The Rake

by Mary Jo Putney

  “He’s every bit as good as I’d heard,” Wargrave said quietly.

  “And then some,” Alys agreed.

  Noticing the visitors, Reggie broke off his training exercises and rode over to the fence. Alys sensed tension in Wargrave, and remembered that Reggie had said that relations between the two men had been strained. Having met the earl, it was a fair guess that Reggie had been the source of the problem.

  As if there had never been any disagreement, Reggie swung from his horse with a smile and offered his hand. “Welcome to Strickland, Cousin.”

  Wargrave’s expression lit up, and he took the offered hand with genuine pleasure. Alys released the breath she had been holding, and knew that everything was all right.

  Blakeford felt an exultation so fierce that he wanted to crow it to the hilltops. Finally, after a whole summer of waiting, conditions were exactly right. He had found his men, carefully cultivated his informants, and the time was at hand. In two days there would be an agricultural show in Dorchester, and Alys Weston and Reginald Davenport were going together. It was harmless information, or so the Strickland servant who had let it slip over a pint of porter had thought.

  He’d found a perfect ambush site where the road sank below the verges and trees clustered on both sides. There was plenty of cover for his men to conceal themselves as they fired down onto the quarry. Davenport and Alys Weston wouldn’t have a chance. Blakeford would be there himself to ensure that the job was done right. In fact, he intended to perform at least one of the executions. Trying to decide which of the two he most wanted to kill was a pleasing mental exercise.

  The Earl of Wargrave proved an ideal guest, not raising so much as an eyebrow at the unusual household, not even to sitting down to dinner with a group that included a seven-year-old. Nor did he flinch when the younger members of the party smothered him in a combination of awe and questions, though Alys had the impression that he had to work hard to suppress a smile on several occasions.

  Peter was cast down on learning that the earl had managed to elude his valet and was traveling very light. Wargrave would not displace Julian Markham as Peter’s ideal of a fashionable gentleman.

  Though anxious to get back to his wife, the earl had accepted Reggie’s invitation to extend his visit to include the agriculture show. He spent part of the intervening day accompanying Alys on her rounds. Mostly Wargrave watched, but he also asked occasional penetrating questions.

  At midafternoon, as they rode toward the dairy pastures, Alys said, “For a man who knew nothing about farming a year ago, you’ve made remarkable progress.”

  “I’ve been doing my best.” The earl made a sweeping gesture. “None of the other Wargrave properties are as well run as Strickland. If I don’t learn to ask the right questions and hire the right people, they never will be.”

  “You’ll manage, my lord,” Alys said. “I’ve no doubt of it.”

  As they crested a hill, the hazel eyes slanted over to her. “Is it my imagination,” he asked tentatively, “or is my cousin a new man?”

  The earl was perceptive. “It’s not your imagination.”

  “I suppose it’s not my place to thank you,” he said quietly, “but I’m grateful for the part you’ve played in his transformation.”

  Alys felt her cheeks coloring. “Any part I played was strictly incidental.”

  “Oh?” The earl invested the syllable with disbelief.

  Could Wargrave have guessed her feelings for her employer? Acute perception definitely seemed to run in the Davenport family.

  Preferring to change the subject before she gave too much away, Alys pointed to the herd that they were approaching. “Our dairy cows are Guernseys. Their milk is richer than that of other cows, and we’ve been pleased with the results. If you have a milking herd at Wargrave Park, you may wish to buy some Guernseys yourself.”

  Cows were always a safe topic.

  For three farmers, going to an agricultural show was a holiday. The morning was crystal clear, and Alys felt exuberant as she rode between Reggie and the Earl of Wargrave. In deference to the fact that she was going off the estate, she wore a russet habit and rode sidesaddle, but even that nuisance wasn’t enough to lower her spirits.

  They were about five miles from Strickland when the road dipped into a shallow defile that ran through a clump of trees. Wargrave pulled back his horse a little, murmuring, “By the pricking of my thumbs ...”

  Reggie glanced at him. “Is something wrong?”

  Wargrave hesitated, then shrugged. “Not really. It’s only that the road ahead reminds me of the kind of ambush spot I learned to be wary of in Spain. The sight still makes my neck prickle.” His voice was casual, but his eyes scanned the woods intently. “Is there a problem with highwaymen in this area?”

  Equally casual, Reggie said, “Not that I know of.”

  Nonetheless, Alys saw that he was also watchful. The roads were never entirely safe, and caution was routine. She herself had a holster built into her sidesaddle and never rode outside the estate unarmed. But though she absently touched the unobtrusive pistol butt, she couldn’t believe the weapon would ever be needed.

  From his vantage point in the trees, Blakeford watched the approaching figures with a frown. He hadn’t counted on Alys Weston and Reggie Davenport having a companion. However, the second man didn’t look like much of a threat. Whoever the fellow was, he would have to be killed, too. He should have picked his friends better.

  Excitement sharp within him, Blakeford adjusted a narrow black mask over his face. Then he raised his light, accurate sporting carbine and checked that it was ready to fire. He and his four cohorts were mounted and armed, ready to close in on the quarry from both ends of the defile.

  The last attacker, a former army rifleman, lay on his stomach, the Baker rifle Blakeford had provided steady in his hands. The rifleman was a real prize, a trained sharpshooter. Alys Weston should be eliminated with the first shot. Blakeford would take Davenport himself, and he assumed that at least one of his hired rogues would have the sense to go for the other man. The sooner this was done, the better.

  As the riders neared the center of the defile, Blakeford whispered to the rifleman, “Shoot the one in the middle.”

  The barrel of the rifle swung to the target and stopped. Then the man jerked his head up. “I won’t kill no woman.”

  Blakeford’s jaw dropped with shock. Then he hissed furiously, “You didn’t mention any such scruples when I hired you. She’s the main target of this attack.”

  The man shook his head stubbornly. “Won’t shoot a woman,” he repeated.

  Blakeford was enraged, but there was no time for argument. “Then shoot the tall man. I’ll take the woman.”

  The rifleman shifted the barrel of the rifle, starting to track the taller of the two men. Then he froze as his scan drew his line of sight over the smaller rider. “Christ, it’s Captain Dalton!” The rifleman swore and jumped to his feet, yelling to the three travelers, “’Ware ambush!”

  Aghast, Blakeford saw his whole scheme teetering on the brink of disaster. He chopped viciously down with the butt of his carbine, cracking the sharpshooter’s head before the man could say more. The rifleman went limp and pitched forward, his body and rifle rolling down the steep embankment to the edge of the road.

  Knowing there was no time to waste, Blakeford yelled, “Now!” to his other men.

  Then he aimed his carbine at Alys Weston’s head.

  Wargrave’s comment about the dangerous look of the sunken road had been offhand, but all three riders had an extra degree of alertness. Even so, it was a shock when an unknown man bellowed, “’Ware ambush!” from the trees just above them.

  For an instant Alys froze. Then Reggie barked, “Lie low and ride!”

  They all bent over their saddles and kicked their mounts into a gallop. Simultaneously, a man’s limp body came crashing down the embankment, and a ragged volley of gunshots blasted with deafening nearness.

  The
warning had saved Alys and her friends from being struck by the bullets, but their escape was cut off when rough-looking horsemen thundered into the road ahead and behind. With their guns discharged, the attackers were turning to hand-to-hand combat.

  Fiercely Alys reined in her horse to avoid a collision with a knife-wielding ruffian. The defile had exploded into a world of shouts and shots and crashing hooves. Beside her, Reggie and Wargrave were each being set upon by two men at once, and the acrid smell of gunpowder was harsh in her nostrils. With stunned disbelief, she realized that this was no ordinary robbery—murder was intended.

  Reggie used his powerful horse to drive back an attacker, creating a small gap. Knocking aside the man’s knife, Reggie yelled, “Allie, get clear!”

  Alys tried to take advantage of the confusion to break free so she would have a chance to use her pistol, but a fifth man, his eyes covered by a narrow black mask, cut her off. As she tried to evade him, he yanked his mount to a standstill, raised the carbine he carried, and aimed it at her from less than a dozen feet.

  He would never miss at this range—the deadly black mouth of the gun seemed enormous. Acting on pure reflex, Alys jerked back on her reins, causing her mare to rear and wheel. At the same time, she whipped her pistol from its holster and cocked it.

  The man in the black mask fired. The shot was so close that Alys was sure she felt the spatter of burning cordite, but the shot missed. His carbine empty, he was temporarily harmless, so Alys pulled away from him and whirled her horse to see what was happening behind her, praying that her single pistol shot might help her companions.

  Behind her a battle was raging, incoherent and cacophonous. Despite their superior numbers and weapons, the attackers were having a hard time destroying two men who were unarmed, but trained and deadly fighters. Alys saw Wargrave duck a saber slash, then ruthlessly wrest control of the sword away, unhorsing his antagonist in the process. Reggie was involved in a tussle with another attacker that ended when he knocked the man from the saddle with a savage blow of his fist.

  As a third man raised a pistol on Reggie’s back, Alys screamed his name and fired her own weapon at the attacker. An accurate shot was impossible, but by sheer luck her bullet winged the man. Bellowing with pain, he dropped his gun.

  Then the masked man came at Alys again, leveling a pistol as he drove his horse at her. Impossible to reload under these conditions. Even as she wondered wildly why he was so intent on murdering her, she drew her arm back and hurled her useless weapon as hard as she could. The empty pistol clipped the man’s cheek, causing him to jerk and sending his shot off harmlessly.

  “You miserable bitch!” he swore. Grabbing at her bridle, he used his burly strength to immobilize her horse. Then he reached into his boot and pulled out a long, viciously edged knife.

  Having discouraged his own adversaries, Reggie looked around in time to see the attack on Alys. With horror he saw that she was trapped in the sidesaddle, unable to evade her attacker. Knowing he was too far away to reach her before the knife would strike home, Reggie leaped from his horse and grabbed the Baker rifle that lay by the edge of the road only two feet from him.

  Alys was struggling fiercely with the masked man, trying to prevent him from getting a clear stab at her, but the bastard was large and strong, and she was unable to fight free. To Reggie, the movement seemed ghoulishly slow as her attacker raised his knife high, the thin blade flashing in the morning sun.

  Too frightened for prayer, Reggie dropped into approved firing position, one knee on the ground, the other raised to support his elbow and steady his aim. As the lethal knife stabbed downward, he cocked the hammer and squeezed the trigger, praying that the weapon was accurate.

  His bullet slammed into the middle of the masked man’s chest, knocking him backward off his horse. The knife spun glittering through the air. As the flat crack of the rifle echoed between the trees, a shout went up. The four remaining attackers, now considerably the worse for wear, abandoned the fight. The two that had been unhorsed scrambled onto their mounts and bolted after their fellows as quickly as possible.

  The entire skirmish had taken less than two minutes. As the hoofbeats faded in the distance, the little stretch of road was absolutely silent. Even the birds had been shocked out of their songs by the gunfire. The masked man lay motionless on the ground, his clothing saturated with blood, while the man who had fallen down the hill still sprawled unconscious in the ditch.

  Wordlessly Reggie crossed to Alys’s mount and held his arms up. She slid into his embrace. Though she had fought like a tigress and quite possibly saved his own worthless life, now that the danger was over her slim body trembled violently. He held her with rib-bruising pressure as he offered a passionate mental prayer of thanksgiving that she had been spared.

  Wargrave trotted his horse over. “Were either of you injured?” He looked as calm as a man riding in London’s Rotten Row, but his rust-brown coat had a black hole scorched along one shoulder.

  Easy for Wargrave to be composed; it wasn’t his woman that had almost been killed. If Reggie had had any doubts that he wanted Alys Weston to be his woman, they were resolved now. “I think we’re both all right. Allie?”

  “I’m fine. Sorry to be quaking like a blancmange.” A little shakily, she disentangled herself from his embrace.

  Wargrave swung down from his horse. “Nerves are permitted. For someone experiencing her first taste of combat, you acquitted yourself very well.”

  “If you hadn’t been here, Richard, the odds would have been hopeless. I’m glad you decided to accompany us today. Thank you.” Reggie’s voice was detached, but his emotions were not. While he rated his own fighting skills highly, the chances of their escaping this deadly ambush would have been nil if his cousin hadn’t been with them, and a trained soldier. Even as it was, the result could easily have gone the other way.

  Wargrave said, “It was the army’s loss when you couldn’t join.”

  It was a typically elliptical exchange of masculine compliments, but entirely satisfactory. Their gazes met and held for a moment, and Reggie knew that from now on, he and his cousin were friends.

  Building bridges was a great improvement on burning them.

  As Reggie kept one arm firmly around Alys, the earl knelt and removed the dead man’s mask, revealing a heavy face set in angry lines even in death. Alys’s gasp was drowned out by Reggie’s shocked, “Blakeford!”

  Wargrave glanced up. “You know him?”

  Alys felt Reggie’s rigidity in the arm that circled her. “I know him,” he said grimly. “There had been some trouble between us recently, but”—he shook his head in disbelief—“it was a minor matter. Not important enough for him to want to kill me.”

  “It might not have been important to you, but obviously it was to him.” The earl stood. “Don’t bother with regrets. They would be wasted on a man who hired a gang of cutthroats to ambush his enemies and anyone else unlucky enough to be in the way.”

  Despite Wargrave’s pragmatic words, Alys felt a chill spreading throughout her body. Reggie might think Blakeford had been out to kill him, but Alys knew better. She was Blakeford’s intended victim, and she knew why.

  Who would have dreamed that her past would reach out with such violence? A man had died today trying to murder her, and two other men might have died simply for being with her. Grimly she fought the wave of nausea that threatened.

  On the other side of the road, the man who had fallen down the hill and lain unconscious through the fight moaned and stirred. Then he struggled to a sitting position. He wore a dark green jacket of military cut that was so grimy and faded it was hard to discern the original color. As he raised one hand to his head, his eyes darted nervously around the three watchers, fear on his thin face.

  The earl crossed the road and stood by the man, arms akimbo. “Was it you who shouted the warning at us?”

  The man nodded. “Aye. I wouldn’t shoot the lady, and when I was targeting the tall gent, I r
ecognized you, Captain Dalton.”

  “I used to be Captain Dalton. A year ago I learned that my real family name is Davenport. I’m the Earl of Wargrave now.” His eyes narrowed as he looked at the man’s dark green jacket. “Your face is familiar, but I don’t think we ever spoke. You were in the 95th Rifles. Kenneth Wilding’s company?”

  “Aye, sir. Corporal Willit, sir. Everyone in the regiment knew you, and what kind of officer you were.” He rubbed the oozing wound on his head. “I figured that if you was with these other folk, I was on the wrong side.”

  Voice edged, the earl asked, “What is a former rifleman doing with a gang of murderers?”

  “Trying to feed his family, sir,” Willit said sullenly. “After years of getting our arses”—his eyes shifted to Alys—“begging your pardon, ma’am. After years of getting our backsides shot off by Johnny Crapaud, we come home to no jobs and no back pay. My wife and our babe had been sleeping in the hedgerows for months when that fellow over there heard I was a sharpshooter and offered me a job.” Willit gestured at Blakeford. “He was a mean cove, but he was willing to pay fifty pounds for doing what King George paid me pennies for.”

  “The situations are hardly the same, but I can understand why you accepted.” The earl frowned. After a long moment, he said slowly, “If you’re willing to move your family to Gloucestershire, I’ll find a decent job for you on my estate.”

  The rifleman climbed unsteadily to his feet, desperate hope dawning on his face. It was the expression of a man who had learned not to expect justice. “You’re not going to turn me over to the constables?”

  “You’ve earned better than that. If you hadn’t warned us, we might have all been killed.” The earl fixed him with a steely glance. “Just remember to act like a Rifleman in the future, soldier.”

  Willit straightened and executed a smart salute. “Yes, sir!”