The Rake

by Mary Jo Putney

Genres: Literary Fiction

Synopsis

Known as the despair of the Davenports, Reginald is a disinherited, disgraced alcoholic who is headed for a bad end - that is, until the new Earl of Wargrave gives him one last chance at redemption by letting him take his place as the heir of Strickland, his lost ancestral estate.

Masquerading as a man in order to obtain a position as estate manager of Strickland, Lady Alys Weston came to Strickland after having fled her home, her wealth, and her title due to betrayal and despair. She vowed never to trust another man, but when the new owner appears, his dangerous masculinity threatens everything Alys holds dear, awakening a passion that she thought she would never feel again - a passion that will doom or save them both...

©1998 Mary Jo Putney (P)2017 Dreamscape Media, LLC

Release date: October 24, 2011

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 416

Sample

When two gentlemen are closely related by blood, they do not usually address each other with formality. In this case, however, the gentlemen in question were first cousins once removed, the younger had come from nowhere to inherit a title and fortune that the older had assumed would be his, and their relationship had been formally announced moments after they had come within a sword slice of killing one another.

Hence, it was not surprising that relations between the two were somewhat strained. Which is why Reginald Davenport, notorious rake, gambler, and womanizer, known in some circles as “the Despair of the Davenports,” greeted his noble cousin with a terse, “Good day, Wargrave.”

The Earl of Wargrave rose to his feet behind the massive walnut desk and offered his hand. “Good day. I’m glad you were able to come by.”

After a brief, hard handshake, Reggie took the indicated chair and stretched out his long legs. “I make it a point to obey summons from the head of the family,” he drawled. “Particularly when that person pays my allowance.”

Wargrave’s mouth tightened slightly as he sat again, a fact that pleased Reggie. Among the earl’s many irritating virtues was his calm, good nature. Equally irritating was his politeness. Rather than issue a summons, the earl left the time and place of meeting to his cousin, implying a willingness to transact family business in a tavern if that was the older man’s choice.

While giving Wargrave credit for that willingness, Reggie had no objection to calling at the family mansion in Half Moon Street to see what changes had been wrought. He had to admit, rather reluctantly, that the changes were all for the better. In his uncle’s day, this study had been a dark, poky room designed to intimidate callers. Now it was bright, airy, and quietly masculine, with leather chairs and an air of settled comfort. The new owners had good taste.

Since he could find nothing to criticize in his surroundings, Reggie turned his observant gaze to his host. Whenever they chanced to meet, he looked hopefully for signs that the new earl was running to fat, turned snobbish, decked out in green stripes and gold watch fobs, or showing other signs of decadence, arrogance, or vulgarity. Alas, he was always disappointed. Richard Davenport continued to be well dressed in a discreet and gentlemanly way, he retained his trim soldier’s figure, and he treated everyone he met, from prince to scullery maid, with the same well-bred courtesy.

Nor did he have a decent temper. Reggie had tried his best, but he was seldom able to provoke his cousin into anything more than infinitesimal signs of irritation. Sometimes it was hard to believe the blasted fellow was really a Davenport. Reggie himself was the epitome of the breed, very tall, very dark, with cool blue eyes and a long face that seemed more designed for sneers than smiles.

In contrast, his cousin was of only average height with medium brown hair, hazel eyes, and an open, pleasant countenance. However, the young earl was the best swordsman Reggie had ever seen, and Reggie had never liked him better than on the occasion when Wargrave had lost his temper and demonstrated that fact.

The earl interrupted Reggie’s musings, saying, “Your allowance was one of the reasons I wanted to talk to you.”

So he was going to cut his scapegrace cousin off with a shilling. Well, it was not unexpected. Reggie wondered what kind of position he might find to support himself if gambling proved too unreliable a source of income. Many shirttail relations of the nobility held government posts such as Warden of the Port of Rye or Postmaster of Newcastle, but nobody in his right mind would give such a post to Reggie Davenport. Even government officials had some standards.

Perhaps he could open a shooting gallery like Manton’s. Or, he thought with an inward smile, he could start charging women for his services, rather than giving them away for free. Coolly he said, “And the other reason?”

“Caroline and I are expecting a child in November.”

“Congratulations.” Reggie kept his face carefully expressionless. It was typical of Wargrave to personally transmit the news rather than let his heir find out through casual gossip. Well, it hardly came as a shock; to heir was human. Though Reggie was technically heir presumptive to the earldom, he’d always known that a healthy, happily married man eight years his junior would likely be starting a family. Politely he added, “I trust that Lady Wargrave is well?”

Wargrave’s face lit up with a smile that his cousin uncharitably described as fatuous. “She feels wonderful and is playing the piano so much that the child will probably be born with a music score in its hand.” His expression sobered. “However, that news is not the main reason I asked you to call on me.”

“Ah, yes, you were about to cut off my allowance before we got sidetracked on the subject of your progeny,” Reggie said, his voice even more drawling than before. He’d be damned if he’d grovel for money to the head of the family.

“Ending your quarterly allowance is only part of what I had in mind.” Wargrave opened a drawer and removed a sheaf of papers. “I decided it was time to make different provisions for you. As an interim measure, I had continued the allowance granted by the old earl, but it strikes me as . . .” he hesitated, searching for the right word, “as inappropriate that one adult male should be dependent on the goodwill of another.”

“It’s not that uncommon in our world,” Reggie said with elaborate unconcern. He had been surprised when Wargrave had continued the allowance after the two men had so nearly killed each other, but the earl must have felt he had a responsibility to support his heir. The prospect of a child diminished that obligation.

“I wasn’t raised in the tight little world of the ton, and I daresay I shall never understand all the underlying assumptions. In the unelevated circles in which I was raised, most men prefer to have something that is truly their own.” The earl tapped the legal papers. “Which is why I am going to sign over to you the most prosperous of the unentailed Wargrave properties. I’ve cleared the mortgage, so the property should produce about twice the allowance you’ve been receiving.”

Reggie straightened in his chair, as startled as if the earl had hit him with the brass candlestick. Having his allowance cut off would have been no surprise. This was.

Wargrave continued, “The estate’s prosperity is due largely to the steward, a man called Weston, who has been there for several years. I’ve never met him—the one time I visited, he had been called away by illness in the family—but he’s done an excellent job. His records were impeccable, and he has increased the productivity enormously. Since Weston is honest and competent, you can live in London off the rents if you don’t want to get involved with the management yourself.” His expression hardened. “Or you can sell the property, or gamble it away. Whatever you decide, this is all you will ever get from the Wargrave estate. If you have serious debts, I’ll help you settle them so you can start with a clean slate, but after this, you are entirely on your own. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly clear. You have such a gift for expression, Wargrave.” Reggie’s insolence was instinctive, an attempt to disguise his confusion. “As it happens, Lady Luck has been smiling recently, so your assistance will not be required.” Struggling to regain his balance, he asked, “Which estate are you giving me?”

“Strickland, in Dorset.”

Bloody hell, Strickland! Since Wargrave owned only two or three unentailed estates, the news was not quite a surprise, but Reggie still felt as if he had been kicked in the stomach. “Why that particular property?”

“Several reasons. First, because it would support you most comfortably. Second, I understand that you lived there as a boy, and I thought you might be attached to the place.” Wargrave bridged a quill pen between his fingers, a frown on his face. “Judging by your expression, perhaps I was wrong.”

Reggie’s face tightened. One of the many ways in which he failed to fit the ideal of a gentleman was in his too-visible emotions. A true gentleman would never show chagrin, or anger, or even amusement, as Reggie was all too prone to do when he wasn’t concentrating. He was not incapable of maintaining a properly impassive face, but too often his countenance mirrored his every feeling. As it did now, when he would rather have concealed the complex emotions that Strickland raised in him.

“There is another, far more compelling reason why I chose Strickland,” Wargrave continued. “It should have been yours in the first place.”

Reggie took a deep breath. Too many surprises were being dropped on him, and he didn’t like it one damned bit. “Why do you say it should have been mine?”

“The house and majority of the land were owned by your mother’s family, not the Davenports. As your mother’s sole heir, legally you already own the bulk of Strickland.”

“What the devil!”

“According to the family solicitor, your parents met when your maternal grandfather offered to buy a small property adjacent to Strickland,” Wargrave explained. “Your father went to Dorset to discuss the matter on his brother’s behalf, met your mother, and ended up staying. The Davenport land was added to Strickland, and your parents lived there and managed it as one estate. According to the marriage settlements, Strickland was to go to your mother’s heirs.”

Reggie swore viciously under his breath. So the old earl had deliberately and illegally withheld Strickland from his nephew—one more tactic in their long-running war.

“I had no idea, or you can be sure I would never have let the old devil get away with it,” Reggie said with barely controlled fury. During all the years his uncle had condescended to give him an allowance, that money and more should have been his by right. If the old earl had been present and alive, Reggie might have done murder. A great pity that his damned uncle was now beyond justice.

“Perhaps the old earl never separated Strickland from the rest of the properties because he assumed the title and entire estate would come to you eventually,” Wargrave said in a neutral voice. “After all, you were his heir for many years.”

Reggie said icily, “Your generous interpretation stems from the fact that you didn’t know him. I assure you that he withheld Strickland from the basest of motives. The income would have made me independent of him, and he would have hated that.”

For the same reason, perhaps, the old earl had resented his younger brother, who had married a modest heiress and found happiness living with her in Dorset. That would go some way toward explaining the old man’s later treatment of his orphaned nephew. It must have been a kind of revenge on his dead brother, who had managed to escape the Wargrave net.

Tactfully Wargrave busied himself with sharpening a quill and checking the ink in the standish. “The more I hear of the old earl, the more I can understand why my father refused to live in the same country with him.”

“Leaving England was the most intelligent thing Julius ever did,” Reggie agreed. Though he didn’t voice the thought aloud, more than once he had wondered if he should have done the same. Perhaps it would have been wiser to escape his uncle’s iron hand rather than to stay and fight the old man’s tyranny with inadequate weapons. Well, the earl had won the game by dying, and Reggie had no desire to bare any more of his feelings before the young man who had come on the scene only after the final curtain had come down.

Wargrave looked up from his desk. “Would you prefer a different estate? Strickland is the best available property, but other arrangements could be made.”

“No need. Strickland will do well enough,” Reggie said brusquely.

Apparently Wargrave did not expect courtesy from his cousin. He scribbled his name several times, sprinkled sand on the wet ink, then pushed the documents across the desk. “Just sign these, and Strickland is yours.”

Even furious, Reggie took the time to scan the papers, but all was in order. He scrawled his name across the deeds. As he signed the last one, the sound of a light footstep caused him to look up. A small, delicately blond young woman entered the study. Caroline, Lady Wargrave, had a dreamy face and an extraordinary talent for musical composition.

Both men rose as she entered, and the earl and countess exchanged a glance that gave Reggie a pang of sharp longing. He envied his cousin’s inheritance of the wealth and power of Wargrave, and even more he envied the warmth that hummed between the earl and his wife. No women had ever looked at the Despair of the Davenports like that, nor ever would.

After that brief, silent interchange with her husband, Lady Wargrave turned and offered Reggie her hand.

The last time they had met, Reggie had been very drunk and behaved very badly, and Wargrave had damned near killed him for it. In spite of his lurid reputation, terrifying shy virgins was not something Reggie made a practice of, and he felt some awkwardness as he bowed over the countess’s hand. Mustering his best charm, he straightened and said, “My felicitations on your happy news, Lady Wargrave.”

“Thank you. We are very pleased.” She smiled with quiet confidence. Marriage clearly suited her very well. “I never properly thanked you for the wedding gift you sent. Where on earth did you find one of Handel’s original music scores? Every time I look at it, I feel awe that he actually drew those notes and wrote those words.”

Reggie smiled for the first time in this unsettling visit. The young countess had written him a formal thank-you for the wedding gift, so her desire to greet him in person must mean she had forgiven his boorish behavior. Perhaps that was one less sin that he would fry for. “I came across the score years ago in a bookshop. I knew that someday I would know who it was for.”

“You could have chosen nothing that would please me more.” She started to turn away. “I’m sorry to have interrupted. I will leave you to your business.”

“I’m about to depart,” Reggie said. “Unless you had something else you wished to discuss, Wargrave?”

The earl shook his head. “No, there was nothing more.” Reggie hesitated, knowing he should thank his cousin. Not all men in the earl’s position would have the honesty to compensate for the sins of their predecessors. But Reggie was still far too angry about his uncle’s duplicity to be gracious. He gave an abrupt nod of farewell and left, barely aware of the butler, who ushered him from the house.

Outside, Reggie tossed a coin to the footman who had been walking his horses, and vaulted into his curricle. But after settling in the seat, he simply held the reins in his strong hands as the horses tossed their heads, impatient to be off.

Strickland. Bloody, bloody hell. He now owned the place that had been the site of his greatest happiness and most profound grief, and he had no idea whether he felt pleasure or dismay.

His lips tightened, and he snapped the reins over the horses, turning the carriage neatly in the street. He needed a drink.

Better yet, he needed a dozen.

Caroline Davenport drew aside the curtain and watched her husband’s cousin depart, noting the tension in the whipcord lean figure as he drove away. Dropping the curtain, she asked, “How did he react to the news?”

“Fortunately I didn’t expect gratitude, because I received none. Cousin Reggie is not a man who likes surprises. If I had simply cut off his allowance, it would have been easier for him to accept.” Richard limped to the window and put an arm around his wife’s waist. “He was also understandably furious to learn that my late, unlamented grandfather had illegally deprived him of his own estate.”

Settling herself against her husband, Caroline said, “Do you think that becoming a man of property will make a difference to him?”

Richard shrugged. “I doubt it. My grandfather must bear much of the blame for ruining him. Reggie once told me that he had wanted to go into the army, but the earl would not allow it. Instead my cousin was kept on a short leash, his debts paid but his allowance insufficient to give him any real freedom.”

“What a horrid old man your grandfather was.”

“True. But Reggie must take some of the blame himself. He’s highly intelligent and almost uncannily perceptive about people. Becoming a rake and a drunkard were not his only choices.”

Caroline heard the regret in her husband’s voice. He took his responsibilities very seriously, and the part of him that had made an exceptional army officer grieved at the waste of Reginald Davenport’s potential. More than that, Reggie was the nearest relation on the Davenport side of the family, and Richard would have liked to be on friendly terms with him. But that was an ambition unlikely to be fulfilled. “Do you think he is too old to change his way of life?”

“Reggie is thirty-seven years old and very well practiced in vice and outrageousness,” Richard said dryly. “Rakes sometimes reform, but drunkards almost never do. Lord knows, I commanded enough of them in the army. Most drank until they died of either bullets or whiskey. I expect my cousin will do the same.”

Caroline rested her head against her husband’s shoulder. Reginald Davenport had once terrified her, but today she had seen him sober and polite, and for just a moment he had revealed a quite devastating amount of charm. There was good human material there, and she understood Richard’s desire to help his difficult cousin. It was an effort likely to fail. Still . . . “Miracles do happen. Perhaps one will this time.”

“If Reggie really wants to change, I’m sure he is capable of it. But I doubt that he will try,” Richard said pessimistically. He drew his wife’s slim form more closely to his side and forced himself to put aside all thoughts of his wastrel cousin.

He had done what he could. Hard experience had taught him that there was only so much one man could do for another.

It was a bad day even before she awoke; whenever Alys had the nightmare, she was out of sorts for hours. Thank God, it came only two or three times a year.

In the nightmare she was always just outside the French doors, hearing the drawling voice ask with bored malice, “Why on earth are you going to marry a bossy Long Meg like her? Ten feet tall and all bones. Not exactly the sort to warm a man at night, and with her managing ways she’ll keep you under the cat’s paw for sure.”

After a brief pause her beloved would reply, not defending her, not mentioning the love he had eagerly proclaimed to her face. “Why, for money, what else? She’ll do well enough. Once I’m in control of her fortune, you’ll see who rules the roost.”

The words triggered the familiar nausea and the shattering pain that had driven Alys to fly from the only life she had ever known. But this morning she was in luck. Before the dream could continue to her nadir of degradation, something tickled her nose. She sneezed, a sure way of waking up when one is near the surface of sleep.

She opened her heavy lids to see a radiant nymph of dawn. The shining vision perched on the bed had guinea-gold curls, a flawless heart-shaped face, and eyes of a guileless cerulean blue. The sight of Miss Meredith Spenser, Merry to her intimates, had been known to gladden the hardest of hearts. While Alys’s heart was by no means hard, it took a great deal to gladden her at this hour of the morning. The sight of a young lady looking so ruthlessly cheerful, so early, was not enough.

Before she could do more than glare balefully at her ward, a soft furry object fluttered across her face. Alys sneezed again. “What the devil . . .” She heaved herself up in the bed. “Oh, it’s you, Attila. I warn you, cat, the next time you wake me up with a tail in my face, I’m going to find a dog to feed you to.”

Dividing her scowls impersonally between Merry and the cat, Alys pushed her heavy hair from her face. The braid she used at night had come untied as she tossed in the nightmare, and now her hair was down around her shoulders. It would require at least an extra five minutes to brush out.

“Heaven help any dog that encounters Attila.” Smiling, Merry handed over a thick mug of steaming coffee. “Here, Lady Alys, just the way you like it. Lots of cream and sugar.”

Wrapping her long fingers around the mug, Alys shoved the pillows up behind her and subsided against them as she took a grateful swig of coffee. “Ah-h-h . . .” she sighed as the hot liquid began to restore life to her component body parts. Her brain clearing, she asked, “Why did I want to get up this hour?”

Merry grinned, looking much less like a porcelain doll. “The planting begins today, and you charged me to be sure that you rose early.”

“So I did.” Alys gulped more coffee. “Thank you for waking me. Maybe I’ll keep you after all.”

Unabashed, Merry retorted, “You have to keep me, remember? You voluntarily agreed to take on me and the boys, and now you’re stuck with us. At least until you find some demented male who will take me off your hands.”

Alys laughed, a sure sign that the coffee was restoring her natural good temper. “All the males who cluster around you are surely demented, but it’s always from unrequited love. My only problem is keeping them at a safe distance.”

She gazed fondly at Merry. Her ward had the kind of petite blond beauty that Alys would have killed for when she was a girl. It would be easy to hate Merry if she weren’t such a thoroughly nice person. The girl was also intelligent and had a worldly wisdom that was downright frightening in a young lady of a mere nineteen summers. She occupied a niche in Alys’s life that partook equally of daughter and best friend, though sometimes it was hard to tell who was raising whom.

Since her guardian was showing signs of life, Merry said, “One of the farm lads left a note for you. It was addressed to Lady Alice, A-l-i-c-e, of course.”

“It’s too early in the day to apologize for how my name is spelled.” Alys yawned again. “Besides, if they did know how to spell it correctly, they would probably pronounce it wrong, What did the note say?”

“Something about chickens.”

“That would be Barlow. I’ll stop by his place today.” Alys finished the coffee, then swung her long legs over the side of the bed and fumbled for her slippers. “It’s safe to leave now, I won’t fall asleep again. Take that imbecile cat with you and feed him.”

Merry chuckled and leaned over to scoop the giant long-haired tomcat into her arms. Attila was a substantial armful, a crazy quilt of stripes and white splotches. His regal expression made it hard to remember the straggly, starving kitten Alys had pulled drowning from a stream. These days he assumed that rulership was his natural due, and peasants who didn’t provide his breakfast were beneath contempt. He yowled accusingly as Merry carried him from the bedroom.

Alys’s head sank onto her hands as she sat on the edge of the bed, her good humor fading under the lingering depression of the nightmare. After a moment she sighed and got to her feet, pulled on her worn red robe, and went to sit at the dressing table. As she combed her fingers through her hair to loosen snarls, she stared at her reflection and dispassionately catalogued her appearance in the way that she had learned was the best antidote to the dream.

Though she wasn’t the sort of woman a man would desire, at least she wasn’t really ugly. Her complexion was too tan for fashion, but her features were regular and might have been called handsome if she were a man. It was just that her face, like the rest of her, was too large. She stood five feet nine and a half inches in her stockings, and was as tall or taller than most of the men at Strickland.

Having undone the snarls, she began brushing out her hair. Back in the days when a fortune had endowed her with spurious desirability, her heavy tresses had been called chestnut. Now that she worked for a living, it was merely brown, a color of no particular distinction. Still, Alys privately thought her hair was her best feature. It had grown back even longer and thicker after the time she had furiously chopped it off, and it gleamed with auburn and gold highlights. But it was basically just brown hair.

Parting it straight down the center of her head, she started on the first of two braids. After finishing them, she wrapped both about her head in a prim coronet. In the early morning sun, her most bizarre feature was clearly visible; her right eye being gray-green while her left was a warm brown. Alys had never met anyone else with this particular trait. It seemed unfair to be both odd-eyed and freakishly tall.

The thought produced a slight smile, thereby displaying her other regrettable feature. Usually she forgot the idiotic dimples that appeared when she smiled or laughed, but seeing herself in the mirror reminded her how utterly incongruous they looked on a great horse like her. Doll-like, golden Merry was the one who should have had dimples, but perversely, she didn’t. Life was definitely not fair. If Alys could have given her dimples to her ward, she would have done so with great delight.

Scowling eliminated the dimples, so Alys scowled. Her dark, slashing eyebrows were fearsome even when she was smiling, and made her scowl truly intimidating.

Then she turned from the mirror, having completed the ritual of assuring herself that she didn’t look as dreadful as the nightmare always made her feel. A pity that today she must supervise the planting and would wear pantaloons, linen shirt, and a man’s coat. Her usual dark dresses were better at restraining the excesses of her figure, but the male clothing required by some of her work made it all too obvious that she had a normal assortment of feminine curves. Given her ridiculous size, the effect was somewhat overpowering. Not that all men were repelled. She had seen enough sidelong glances to guess that some were curious about what it would be like to bed a Long Meg. They would never find out from her.

Jamming her shapeless black hat onto her head, Alys Weston, called Lady Alys to her face and other things behind her back, thirty-year-old spinster of the parish and highly successful steward of the estate known as Strickland in the county of Dorset, stamped down the steps to begin supervising a long day of work in the fields.

The day turned out to be even more tiring than anticipated. The new seed drill Alys had bought was temperamental, to the unconcealed delight of the laborers who were only too willing to say that the fool contraption would never work. Having considerable aptitude for mechanical things, Alys got the device to perform after an hour of crawling around underneath it on the damp earth.

She spent the rest of the day covered with dirt, too busy even to stop for lunch. Merry, bless her, had sent Dorset blue vinny cheese, ale, and the local hard rolls called knobs, which Alys ate while riding to the sheep pasture to check on the health of some lambs that had been sickly.

By the end of the day, the scoffers were reluctantly conceding that the seed drill was effective. They liked it even less now that it worked. Alys was hard-pressed to keep her tongue between her teeth. It had been a continuing battle to get these taciturn males to accept her orders, and even after four years of proof that her modern methods worked, every new idea was a battle. Damn them all anyhow! she swore as she rode home, the spring sun setting and a sharp chill in the air. There wasn’t another estate in Dorset as productive, nor another landowner or steward that provided for displaced workers the way she did.

Sometimes she wondered why she bothered.

When she returned to the steward’s house, Rose Hall, Merry was embroidering demurely in the parlor and the boys had not yet returned from school. Alys took a quick bath and changed to a dark blue wool dress. Then she joined her ward for a glass of sherry and a quick glance through the post. As Merry laughed at the misadventures with the seed drill, Alys came across a letter franked by her employer, the Earl of Wargrave.

Frowning, she slit the wafer and opened the letter. Most of her communications were with the estate lawyer, Chelmsford, rather than the earl. She had never met either of them, of course. If one of those respectable gentlemen learned that the steward was female, she would surely lose her situation.

The old earl had never left his principal seat in Gloucestershire, but the new one was young, active, and conscientious. She worried that someday he might turn up unexpectedly. Luckily, on his one visit to Strickland, he had given enough warning for her to decamp with the children, leaving a message that illness in the family had called her away. She left a stern warning to everyone at Strickland not to reveal her sex.

After a week by the sea in Lyme Regis, Alys had returned to find that no one had betrayed her secret, the books had been carefully inspected and approved, and Wargrave had left a complimentary letter that included several intelligent suggestions for her consideration. The man may have spent most of his life as a soldier, but he was clearly no fool. Apart from that one visit, Wargrave had left her al