Chapter 10
Having spent a sleepless night mustering her courage to meet her employer without blushing, Alys found the note waiting in her office distinctly anticlimactic. In a few terse words, Davenport informed her that he would be in London for several days. In his absence, he hoped she would think further about possible improvements to the property. Also, please see that a path was cleared through the brush to the little clearing by the lake. Yours, etc., R. Davenport.
It was as if the previous night's incident in the stable had never happened. Perhaps he had already forgotten it. As she stared at his bold, slashing handwriting, Alys wished vehemently that she could forget as easily. But how could she forget, when she could still feel the shape of his body in her arms?
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Since he had been gone from London only a week, it was unlikely that the metropolis was any more crowded and noisome than when Reggie had left. Nonetheless, it seemed as if it were, as drays and peddlers and pedestrians fought for space while expressing themselves at the top of their lungs.
He arrived in the early evening. After stopping by his flat to change, he went out again to take care of business. Reggie had won five hundred pounds from George Blakeford the night before leaving London, but his opponent hadn't had the cash and had given a vowel instead. With all that he wanted to do at Strickland, Reggie could use the money. Blakeford should be at White's at this hour.
There was also the matter of Blakeford's mistress, whom Reggie had plowed that same night. If he had been attracted to the very available Stella, Reggie would have pursued her openly. But he hadn't been interested, and he felt an odd kind of guilt for having casually succumbed to the doxy's lures. Blakeford was damned possessive about his women, and Reggie preferred not to stir up trouble without a good reason. He had enough enemies without creating more unnecessarily.
Blakeford was in his usual spot at White's, making inroads on a bottle of port, so Reggie went over. “Mind if I join you?”
Blakeford nodded without enthusiasm, but did not look overly distressed at the company. Apparently Stella had the sense not to taunt her protector with her infidelities.
Reggie sat down opposite and signaled for more wine. Though they moved in the same circles, he and the other man were not really friends. Blakeford was tall and burly, a good boxer and heavy gambler with a face whose color showed his homage to port. He seemed a typical man about town, but Reggie had always sensed a dark, unpleasant side to Blakeford and preferred to keep his distance.
Unfortunately, a certain amount of socializing could not be avoided under the circumstances. Crossing his long legs casually, Reggie said, “I've been out of town for a few days and just got back. Would it be convenient ... ?” The question hung in the air.
Blakeford nodded. “Lady Luck has been with me. Have the vowel on you?”
Reggie produced the note and exchanged it for a handful of bills. Blakeford's mood improved when he challenged Reggie to flip a coin for fifty pounds and Blakeford won. Reggie didn't mind. Tossing coins was a fool's way to gamble, but fifty pounds was not a bad tithe to pay for goodwill.
Good cheer abounding, they ordered another bottle of port while Blakeford recounted the news of the last week. Reggie carefully suppressed any indications of boredom. After he downed another bottle of port, perhaps knowing who had won or lost at whist would sound more interesting.
As Blakeford broached the third bottle, he remarked, “I never really had a chance to mention it before, but I was sorry when you were cut out of inheriting Wargrave. It must be hell seeing some upstart enjoying what should have been yours.”
Reggie shrugged. That was old news by now. “I was only a nephew, and always knew I might be superseded.”
“You're more philosophical than I.” Blakeford grimaced, his heavy face sour. “I've been heir presumptive to Durweston for the last dozen years. I wouldn't wish the uncertainty on anyone.”
Reggie's lips formed a silent whistle. “You're heir to the Duke of Durweston? That's a prize indeed.”
He searched his memory for information about the duke, but with little success. Durweston was an elderly widower who lived in northern England, seldom coming to London. And when he did, he didn't move in the same circles as Reggie. “Are you concerned about Durweston marrying and getting a son, or is this another case of a missing heir, as with Wargrave?”
“The Duke of Durweston's only child ran away from home at eighteen and hasn't been heard from since.” Blakeford shook his head in disgust. “Surely dead by now, though Durweston refuses to admit it.”
“I've never met the duke, but I've heard him called a stiff-rumped old Croesus,” Reggie remarked.
“To put it charitably.” Blakeford look a deep swig of port, his face brooding. “The old boy hates knowing everything will come to me. I'm only a second cousin, but there's no one closer, so he'll damn' well have to make the best of it.”
Reggie felt a surge of unexpected sympathy for Blakeford. “It's a bad business, waiting for some old autocrat to die.”
It was more than a bad business; it was a postponement of real life, as Reggie knew to his cost. He sipped his port, then offered what consolation he could. “Granted, being superseded was a shock at first, but I didn't come out badly. My cousin Wargrave just signed over an estate to me as a sort of compensation. If the missing Durweston heir turns up, perhaps he'll be equally fair to you.”
“No joy there. My cousin and I never got on. Besides, what is one paltry estate compared to Durweston?” Blakeford's face twisted into an ugly scowl for an instant before he said with determined civility, “Hadn't heard that you had come into property. Tell me about it.”
“The estate is called Strickland. It's between Shaftesbury and Dorchester. About three thousand acres, and it's been very well managed.”
“That's unusual for an estate that hasn't had an owner in residence,” the other man said idly.
“Strickland has been blessed with a first-class steward.” Reggie found himself smiling. “A female, and a most redoubtable one. An odd-eyed reformer who's nearly as tall as I am.”
“You don't say!” Blakeford had been about to pour more port, but his hand stopped in mid-gesture. “What do you mean by odd-eyed?”
“One eye is brown, the other gray,” Reggie explained. “Very striking.”
“I knew a woman with eyes like that once,” Blakeford said slowly. “What's her name?”
“Alys Weston.”
Blakeford resumed pouring the port, his hand not quite steady. “The one I knew was called Annie. Short and round and sassy. I can't imagine her as a steward, but she had other talents,” he added with a broad wink.
Something was not quite right about the other man's manner, but Reggie shrugged the thought off. Probably Blakeford had been as obsessed with his Annie as he now was with his Stella. Some men were weak that way.
His thoughts were interrupted by a familiar voice.
“Reggie! When did you get back to town?” Julian Markham's handsome young face shone with pleasure as he came up to them.
As Reggie stood and offered a handshake and a smile, Julian continued, “Have you dined yet? No? Then come and explain what took you out of London so quickly.” Turning, he added, “Care to join us, Blakeford?”
Blakeford shook his head and rose to his feet. “No, I' m expected elsewhere. Good evening to you.”
As he stared sightlessly at the other men's departing backs, Blakeford's mind was dominated by one horrific thought. The bitch was alive; there couldn't be another woman in England who fit that description.
Who would have believed it possible, after so many years?
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Spurning the dining room at White's, Reggie and Julian Markham went to a nearby tavern renowned for its roast beef. As they settled down at a corner table, Julian commented, “I'm glad Blakeford couldn't come. He always seems angry about something. Makes it dashed difficult to relax.”
After tearing his appreciative gaze from the round backside of the barmaid who had taken their dinner order, Reggie said, “I know what you mean, but now I understand why he acts like a bear with a sore ear. It must be a confounded nuisance wondering if the missing heir to the Duke of Durweston is going to reappear and cut him out.”
“That's bad enough,” Julian agreed, “but I suspect that what makes it worse is that the heir is female.”
“Good God, surely you're joking. Since when can a woman become a duchess in her own right? Even with baronies, that's rare,” Reggie said, startled but intrigued.
Julian wrinkled his brow in thought. “I have a great-aunt who loves prosing on about such things. As I recall, the case was similar to that of Marlborough. The title was originally granted to a military hero with no surviving sons. However, he had daughters, so the patent of nobility specified that the title could pass through his eldest daughter. In the case of Durweston, there's the added wrinkle than an incumbent duke has the option of willing the title to the nearest male heir if he doesn't want his daughter to inherit. However, even if the missing heir is alive, I'm sure Durweston would pass over her, so Blakeford is worrying needlessly.”
“How bizarre. There can't be another patent of nobility in England written that way,” Reggie observed. “Why do you say that Durweston would consider his daughter unworthy even if she is still alive?”
Julian grinned. “My great-aunt loves scandals even more than genealogy. Apparently Durweston's daughter was betrothed to some thoroughly appropriate fellowâthe Marquess of Kinross's younger son, I believe. But instead of marrying him, she eloped with her groom. If Durweston wasn't such a tough old devil, the shock would have killed him. He publicly disowned her, and not a word has ever been heard of the wench from that day to this. My aunt's theory was that she died in childbirth, and the servant she married was afraid to inform his noble father-in-law.”
“That sounds likely,” Reggie agreed.
Their dinners arrived then, and both men tucked into the beef and boiled potatoes. After they had finished and begun on their port, Reggie told his interested friend about Strickland, but the earlier discussion stayed on his mind.
When the conversation slowed, he said thoughtfully, “Primogeniture really is an iniquitous system. I suppose in feudal times it made sense to pass the entire property to a single heir, because concentrating the power helped everyone survive. But now it means younger sons being raised in a luxury they will never be able to afford when they're grown, so they go into the church or the army or the government and spend the rest of their days resenting being poor relations.”
“And heirs kick their heels, powerless to do anything but drink, gamble, and wait for their fathers to die.” There was rare bitterness in Julian's voice.
Reggie said sympathetically, “Does that mean your father turned down your proposal for managing the estate at Moreton?”
Julian scowled. “I was so sure that he would agree. I had it all worked out, the crop plan, the cost of cattle to improve the herd, income forecasts ...” He broke off with a sheepish smile. “Of course you know that, since you were the one who spent weeks helping me develop the proposal.” He shook his head in exasperation, a lock of brown hair falling loose across his brow, “It simply doesn't make any sense. I could double the estate's income, and he would also save the cost of keeping me here in London.”
Ever since coming down from Oxford, Julian had been trying to persuade his father to let his heir assume some responsibility for the family fortunes. Lord Markham had steadfastly refused to yield a single shred of power. At the same time he complained that Julian was an extravagant wastrel, intent on destroying the family fortunes. If it would have helped, Reggie would have given his lordship a sharp lecture on how he was mishandling his heir, but Markham would never listen to a man whom he thought was corrupting his son.
Though Julian was fond of his father despite their differences, if the older man continued to be so pigheaded it would end with the son praying for the father's death. Having lost his own father so early, Reggie hated to see that. Unfortunately, he could think of no way to help.
Keeping his gloomy thoughts to himself, he topped up both goblets with port. “It isn't easy for a man who is aging to see himself supplanted by a young one in the prime of life, even when the younger one is his son. Perhaps especially when it is his son.”
“But I don't want to supplant my father. I just want him to treat me like an adult, not a schoolboy.” Julian sighed and leaned back against the oak settle. “Do you suppose if I married, he would decide that I was ready for responsibility?”
“Perhaps, though I wouldn't stake serious money on it.” On impulse Reggie suggested, “Come to Strickland for a visit. If you're in the market for a leg-shackle, Dorset has its share of pretty girls.”