The Rake Read Online Free Page B

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?”
    â€œAbout 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?”
    â€œAround five in the morning, sir.”
    â€œI trust we didn’t disturb your slumbers too much.”
    â€œMr. Markham did require my assistance to get you upstairs,” Mac