The Rake. Mary Jo Putney

name had been Stanton, but apart from that and his personal memories of her, he could recall nothing.

      Strange how children accept their surroundings without question. He had never guessed that the estate belonged to his mother. Her family must have been solid, prosperous country squires, but after the aristocratic Davenports had taken charge of him, he had buried all memory of the Stantons.

      Strickland had been built in Tudor times, a sprawling two-story house with gables, mullioned bay windows, and bold octagonal chimneys. It faced south so that the sun fell across it all day long, while the back commanded a view of gardens, lake, and rolling countryside.

      The fact that the house was typical didn’t mean that it was not beautiful.

      The really shocking realization was how little had changed. The grounds were well kept, the house in good repair. Only a faint air of emptiness said that his parents or young brother and sister would not walk through the door and down the front steps.

      He shivered, his hand tightening so hard that his horse whickered and tossed its head. Forcing himself to relax, he dismounted and tethered the stallion at the bottom of the stairs. He went up lightly, two steps at a time, driven by an uneasy mixture of anticipation and apprehension.

      His hand paused for a moment over the heavy knocker, a brass ring in the mouth of a lion. He had admired it greatly as a child, longing for the day when he would be tall enough to reach it. He buried the memory and rapped sharply. When there was no quick response, he experimentally turned the knob. After all, he owned the place, didn’t he? He would begin as he intended to go on, and that was as master of Strickland.

      The knob turned under his hand, and the massive door swung inward, admitting him to a large entry hall with carved oak wainscoting. He passed through to the main drawing room, then stopped, the hair on the back of his neck prickling. He had anticipated many things, but not that there would be virtually no changes at all.

      Everything was neat, with only a slight suggestion of mustiness. The colors, the hangings, the furniture dimly visible under holland covers—all were unchanged. Faded certainly, and shabbier, but the very same pieces that had defined his world when he was a boy. Ghost memories of his parents sat at the blind-fretted mahogany card table, laughing over a game.

      He turned sharply away, stalking across the room to the passage beyond. Wasn’t anyone here? There had better be, or someone had better have a damned good explanation for why the front door was open.

      He circled around to the right, toward the morning room. There he found a plump woman removing covers from the furniture.

      She looked up in surprise as he entered, wiping her hands quickly on her apron and bobbing a curtsy. “Mr. Davenport! You gave me a start. You made good time. We only just heard the news, and there hasn’t been time to set everything to rights.”

      Reggie wondered how she knew he was coming, then decided it was logical for a new owner to inspect his property. “You have the advantage of me. You are . . .?”

      She was in her forties, a rosy-cheeked country woman who was polite but hardly obsequious. “I’m Mrs. Herald. You wouldn’t remember, but I was a housemaid here when you were a lad. I was May Barlow then.” Looking him up and down, she added with approval, “You’ve grown tall, like your father.”

      His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “One of the tenant farms was worked by a Herald.”

      “Aye, I married Robbie Herald. We’re at Hill Farm.”

      “The house is in excellent condition.” Reggie spoke absently as his eyes scanned the morning room. The proportions were pleasant, and there were large mullioned windows on two walls. His mother had always particularly liked it here.

      “Aye. It was leased to a retired naval captain for a good few years. He maintained the place well enough, but never bothered making changes. It’s been vacant since about the time the old earl died. I’ve kept an eye on things, watching for leaks and dry rot so the estate carpenters could make repairs as it was needful.”

      “You’ve done a good job.” Over the years, Reggie had learned the value of an appreciative word, and Mrs. Herald beamed at the compliment.

      “I’m glad you think so, sir. We’ve done our best.” She hesitated a moment, then blurted out, “We’re all ever so glad to have a Stanton here again. It’s not right, the way Wargrave ignored this place for so many years. The old earl never once set foot here, just took money out and put naught back in.”

      She blushed then, remembering that the old earl had been her new master’s uncle and guardian, but Reggie only said mildly, “I’m a Davenport, not a Stanton.”

      “Your mother was a Stanton, that’s what counts in Dorset,” she said with a firm nod. “There have always been Stantons at Strickland.”

      Her words reminded Reggie of the way a judge pronounced a sentence. After a moment’s reflection he asked, “You’ll think this a foolish question, but do I have any Stanton relations?”

      “The closest would be Mr. Jeremy Stanton at Fenton Hall. He was your mother’s cousin, and he and your father were good friends. He’s getting along in years now, but a fine gentleman.” Mrs. Herald shook her head with regret. “Your mother, Miss Anne, was an only child. Pity that her branch of the family had dwindled down to just her. If there had been any nearer relations, they never would have let the earl take you away after . . .” She stopped, then decided not to continue that sentence. She finished with, “The Stantons always took care of their own.”

      Perhaps that’s why they died out, Reggie thought cynically, but he kept the words unsaid in the face of Mrs. Herald’s vicarious family pride. Aloud he said, “My man will be along in a day or so with my baggage, but I came by myself.”

      “Shall I be putting your things in the master bedchamber?”

      A vivid image of the room flashed in front of Reggie. His parents had unfashionably shared it, sleeping together in the carved oak four-poster. It seemed wrong to sleep in their bed. “No, I’ll take the room above this one. The blue room it was called, I think.”

      “Very well, sir. Would you like something to eat? The house is all at sixes and sevenses, but my sister-in-law Molly Barlow is down in the kitchen, cleaning and stocking the pantry. She could do a cold collation quick enough.”

      “Later, perhaps. Now I’d rather see Mr. Weston. Do you know if he’s in the estate office, or is he out on the property somewhere?”

      Mrs. Herald paused, her normal garrulity temporarily deserting her. “It’s hard to say, sir. The steward is very active. Could be most anywhere.”

      “I’m told Weston is very good.”

      “Oh, yes, Mr. Davenport. There isn’t a better steward anywhere,” she said with an odd, guilty expression.

      Reggie eyed her curiously, wondering why mentioning Weston had such an effect. Maybe the housekeeper was having an affair with the steward? Or didn’t country folk have such vices? If they didn’t, Dorset would prove dull indeed.

      He left the morning room. As he made his way through the house, he caught sight of two girls polishing wood and scrubbing floors. They stared with open curiosity, giggling bashfully and bobbing their heads when he nodded at them. An odd feeling, being lord of the manor.

      The side door led to a wide cobbled yard surrounded by buildings of the same golden-gray stone as the manor house. It was all so familiar. He glanced up, and remembered the day he’d climbed the ladder left by a man repairing the roof. He’d skittered happily around on the slates, having a wonderful time, until his mother appeared and ordered him to come down right now. Having no conception of what a fall to the cobbles would do to his life expectancy, he had been surprised by her alarm, but he’d come down readily enough.

      He had been obedient in those days. That was one of many things that had changed when he left Strickland.

      His steps led him unerringly to the estate office on the opposite