The Rake. Mary Jo Putney
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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.
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