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.”
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
