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 this moment to enter the bedroom, a tumbler of orange-colored liquid in one hand, a basin and a steaming towel in the other. Wordlessly he offered the towel. Reggie opened it and buried his face in the hot folds. The heat and moisture were invigorating.
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.”<
br />
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.
No matter. Reggie had used his influence for Julian’s sake, not because he expected gratitude from his young friend’s father.
Julian returned to the safer topic of the fight, but Reggie stopped listening. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands as profound depression engulfed him.
The worst deeds of a disgraceful life had always been done when he was drinking, but at least he had always been aware of his actions. He had deliberately chosen to live in defiance of normal social strictures, and had willingly accepted the consequences. That had been fine, until the year before, when the memory losses had begun. With every month that passed, the lapses came more often and lasted longer.
Now he could no longer be sure what he had done or why, and that lack of control terrified him. The obvious answer was to drink less, so he had resolved to moderate his habits. But somehow his resolution always dissolved once he swallowed his first drink.
This way of life is killing you. The words were very clear in his head, spoken in a calm male voice.
It was not the first time he had heard such a warning. Once the voice had told him to beware moments before two murderous footpads had attacked. He had dodged barely in time to avoid a knife in the back. On another occasion the voice had warned not to board a friend’s yacht. Reggie had made some clumsy excuse, incurring much taunting from his companions. But a squall had blown up, and the boat sank with no survivors.
This way of life is killing you. His fingers tightened, digging into his skull, trying to erase the sick aching, the memories—and the lack of memories. He had always lived hard, courting danger and skirting the edge of acceptable behavior. In the months since the earldom of Wargrave had vanished from his grasp, he had gone wild, taking insane chances gambling and riding, drinking more than ever.
Ironically, his luck had been phenomenal. Perhaps because he hadn’t much cared what happened, he had won, and won, and won. He was completely free of debt, had more money in the bank than he’d had in years.
And what was the bloody point of it?
This way of life is killing you. The words repeated in a litany, as if expecting some response, but Reggie was too drained to answer. He was weary unto death of his whole life. Of the endless gaming and drinking, of coarse tarts like Stella, of pointless fights and ghastly mornings after like this one.
At the age of twenty-five, Julian was on the verge of outgrowing his wild oats phase, while Reggie was doing exactly the same things as when he’d first come down from university. He’d been running for sixteen years, yet was still in the same place.
The depression was black and bitter. He wished with sudden violence that someone like Blakeford or Hanley would become furious enough to put a bullet in him and end the whole exhausting business.
Why wait for someone else to do the job? He had pistols of his own.
The idea flickered seductively for a moment before he recoiled mentally. Bloody hell, was he really at such a standstill? His mind hung suspended in horror as Julian’s words sounded at a great distance.
Then the inner voice spoke once more. Strickland.
Strickland, the one place in the world that he had ever belonged. He had thought it lost forever, and then his damned honorable cousin had given it back to him. Strickland, where he had been born, and where everyone he loved had died.
It wouldn’t be home anymore—but by God, now it was his, demons and all.
There was no conscious decision. He simply opened his eyes and broke into Julian’s dissertation, saying, “I’ve changed my mind about going to Bedford for that race. Have to go to Dorset to look over my estate.”
“Your what?” Julian blinked in confusion.
“My estate, Strickland. I’ve become a man of property.” Reggie stood, not bothering to explain away the bafflement on his friend’s face.
He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror above the mantel. He looked much the same as usual, with the casual, damn-your-eyes elegance that was much imitated by the younger bucks. Yet inside, he felt brittle and old.
He wandered to the window, and gazed down into Molton Street. He’d had these rooms on the edge of Mayfair for all the years he’d lived in London. The place was comfortable, entirely suitable for a bachelor. But he had never thought of it as home.
Behind him Julian asked, “When will you come back to town?”
“I have no idea. Maybe I’ll stay in Dorset and become a country squire, complete with red face and a pack of hounds.”
Julian laughed, treating the statement as a joke, but Reggie half meant the words. The opinionated Dr. Johnson had said that a man who was tired of London was tired of life. Well, maybe Johnson was right; Reggie was tired of London and life both.
Perhaps there would be something at Strickland that would make life worth living. But he doubted it.
The rolling pastures and woodlands of Dorset were hauntingly familiar, though Reggie had not seen them since he was eight years old. He remembered the bleak heath of the high downs, too. In contrast to that starkness, Strickland included some of the richest agricultural land in Britain.
After deciding to leave London, he had packed and left while Julian Markham was still asking puzzled questions from the sofa. Mac would follow later with the curricle and enough clothing for an indefinite stay. Reggie preferred to ride, and to ride alone. He slept at Winchester. By early the next afternoon, he was approaching Strickland, his once and future home.
Though he had ridden hard most of the distance, he slowed his horse to a walk on the long drive that led to the house. The road was lined with three hundred sixty-six beech trees, one for every day of the year, including the extra nee
ded for leap year. At one point there was a gap in the row. Next to the blackened fragments of a lightning-struck stump, a brave young sapling grew.
He studied the sapling, wondering who had cared enough for tradition to plant that tree. The exemplary Mr. Weston, perhaps? More likely one of the local people. The Davenports had come and gone, but the tenants who had worked this land for generations remained.
The drive curved at the end, and the house came into view all at once, without warning. He pulled up involuntarily, his eyes hungrily scanning the facade. Strickland was a manor house, midway in size between the humble cottage and the great lordly mansions. Built of the mellow Ham Hill stone that was quarried locally, it was similar to a thousand other seats of the English squirearchy.
When he was a child, the summit of his ambition had been to become master of Strickland. He’d always known that as the eldest son he would someday inherit, and his goal had been to make himself worthy of wearing his father’s mantle. He, too, would care for the land, would know every tenant’s name, and have a sweet for every child he met. He, too, would be a man greeted everywhere with respect, not fear. And, like his father, he would have a wife who glowed when her husband entered the room.
Then, in a few short, horrifying days, everything had changed. When his uncle’s secretary had come to take the orphan to Wargrave Park, Reggie had gone without question, dazed but obedient to adult authority. He’d yearned for the day when he could finally return to Strickland, until his uncle had told him in harsh, unfeeling words that the estate was not his, nor ever would be.
After that he had no longer thought of Strickland as his home. He tried not to think of Strickland at all. During the years when he’d believed he would become the next Earl of Wargrave, he had known that his boyhood home would be a minor part of his inheritance, but he never intended to live there again.
Now, in the end as in the beginning, there was only Strickland. His great expectations had vanished, and he was merely a man of good family and bad reputation, no longer young.