As she glanced at her ward, she remembered what was said about her new employer and his womanizing habits, and felt a stirring of apprehension. What rake could resist a delectable golden sylph like Meredith? The girl had good sense and morals, but she was still an innocent. No match for a cynical, amoral man of the world. It was another anxiety, and a major one.
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
