A pity that the fire had failed. Though he had racked his brain, he could think of nothing else that would appear so much like an accident. A second fire would be too suspicious. Besides, fire had proved to be an inefficient method for killing.
He was finding it surprisingly difficult to reach someone who spent virtually all her time on an estate where everyone knew her, and where strangers stood out like red flags. What made it even harder was Blakeford's determination that both Alys Weston and Reggie Davenport must be destroyed.
He eventually realized that he would have to arrange an ambush, the sort of thing that could be attributed to a roving band of cutthroats. There were plenty of those since the war had ended and thousands of soldiers had been turned off to starve. Still, it was taking time to find men for the task. They couldn't be local, and they mustn't be connected to Blakeford.
But he had already found two desperate men who would do anything for money, one of them a former army sharpshooter. When he had located two or three more, all he would need was an event that would lure his two victims away from the estate. It might take weeks or months, but he was prepared to wait as long as necessary to ensure that there would be no escape.
For now, he would contemplate the sweetness of his victory, and of his revenge.
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Alys entered her bedroom, and almost tripped over the housemaid, Gillie, who was cleaning the room. The girl bobbed her head. “Excuse me, miss, I'll leave.”
“No need. I'm just here to change into a cooler shirt.” Alys went to her dresser and opened a drawer. “It's turned warmer than I expected. Rain coming, I think.”
She pulled out a fresh shirt, and turned just in time to see Gillie sway and drop Alys's china washbasin, one of the pottery's prettiest products. The maid's face had a distinctly greenish cast.
Alarmed, Alys caught the girl's arm. “Sit down and put your head between your knees before you faint.” Gillie dizzily obeyed. Luckily the water-filled pitcher was still intact, so Alys wet a towel and took it to Gillie after ringing for the housekeeper.
After having cool water patted on her face and throat, the girl's color improved. “Thank you, Lady Alys, I'm ever so sorry,” she said feebly as she straightened in her chair. “I'll clean up the mess right now.”
“Sit a little longer,” Alys ordered. “In this heat it's easy to overdo.”
Gillie smiled crookedly. “'Tis nought to do with the heat, miss.”
Before the conversation could progress further, the housekeeper, May Herald, entered. Taking in the situation at a glance, she said, “Lie down for the rest of the afternoon, Gillie. You should take better care of yourself.”
“I want to do as much as I can, ma'am,” the maid said, her pretty chin lifting with a touch of stubbornness.
“I know, but don't be a fool, girl. Take advantage of how lucky you are,” Mrs. Herald scolded. “Now, off with you.”
With a shy bob of her head to Alys, Gillie stood and carefully made her way out.
Alys frowned after the maid closed the door. “Mrs. Herald, is that child increasing?”
“Aye, haven't you heard?” The housekeeper bent and picked up fragments of the broken basin. “Mind, I don't approve in the least, but it's to Mr. Davenport's credit that he didn't just turn her out. Most gentlemen couldn't care less what happens to foolish wenches like that one.” Straightening, she added, “I'll send a girl up to finish the cleaning later this afternoon.” Then she bustled out.
Alys was left feeling as if she had been punched in the stomach. So Gillie was the maid she had seen sneaking away from Davenport's bedroom, and she was carrying her master's by-blow. Stupid of Alys to be surprisedâbabies were one of the natural consequences of sex. Anyone who worked on a farm knew that. There was no reason on earth that Alys should feel betrayed.
But what did reason have to do with it? Her mind and fingers numb, she took off her sweat-marked shirt and donned the fresh one. She must compose herself before she went out, or anyone who saw her would know something was wrong.
She sat on the edge of the bed, staring sightlessly ahead and trying to understand why she felt such hurt. And then she knew.
Feeling too fragile to sit upright, she lay back on the bed, her eyes still blindly open. So she was in love with Reggie, with all his careless charm and indisputable weaknesses. Amazing how long she had been able to conceal that fact from herself.
It had been less humiliating to pretend he was merely a convenient object of her fantasies. Yes, he aroused her senses as no other man had, but he had also treated her as an equal. He had respected her judgment, listened to her ideas, teased and stimulated her until long-buried parts of her personality had come to life. He had paid her the rare compliment of treating her as a friend.
What a pathetic picture she presented, the aging spinster for whom friendship was not enough! Her most profound wish was to see a flawed, cynical man magically transformed into Prince Charming. She wanted him to swear love eternal, beg for her hand and heart, and never look at another woman.
Instead he had a pregnant mistress under his roof, and had only ever noticed that Alys was a female when he was drunk. She sat upright, trying to break the despairing circle of her thoughts.
Pride came to her rescue. She could accept being thought mannish and eccentric, but she'd be damned if she would let anyone think she was patheticâleast of all Reggie. He needed a friend far more than he needed another mistress, and because she loved him, she would continue to offer friendship.
Friendship was better than nothing. It was also much more difficult.
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The servants' grapevine being what it was, Mac Cooper swiftly learned that Gillie was feeling poorly. Not being busy at the moment, he went to the garden and picked a handful of flowers, then carried them up to the attic in a vase.
He'd never seen Gillie's little room before, and he was glad to find that it had a window that opened and let a bit of breeze in. She was lying in her narrow bed with her eyes closed and her soft brown hair in limp tangles. Mac studied her face as he put the vase on the dresser. Then quietly he turned to go.
Before he could leave, Gillie's eyes fluttered open. Mac ached to smooth away the tired lines in her face. But it was still too soon. Soothingly he said, “Don't worry, I just brought some flowers. You go back to sleep.”
“I wasn't really sleeping.” She looked at the flowers, pleased surprise in her brown eyes. “Thanks ever so, Mr. Cooper. No one ever brought me flowers before.”
He shuffled his feet uncomfortably. “'Tis nothing.”
“Yes, it is.” Her gaze shifted to his face. “At first when you asked me to go walking and gave me little presents, I thought you wanted to tumble me, but you've never even tried.” Her mouth twisted bleakly. “Half the other men on the estate have. They all know what kind of girl I am.”
He had been waiting for a chance like this. He turned the one wooden chair that the room boasted and straddled the seat, crossing his arms on the back. “You're wrong. They don't know the kind of girl you are. I do. That's why I haven't tried anything.”
“I don't understand,” she said in her soft Dorset accent.
He frowned. “One mistake doesn't mean you're a short-heeled wench. I expect you were in love with the fellow. A pity he was too much of a fool to appreciate it.”
Her eyes closed, and tears seeped from under the lids. She said apologetically, “I'm sorry, I seem to cry all the time now.” She opened her eyes again, the thick lashes clumped from her tears. “Why are you so nice to me?”
He hesitated, not sure how to answer. “I like you,” he said simply. “And”âthis was much harder to sayâ“I've been thinking it might be time I found me a wife.”
The brown pansy eyes widened. “You ... you want to marry me?”
That much surprise was a little insulting. He said stiffly, “Is it such a ridiculous idea? I'm not so bad a bargain.”
Seeing his reaction, she said quickly, “Oh, no, that's not what I meant. 'Tis that, well, you're a London gent, and I'm just a country girl. And you're the master's man, and I'm only a housemaid. A
pregnant
housemaid. Why would you want to marry me? You can do ever so much better.”
He hadn't analyzed even to himself the complex blend of tenderness, desire, and protectiveness she roused in him. Choosing his words carefully, he said, “You're a pretty lass, with a good heart and a good mind. I noticed you right from the beginning. And ... well, you need a man, I think.” As her grave eyes regarded him, he added clumsily, “But I wouldn't want you to marry me only because you needed a husband.”
His vulnerability touched her. Until now Gillie had seen him as a rather grand London gentleman, far above her touch, who had singled her out for reasons she hadn't understood. Now she looked at him simply as a man, and liked what she saw. He really wasn't old, no more than thirty. Wiry rather than muscular, but she didn't mind that at all. And he liked her.
Smiling shyly, she said, “I wouldn't marry just for a husband.”
No more was said on the topic, but when Mac took his leave, he thought they understood each other tolerably well. And when he brushed a light kiss on her lips, she kissed him back.
Chapter 20
That night Reggie went through the motions of dinner with his surrogate family. He played backgammon with William, who had an unnatural talent for the game, and admired Merry's watercolors of how the drawing room would look after redecoration. But all evening he felt as if he were behind a wall of glass, removed from what the others were saying and doing.
Reality was a demon on his shoulder, whispering that sobriety was a dubious goal, hardly worth the effort it was causing him. All men drank, and Reggie had always held his liquor better than most. What, after all, had he done that was so serious, except be tempted to thrash a brat who had seriously misbehaved?
He fought that demon, and another that whispered that he was doomed to fail, so why stretch his failure out any longer? What made him think that he could ever succeed at anything? What had he ever achieved except passing successes at trivial pursuits like cards and racing? Even if he did succeed at sobriety, what would be the point?
He had been fighting the demons for days, but they grew stronger by the hour. In his heart he knew that it was only a matter of time until he slid off the edge of the roof and fell into infinite space. But he wasn't ready to let go yet.
The tea tray came and went, and his companions prepared to retire for the night. His voice amazingly nonchalant to his own ears, he asked, “Allie, would you care for a game of chess? It's early still.”
He had assumed she would accept, for she always had in the past. But this time she hesitated, then said, “Not tonight, Reggie. I've a touch of the headache.”
Oh, God, she couldn't say no. But she did. As he watched her graceful figure leave the room, he knew that he had reached the edge of the roof, and the precipice yawned evilly beneath him.
Shaking with suppressed violence, he went to the library and read the pamphlet on ardent spirits again. So must his father have read and reread itâthe edges of the pages were frayed from handling.
His father had stopped drinking, and so had Jeremy Stanton. If they could, so could he. He had proved his will over and overâin his school days, whenever he had set out to master a new skill, in his endless subterranean struggles with his uncle.
As he crossed to the French doors to go outside, he could feel the bottles in the liquor cabinet as vividly as if they were a bonfire. White heat calling him to be consumed in the flames.
He stopped with one hand on the doorknob, his forehead sheening with sweat and his body flat-out refusing to obey his will. He had deliberately left the liquor cabinet stocked, knowing that for the rest of his life he would be surrounded by drinkers and drinking. Perhaps ... perhaps he had been asking too much of himself.
He had to get out
now,
before it was too late, before the insatiable hunger within him won.
Can't you stop for the next hour? If that is too long, then for the next minute?
His hand tightened on the knob, his knuckles whitening as the force of his grip numbed his fingers.
Why bother? What are you trying to prove? And to whom?
His will broke.
In a few convulsive movements he crossed the room and yanked open the door of the liquor cabinet. Then he grabbed the nearest bottle and wrenched out the cork.
And as a chorus of internal voices deafened him with their cries of triumph or condemnation, he took the drink he had sworn he would not take.
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Alys prepared for bed slowly, her fingers abstracted as she unbraided and brushed her hair. She should have stayed downstairs and played chess with Reggie. For all his cool air of control, she knew how difficult the last fortnight had been for him.
She had vowed to be a friend, yet the memory of Gillie, his pregnant mistress, was too fresh. If they had played chess, she would have wondered compulsively if he was still sleeping with the girl, or how many other bastards he'd fathered. Tomorrow she would be able to suppress such thoughts, but tonight her irrational hurt was still too raw.
Frowning, she plaited her hair into a single braid. She shouldn't be hereâshe should be downstairs. It was wrong to leave Reggie alone when he was in such straits.
She looked at her bed, torn between the fatigue of the day and a growing sense of anxiety.
Something was wrong.
With an intuition too strong to be denied, she abandoned reason and left her chamber, her steps swift and light on the steps as she made her way through the softly lit house to the library.
The words she had been about to utter died on her lips when she opened the library door and saw Reggie. He stood by the liquor cabinet on the far side of the room, a half-empty bottle in one hand, pain and defeat on his face.
His head jerked up when the door opened. Their gazes locked, his bleak beyond words, hers horrified. There was nothing to say, nothing that could be said.
Alys wanted to cry, or scream with rage. Encourage him not to give up, or rail at him that drinking would kill him and she could not bear to think of him dead.
She did none of those things. After an anguished moment that stretched to near-infinity, she whirled and raced from the library, unable to bear the sight of what he was doing to himself.
Reggie watched her go, stricken to the heart by the expression on her face. Allie had believed in him, had helped him in every way possible, and now she saw him for what he was.
There was not yet enough alcohol in his system to blot out the image of her face, so he raised the bottle in his hand and drank as deeply as he could. He was a craven, a weakling, and a fool, and what could be more appropriate than proving it?
But the spirits he drank inflamed as well as soothed; in his hand was not surcease but madness. He stared at the bottle and whispered, “No.”
Gripped by despairing fury, he hurled the bottle into the empty fireplace. It shattered against the bricks into tinkling notes and glittering shards.
“No!” It was a scream of desperation, a repudiation of the pain he had experienced and the pain he had given to others.
“No!”
Blindly, hopelessly, beyond control, he seized another bottle and sent it flying after the first with the full strength of his powerful body. He grabbed the next, a cut-glass decanter, and hurled it after the others, the glass plug spinning away in midair before the decanter crashed on the hearth and sprayed across the carpet.
The library was redolent with the mingled scents of brandy, Madeira, and port, sweet sharp aromas that had beguiled him over the decades even as the liquors had stolen his mind and broken his will. There were a dozen more bottles in the cabinet. One by one he smashed them into the fireplace, finding violent satisfaction in their destruction. When all of the bottles were splintered, he threw goblets, not caring that the antique glass had survived a century before this ignominious end.
Breaking every bottle of spirits on earth would not be enough to cure what ailed him, for his soul was in thrall to a deeper destruction than this. For an instant he wanted to hurl himself into the mound of broken glass, to roll and thrash until he bled in a thousand places, until there would be an end to the grief and loss of living.
The desire to feel that easy pain of slash and bleed beckoned, but he was not ready for that, not yet. After teetering on the verge for long moments, he fled through the French doors into the dark velvet night.
It was the night of the new moon, the night of the hunted, when small frail creatures might elude the predators that sought to rend their flesh. Fueled by despair and lit only by the stars, he ran with all the strength and endurance at his command.
Instinctively he turned toward the wild solitude of the downs, his strides long and heedless. When vicious pains in his side slowed his pace, he walked until he had recovered. Then he ran again, knowing in his fractured, desperate heart that it was Death itself he was trying to escape.
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Lying across her bed, Alys cried as she hadn't in a dozen years, mourning Reggie as if he were dead. She knew in her bones that if he returned to drinking, it was only a matter of time until an agonized, undignified death claimed him. The thought was anguish.
Damnation, she should have stayed with him. She sat up and pushed her heavy hair back with a hand that trembled. Friendship was for better and for worse every bit as much as marriage was. If she had been there earlier, he might not have begun drinking. If she had stayed, perhaps he would have stopped.
If she could not even try to help, she was unworthy to be anyone's friend.
Her mind a jumble of arguments, pleas, and determination, she returned to the library. Then she halted in the doorway in shock at the sight of the destruction Reggie had wrought. In the shattered glassware, pooling liquor, and alcoholic scents, she could see his desperation.
But of Reggie himself there was no sign. The only movement was the soft rustle of curtains as a breeze curled lightly through the open French doors.
He might be losing the battle, but he wasn't defeated yet. Swiftly she went to her room and changed to her practical masculine clothing, knowing it would be a long, hard search. Then she plunged into the moonless night to find him.
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In the heavy darkness he fell more than once, but he ignored the bruises and torn clothing. He pushed his body harder than he ever had in his whole active lifetime, quartering the estate from the high downs to the water meadows, following the hedgerows, fumbling through the shadowed copses by touch. His mind held nothing so clear as thought, only raw emotions, agony as acute as when his family had died, but less pure and honorable than that true grief.
Finally, when every fiber of his body trembled with exhaustion and his very bones ached, he found himself by the lake in his private watching and dreaming spot. There he sank to the ground, numb to the soul. The lake was so still that the stars reflected in the dark mirror of the water. Perhaps he could find a final peace there. It would be easy to walk in, feeling the calm waters welcome him. So easy ...
He was too broken even for the simple act of willing his own destruction. He lay back in the soft grass, hearing the silken rustle of the birch leaves. The soil of Strickland welcomed him, as it would receive him into his final resting place.
Then, in the charred embers of crisis, he remembered what Jeremy Stanton had said.
I had tried my damnedest, and I just couldn't do it. So I prayed ... a desperate lot of drivel asking anyone who might be out there to help me, because I couldn't help myself.
Reggie had thought himself different from his godfather, tougher and stronger. Yet tonight he had learned that he, too, could not do it alone. Will was not enough.
In his heart, he surrendered. His weary mind jangled with inchoate phrases and broken prayers as he desperately sought for a strength beyond himself.
His anguish was a tidal wave, on the verge of smashing him beyond any hope of healing. But like a tide, a subtle shifting of the current began. Not a great revelation, no soaring trumpets or flame-edged promises. Just a simple knowledge that he was not alone. That he had never been alone, though he had been too blind and self-absorbed to realize it.
Like the tide, the turning point was slow, with no clear moment at which hope took over from despair. Yet hope did come, a wordless promise that gently soothed his lacerated spirit.
He lay staring at the stars, knowing the battle was not yet over. Struggle and dark doubt still lay ahead. But he also knew that when he needed help, it would be at hand.
Not long after he had reached that understanding, Alys found him.
Even in near-total darkness he knew who came. His raw senses were unnaturally receptive, and he recognized not only her step and her scent, but the ineffable feel of her caring. Wordlessly she sat cross-legged beside him, not quite touching, her face a pale blur in the thick velvet dark.
He stretched out his hand. She took it, her fingers far warmer than his, her clasp light and sure. Linking his fingers with hers, he brought their joined hands to his chest, against the beat of his heart. The tide of hope was running stronger now.
Her voice gentle in the night, Allie asked, “How are you doing?”
“Better.” His voice sounded harsh to his own ears. He swallowed hard. “Talk to me, Allie. Please.”
And so she spoke of Strickland, of the children, of her plans for the pottery, of the promise shown by the students in her school. Passively he listened to the healing flow of words, immersing himself in the details of normal life.
Finally Alys said in her rich voice, “I think I'm getting hoarse. And though I never thought the day would come, I seem to be running out of things to say.”
His fingers tightened on hers, and she had a faint impression of his amusement. “You've done well,” he said. His voice was closer to normal now. “Now it's my turn.”
He began to talk. He told her of his childhood at Strickland, and the shock of remembering his father's near-disastrous drinking. He spoke of the short, idyllic period when he had been part of a happy home.