't trust her judgment, they wouldn't let her work with their flocks.
Reggie glanced up at the bank. Alys expertly checked over a well-grown lamb, expression intent, then urged it on and reached for another. Amazing that she could do such thoroughly masculine work, yet manage to look so fetchingly female. Those pantaloons really did the most remarkable job of outlining her shapely backside ...
With a grin Reggie grasped the next bleating ewe, grateful that he was standing in cold water.
Â
Â
It was a long, hard afternoon for all concerned, but Alys still found time to be impressed at how well her employer took to sheep washing. Even when an ornery ewe reared up, planted both hooves on his chest, and shoved him backward into the water, he had emerged smiling as the rest of the work crew roared with laughter.
His willingness to do a hard job on the same terms as his employees had won him instant respect and acceptance. Had Davenport planned that, or was he genuinely indulging a childhood ambition? Either way, the results were worthwhile.
Toward the end of the afternoon, Simms, who was smaller than the other two washers and could absorb less alcohol, subsided into the water with a peaceful smile. Davenport and Mitford fished the drunken shepherd out and laid him by the small fire, where he snored contentedly. One of the young sheep wrestlers joined them in the stream to finish the last of the flock.
Traditionally the washing ended with a meal for the workers, and Alys had arranged for a small mountain of hearty fare to be brought to the site. They shared ham, boiled new potatoes, and warm bread, washed down by generous quantities of ale. By the time they finished eating, all the men were very merry.
Even Alys drank enough ale to feel a warm glow of satisfaction at a job well done. She always enjoyed the communal activities of farming, like sheep washing and harvesting, and today there was a particularly friendly spirit in the air. Doubtless the new owner was responsible for that. By this time he had made the acquaintance of every worker, and they were relaxed in his presence.
She and Davenport were the only ones who had ridden to the site. As dusk fell, they headed for their horses so they could ride back to the manor together. Her employer must have been freezing in his wet clothes, but he showed no signs of discomfort. Probably that was because of the amazing quantity of alcohol he had put away. Alys was impressed at how well he carried his drink.
The long ride home began in companionable silence. Then Alys glanced back and saw the playful, incompetent sheepdog following behind, her waving black tail held high. “Don't look now,” she said with a laugh, “but I think you've made a conquest.”
Davenport glanced back. “More likely Gabe sent the worthless beast after us to get rid of her.”
A canine smile on the clownish face, the dog loped up and fell into step by Davenport's horse. Alys barely restrained herself from commenting that Davenport was irresistible to almost any female creature. Such a remark would have been most unsuitable. But true, alas, too true.
Hastily attempting to rein in her ale-lightened spirits before she embarrassed them both, she said, “I gather you and Mitford knew each other as boys?”
“We used to swim and wrestle and stalk through the hills. He was never much of a talker, but he knew the downs and the woods like the back of his hand. Chief shepherd is perfect for him. A good life for a man with a contemplative nature.”
They finished the ride in comfortable silence. As they dismounted and led their horses into the stables, the dog stayed as close to Davenport as possible. She seemed determined to prove how well behaved she could be.
The grooms had finished for the night, leaving the stables quiet except for the shuffle of hooves and an occasional equine whicker. The scents of hay and leather and healthy horses lay soft in the air. Alys unsaddled her mount, noting again how her clothing affected the way her employer treated her. When she dressed like a lady, he treated her as one. Now that she was in boots and breeches, he let her groom and bed down her own horse. She enjoyed his casual assumption that she was competent to do what any male took for granted.
After brushing down her horse, Alys emerged from the box stall and almost fell over the collie, which made a sudden dash in front of her to rear up and plant its paws on Davenport. The dog's sudden weight jarred him backward, almost tipping him into a pile of loose hay that would be transferred to racks the next day. “Down!” he ordered.
The dog obeyed instantly, settling on her haunches and wagging her tail across the well-swept plank floor. Davenport said ruefully, “Why do I get the feeling that this beast wants to move in with me?”
Alys chuckled. “Because she undoubtedly does. Are you hard-hearted enough to turn your back on those brown eyes?” She bent to scratch behind the collie's ears. As the dog wiggled happily under her hand, she briefly considered taking it home, but discarded the notion. Attila would not like sharing the house with a dog.
Straightening, Alys realized how close she was to Davenport, only a yard away. She was struck once more by how tall he was, and how intensely masculine.
She was also close enough to see that he was much drunker than she had thought. There was a kind of haziness about him, a rakish, unsteady air that he had not shown before. He must be drunk indeed to look at her like that, with such warmth in his eyes.
She yearned to close the distance between them, to discover if that was really desire she saw on his face. Instead she started to step back, determined to put distance between them.
Then the collie, which had been sniffing curiously at the hay, struck an unexpected quarry. An enraged Attila exploded from the mound like a furry lightning bolt, claws slashing.
The dog leaped into the air with a terrified yelp, then made a mad dash for escape as the cat followed, yowling like seven demons from hell. Alys stood between the collie and the door, and the dog's solid body cannoned into her, knocking her into Davenport.
He could have steadied her easily enough if he'd been sober, but his balance was not at its best. As the hissing cat chased the dog into the night, Alys and Reggie went crashing into the hay. She landed hard on top of him, the wind knocked out of her.
She stared down, horrified by the realization that she was sprawled full-length along his lean, muscular frame. Their bodies were pressed together with shocking intimacy, and the harsh planes of his face were mere inches away.
After the first instant of surprise, his expressive lips curved into a mesmerizing smile. He was the most irresistible sight she'd ever seen in her life. She struggled to catch her breath, knowing that she must scramble up and apologize, but she was momentarily paralyzed by proximity.
Before she could lift herself away, Davenport said huskily, “What a splendid idea.” Then he slid one hand behind her head and pulled her face down for a kiss.
All thought of escape or apology fled. Alys had been kissed by Randolph when they were betrothed, but her fiancé had acted with gentlemanly restraint, not wishing to offend her delicate sensibilities. Too shy to tell him that passion would not offend her, she had been left with the frustrated feeling that there was a great deal more to kissing than she was being taught.
Other books
Why Are You So Sad? by Jason Porter
Peaches by Jodi Lynn Anderson
Confessions of a Teen Nanny 03 - Juicy Secrets by Ashton, Victoria.
The Big Dirt Nap by Rosemary Harris
Love Lies by Adele Parks
Midnight Lunch: An Erotic Story about Microwave Omelets by Robin Watergrove
Moxy Maxwell Does Not Love Stuart Little by Peggy Gifford
High Octane Heroes by Delilah Devlin (ed)
Accomplished In Murder by Dara England
The Thirteenth Earl by Evelyn Pryce
