The Rake. Mary Jo Putney
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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.
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