The Rake. Mary Jo Putney
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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 alone to run the estate as she saw fit. It had been an ideal arrangement, and she’d hoped that matters would continue unchanged indefinitely.
Her thought must have been unlucky. Alys inhaled sharply as she read the letter. Merry looked up from her embroidery questioningly. “Is something wrong?”
Alys gave a brittle smile. “I knew I should have stayed in bed this morning.”
Merry set the hanks of silk thread in her workbox and crossed to Alys’s side. “What has happened?”
Silently Alys handed the letter over. Lord Wargrave wished to inform Mr. Weston that Strickland had been transferred to his cousin, Reginald Davenport. He had no idea what his cousin’s plans for the property were. However, the earl had been most impressed by Mr. Weston’s abilities. Should matters not work out with the new owner, Wargrave would be delighted to find him another steward’s position, perhaps running Wargrave Park itself. Apologies for the inconvenience, etc., etc.
“Oh, dear,” Merry said softly. “This could complicate matters somewhat.”
“That is one of the greatest examples of ladylike understatement I have ever heard.” Alys stood and began pacing around the room in long, angry strides.
“Perhaps it will make no difference,” Merry said hopefully. “I believe I’ve read of Mr. Davenport. Isn’t he some kind of sportsman? Perhaps he’ll live in London and collect the rents and never come down here.”
“It’s one thing for Lord Wargrave never to visit when Strickland is just one of a dozen estates. But if this is the only property Reginald Davenport has, he’s bound to come down here occasionally. For the holidays. House parties for friends. Hunting. He may decide to live here part of the year.” She came to a halt in front of the fireplace and stared at the flickering yellow flames. “There is a limit to how many ailing relatives I can invent to escape from him.”
Merry frowned. “You do have a contract.”
Alys shrugged as she lifted the poker from its brass stand. “A contract isn’t much better than the will to uphold it. Davenport could make my life so miserable that I won’t want to stay.”
“Isn’t it possible that he might want to keep you on? You’ve done wonders with the property. Everyone says so.”
“Much of the hard work has been done.” Alys stabbed at the blameless hot coals with the poker. “Any reasonably competent steward could run it profitably now.”
“Mr. Davenport won’t find anyone more competent than you, or more honest, either!”
“Probably not. But that doesn’t mean he won’t discharge me anyhow.” Alys had heard of Reginald Davenport, though most of the tales were not fit for Merry’s young ears. A rake was hardly likely to have advanced ideas of a woman’s abilities.
It was so unfair! Feeling her hands curl into fists, she forced herself to relax.
Still seeking a silver lining, Merry said, “If Mr. Davenport doesn’t want you, you can work for the earl elsewhere. Wargrave Park would be quite a plum.”
“How long do you think his lordship’s offer would stand after he learned that I’m a woman?” Alys said bitterly, her hands beginning to clench again.
“Perhaps you could disguise yourself as a man,” Merry said with a twinkle. “You’re certainly tall enough.”
Alys glared, momentarily tempted to box her ward’s ears before the girl’s humor penetrated her mood. With a wry smile she said, “How long do you think I could get away with a masquerade like that?”
“Well . . .” Merry said thoughtfully, “perhaps ninety seconds? If the light was bad.”
Alys chuckled. “The light would have to be very bad indeed. Men and women simply aren’t shaped the same way. At least not after the age of twelve.”
“True, and you have a very nice shape, no matter how hard you try to disguise it.”
Alys snorted. Merry stoutly maintained that her guardian was attractive, a campaign that was more a tribute to her kind nature than her good judgment. Her comment now was intended as a distraction, but Alys refused the bait. “Even assuming that Lord Wargrave is radical enough to hire me, my supervision is needed at the pottery works. We can hardly move that to Gloucestershire. And it would be a pity to take the boys from the grammar school when they are both so happy there.”
Even Merry’s golden curls drooped a bit before she replied, “I think you are making a great many bricks out of precious little straw. Mr. Davenport may not come down here for a long time, and when he does, he might be delighted to keep you on to spare himself the work. All we can do is wait and see.”
Alys wished she could share the girl’s optimism. As she glanced at her ward, she remembered what was said about her new employer and his womanizing habits, and felt a stirring of apprehension. What rake could resist a delectable golden sylph like Meredith? The girl had good sense and morals, but she was still an innocent. No match for a cynical, amoral man of the world. It was another anxiety, and a major one.
Alys looked into the fire, her mouth tightening. As a woman alone, she had spent the last dozen years fighting convention and prejudice to build a comfortable, productive life for herself. Now, through no fault of her own, all that she had worked for was threatened.
Sight unseen, she already hated Reginald Davenport.
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