The Rake

  “I have a strong will.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” Stanton’s shrewd old eyes studied him. “But strength of will might not be enough in this case. It wasn’t for me.”

  “How did you stop if will wasn’t enough?” Reggie challenged.

  Stanton’s mouth quirked up. “You’re going to laugh at this, but the only thing that helped was prayer.”

  Ignoring his godson’s expression of distaste, he continued, “This is something I’ve told no one else, but for me the turning point came seven months after Elizabeth left. First I tried to moderate my drinking. That didn’t work. Then I tried stopping altogether. That would last a few days or weeks. Then, when I was sure my problem was under control, I would have just one drink. Next thing I knew, it would be the morning after and I had the devil’s own hangover and no memory of the night before.”

  So those terrifying memory losses were not exclusive to Reggie. “What happened then?”

  “I woke up in the drawing room one morning, lying in my own vomit, and knew that I couldn’t stop drinking. I had tried my damnedest, and I simply could not do it. I was going to lose my wife and children forever, and without them, there wasn’t much point in going on.” Lines showed around Stanton’s mouth, and Reggie realized that this was no easier for him to say than for Reggie to listen to.

  “So lying there, too sick and miserable to stand, I prayed.” The older man grimaced. “Nothing formal, mind you. Just a desperate lot of drivel asking anyone who might be out there to help me, because I couldn’t help myself.”

  Eyes distant, he absently crumbled a roll, pulling it into shreds with his thin, parchment-colored fingers. “This is hard to describe. I don’t know how long I lay there, mentally babbling, but suddenly, a ... a sense of peace came over me. There really aren’t any words for it.” He started to elaborate, then changed his mind. “After that, things were different. I didn’t have the same need to drink. Oh, I won’t say I wasn’t tempted sometimes, but it was possible to say no.”

  He leaned back in his chair, composed again. “Within a few months, I felt better than I had in years. I didn’t miss the drink at all. Then Elizabeth came home. It took time for her and the children to really believe I’d changed, but eventually it all worked out. You’ve seen the results.”

  Yes, he’d seen the results. Reggie stood and walked to the window, his thumbs hooked in the waist of his buckskin breeches, his shoulders taut. Without looking at his godfather, he said stiffly, “I’m not sure any of that is relevant to me, but I appreciate your concern. I don’t suppose it was easy to say.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” was the calm reply, “but it needed saying. Maybe, in time, it will even seem relevant.”

  Reggie turned to his host and took his leave. As he rode back to Strickland, he thought long and hard about what his godfather had said, and decided there was some good sense there. Reggie’s drinking hadn’t gotten out of hand until the last couple of years. Waiting for his uncle’s estate to be settled had been the devil of a strain. During that period he had drunk and gambled and gotten himself into the worst financial straits of his life.

  After his cousin Richard appeared to claim the estate, Reggie had deliberately thrown himself into every manner of what-the-hell-does-it-matter folly. Ironically, his gambling had prospered and his finances were repaired, but he’d acted like a damned fool, no denying it.

  Had it not been for the uncertainty and frustration over Wargrave, his drinking would never have become an issue. The solution was clear. All he need do was stop drinking for a while, both to prove that he could, and to break the habit of overindulgence. Then he could return to his normal consumption. Stanton might not have had the strength of will to control his tippling, but Reggie had.

  He thought of Stanton’s talk of prayer tolerantly. No doubt when a man was of an age to see his end approaching, it was natural to take refuge in religious superstitions. Reggie had no need of such.

  By the time he reached Strickland, he was feeling in charity with the world. His state of mind was immediately tested when he led his horse into the stable and encountered Lady Alys, about to start her daily rounds. Wearing a new bronze-colored riding habit, she was very tall, slim, and regal.

  Allie stiffened when she saw him, then inclined her head politely. “Good morning. I was about to ride over to one of the tenant farms, but I can postpone that if you wish to discuss anything now.”

  He shook his head and began unsaddling the tired chestnut. “No, carry on with what you intended. I want to discuss the improvements, but that can wait until later.”

  She raised her brows. “I thought we had settled that.”

  Her glossy brown hair was once more in a neat coronet of braids. Remembering that beautiful hair loose around her face brought Reggie a sharp stab of regret for what he had foregone. “I’ve decided Rose Hall should be rebuilt this summer, which will reduce the money available for other projects. I’ll want your opinion on what is most needful.”

  A pulse beat visibly in her throat. “I see.”

  She obviously thought he was trying to get rid of her. Well, he was, but his motives were pure. Amazingly so. Quietly he said, “I think it would be for the best.”

  “You needn’t feel guilty about last night,” she said with cool control. “You weren’t forcing me.”

  Remembering how deliciously she had responded made his voice brusque. “You don’t have to remind me. I’m quite clear on what happened. It would have been better if it hadn’t.”

  Her face paled under its unladylike tan. “Quite right,” she said, her voice clipped. She turned and led her mare from the stables, her back as erect as a grenadier.

  Reggie watched her leave with a combination of regret and irritation. Since he was being noble, he ought to at least get credit for it.

  Sobriety proved far more difficult than Reggie had expected. By the second day, thoughts of drinking were becoming an obsession. Again and again he imagined himself opening the library cabinet and pouring amber fluid into a glass. He could almost taste the exquisite tang on his tongue, feel the warmth that would glow through him after he swallowed that first mouthful.

  Several times he caught himself about to act out that vision. Then, fiercely determined, he turned away. He could, and by God would, do this.

  It was the haying season, so he spent the morning hours swinging a scythe with the laborers, finding respite in the mindless rhythms of farm work. When the luncheons of bread and cheese and ale appeared, he left to remove himself from temptation. It’s only ale, his longing mind would whisper. Not wine or spirits. Quite harmless.

  So must the serpent have whispered in Eden. But Reggie had gotten drunk on beer and ale often enough to know that only the quantity required was different from drinking spirits. If he was stopping, he must stop entirely, without self-deception.

  In his first afternoon of sobriety, Reggie visited a horse fair near Dorchester and bought four young horses with excellent potential as hunters. The next afternoon he began schooling them. It was a task that required patience and concentration, so it focused Reggie’s mind on something other than his ever-increasing need for a drink.

  Though Dorset was not first-class hunting country, there was enough variety of terrain around Strickland for training purposes. Some of the schooling was done over the countryside, and some took place in the paddock. Young William perched on the fence and watched whenever he could. The boy had the makings of a real horseman.

  Reggie also took Peter out for driving lessons. While the older boy lacked his brother’s all-encompassing fascination with horseflesh, he was bright and eager to learn. Teaching him to drive was another good distraction.

  Yet no matter how hard he worked during the day, in the evenings Reggie was intolerably restless, too tense to read, too bad-tempered to talk. During the hours he had once spent drinking, he took refuge in walking around the estate. The sun set very late at this season, and in the cool hours of waning light he became in
timately acquainted with his ancestral home. He prowled from the high, lonely downs dotted with sheep to the rich water meadows with their ripening grain, his long strides taut and impatient.

  Even walking until full dark could not subdue his tension. Invariably he would end at his private cove on the lake. There he stripped off his clothes and plunged into the water, swimming furiously until utter exhaustion made sleep possible.

  By the fourth day he was feeling so irascible that he canceled a driving lesson with Peter, knowing that he would have trouble being civil. Reggie considered taking dinner apart from his new housemates, but decided not to change the routine. So he ate with the others, saying little to avoid wounding feelings with his sharp-edged tongue. The young Spensers were too well brought up to comment on his silence, but they cast occasional puzzled glances in his direction.

  Alys did not look at him at all.

  Even Mac was wary, as if Reggie was a volcano on the verge of eruption. Only Nemesis seemed to see no difference, and, as Reggie thought with what humor he could summon, the dog was notably brainless.

  Despite his slanderous thoughts, he was glad that the collie accompanied him on his expeditions and slept on the foot of his bed.

  On the fifth day, he began wondering when it would become easier, for each day was worse than the one before. Grimly he cut hay, worked the horses, walked the estate, and swam. As he returned to the manor house, he wished without hope that tonight he might sleep soundly.

  It was after midnight when he reached his room, his body still thrumming with need in spite of his fatigue. Just one little whiskey, to help him sleep. Just one. Hadn’t he proved that he could go without? No, he hadn’t, not when the longing for drink was so powerful that it damned near blotted every other thought from his head.

  One thing Reggie had, perhaps in excess, was strength of will, though the unappreciative might call it stubbornness. Having decided to stop drinking for a time, he would not deviate from his resolution until he no longer craved alcohol. Only then would it be safe to drink again.

  Intent on his inward battle, he didn’t notice that he was not alone in the room until he was ready to climb into bed. Then the sight of a rounded female form under the covers made his heart leap. If Alys Weston was willing to go this far, not a man on earth could blame him for giving in to temptation. And making love to her was one thing that would surely distract him from his aching desire for alcohol.

  The thought had hardly formed when he realized that it wasn’t Allie. Too short, too round. Pulling down the edge of the blanket, he exposed the soft brown curls of a dozing housemaid. As he stared at the girl, trying to remember her name, her eyes opened. An expression of alarm appeared on her small, pretty face.

  Caustic with disappointment, he said, “Don’t you belong in the attic with the other maids?”

  She gulped, then said in a soft Dorsetshire accent, “I ... I thought you might like a bit of company, sir.”

  Could Mac have thought a woman might improve his temper? The cockney had never pandered before, but Reggie supposed it was possible. “Who put you up to this?”

  The girl looked even more alarmed. “No one, sir. I’ve fancied you from the time you came here, and ... and I thought you might not mind.”

  He was briefly tempted, for the chit was a pretty little thing. He would certainly have accepted her offer if he were foxed.

  But she wore a dying kitten expression that made her seem less like a lusty wench intent on pleasure than like Joan of Arc waiting for the torches. Perhaps she had come from hope of material gain. An unflattering thought. He snapped, “This is not the way to earn a better position or a higher wage. Go back to your own bed, and we’ll pretend this never happened.”

  It was not a graceful way to reject her, but even so, he did not expect her sudden tears. Exasperated, he pulled the blanket down to encourage her departure.

  She was naked. At the sight of her rosy body his resolution wavered. It had been weeks since he’d had a woman, and having Alys Weston constantly under his nose was keeping his rude male instincts at constant simmer. Then his eyes narrowed as he studied her. Admittedly the signs were not yet obvious, but Reggie was no green innocent. “You’re increasing,” he said flatly.

  The girl stared at him with horror, as if he were the devil incarnate for guessing. Then she yanked the blanket up around her shoulders, her helpless sobs worsening.

  He sighed. Obviously there was no getting rid of—Gillie, that’s what her name was—until she recovered. He donned his robe, then looked around for her clothing. Her shift and dressing gown were folded neatly on a chair.

  He handed her the shift. “Better put this on.”

  Then he turned away, taking his time rifling through his drawers for a handkerchief. By the time he gave one to the girl, she was standing by the bed in the hastily donned shift, tying her shabby robe around her. She accepted the handkerchief gratefully and buried her woebegone face in its snowy folds. Reggie sat down and waited for her to emerge from the handkerchief, curious as to why she had come.

  When Gillie’s sobs subsided to hiccups, he said with as much gentleness as he could muster, “Did you think that if you ... visited me, you could pass the child off as mine?”

  From the stark look in her pansy eyes, he had guessed correctly.

  “Didn’t you think I could count?” he asked, beginning to find some amusement in the scene. “Sit down and relax. I won’t eat you.”

  She perched nervously on the edge of the bed. The girl probably had only the vaguest understanding of procreation and gestation. Patiently he asked, “Won’t the father marry you?”

  She twisted the handkerchief in her hands, not meeting his eyes. “We’d been walking out together for ever so long, and he s-said we’d marry someday. But when I told him w-what had happened, he asked how he could be sure it was his.”

  Another sob escaped her. “The next day he told his pa he was going to Bristol to get a job as a sailor, and off he went. H-he didn’t even say good-bye.” She covered her face with her hands, shoulders shaking again.

  Reggie’s mouth tightened. He wasn’t very proud of the male sex at times like this. While he was no paragon of virtue, at least he hadn’t left a string of abandoned bastards scattered across the countryside. He sat next to Gillie on the bed, patting her shoulder comfortingly. Still sobbing, she turned and burrowed against his side. He held her until she had cried herself out.

  Finally she straightened up and wiped her eyes with the damp handkerchief. Her nose was red and her face blotched, but she still had a certain dignity as she said unevenly, “I’m very sorry, Mr. Davenport. It was bad of me to try and trick you, but I was that desperate. I didn’t know what else to do.” She swallowed hard, then said fiercely, “I won’t go to the workhouse, I won’t. I’ll have my baby in a ditch first.”

  “Is the workhouse that bad?” Reggie asked.

  She nodded and looked at her hands. He made a mental note. Magistrates administered the Poor Law, and it appeared that he should investigate local conditions. But that was for later. “Won’t your parents help you?”

  She shook her head, her tangled brown hair falling over her forehead. “They’re Methodists and ever so strict. My pa said that if I ever got myself in the family way, he’d never have me in the house again. Even my mam ...” Her voice trailed off.

  “Does Mrs. Herald know?”

  “Oh, no, Cousin May would never have hired me if she had known,” Gillie said bleakly. “When she finds out, she’ll discharge me right away.”

  “Where would you go, then?”

  “I ... I don’t know, but not the workhouse. Maybe I can walk to London and find work there.”

  Reggie frowned. The only work she would be likely to find in London would be on the streets, with all the dangers that entailed. He could send her to Chessie, but he doubted the girl had the temperament of a good prostitute. After swiftly reviewing the available choices, he said, “You can stay here. I’ll tell Mrs.
Herald not to discharge you.”

  She looked up, eyes wide with hope. “You’ll really let me stay until the baby is born? I swear, sir, you won’t even have to pay me. I’ll work as hard as I can to have a roof and food.”

  “That won’t be necessary—you’ll be paid for your labor.”

  Her eyes started to fill again. “God bless you, Mr. Davenport. I don’t know how to thank you. You can’t know what this means.” She laid a shy hand on his forearm. “If ... if there is anything I can do for you ...”

  Her meaning was obvious. Once again he was tempted, for at least she no longer looked like she was offering herself to be sacrificed. But he knew enough of human nature to realize that in her present mood, the girl was likely to fancy herself in love with the first man who was kind to her, and he didn’t need any more complications in his life.

  “Just don’t do it again,” he said crisply. “Lust is a normal part of life, but if you want to indulge in it after the baby is born, take precautions. If you don’t know an older woman who will explain, ask me and I’ll tell you what to do.”

  Gillie blushed violently, but nodded. Besides being pretty, she seemed fairly intelligent. In time she would probably find a husband. Illegitimate children were not that uncommon.

  Suddenly tired, he stood and offered her a hand up. “Off to bed now. I’ll talk to Mrs. Herald in the morning.” He scowled ferociously at her. “Make sure that none of the other maids get ideas. I might not be so tolerant next time.”

  Unintimidated by his expression, she gave him another shy smile, then slipped out the door. He pulled off his robe and climbed into bed, then snuffed the candles. At least the girl’s problems helped put his in perspective.

  Alys’s bedroom had been chosen with an eye to her monitoring night traffic. Wakeful herself, she had heard her employer come in late for the last several nights.