At Last the Rogue Returns Page 2

  “Enough,” the other gentleman said. “Cease with your tormenting. Any fool can see she’s gently bred. Any fool can see she is out of her depth.”

  Out of her depth!

  Affronted by the thought she lacked the wherewithal to tackle a worthless toad like Greystone, Lydia squared her shoulders.

  “The only reason you may consider me out of my depth, sir, is if Greystone here is the scoundrel everyone knows him to be.” Her pulse raced so quickly it made her breathless. “Why would he care about ruining a lady’s reputation when he is single-handedly responsible for the deaths of his tenants?”

  The giant moistened his lips as his dark eyes ravaged her. “Lord, that’s one hell of a temper. Indeed, it roused more than a twitch in my breeches.”

  “Mind your manners,” his companion ordered as he dismounted and strode towards her. “It seems the lady has a gripe.”

  For some reason, Lydia’s cheeks flamed. The gentleman carried himself with a level of confidence that could outshine Arabella. While Greystone had a feral, almost savage look about him, this man’s features were softer though just as striking. Lydia’s heart fluttered whenever she met his gaze.

  How was it this considerate gentleman could control a man like Greystone?

  “Oh, I have more than a gripe, sir,” she said, turning to throw daggers of disdain at the hulking beast. “I have a grievance against this devil.” She stabbed her finger at the fiend though wished it was a pitchfork. “And I refuse to leave until I have had my say.”

  “Is that so?” The gentleman’s calm voice failed to soothe her temper.

  The vile creature hummed. “Then let me hear your complaint. Tell me what it is you think I’ve done. Tell me of this terrible travesty.”

  “Oh, you know damn well what you’ve done.” Hot blood raced through her veins.

  “My dear,” the beast began—it was a vast improvement on wench. “You should know there are few women brave enough to challenge me. In fact, I know of none. What do you say we take this little spat elsewhere and you can give me a good thrashing?”

  “That’s enough,” her hero said. “Remember we are on English soil now. The ladies here are not as forthcoming. I’m cold, tired and in desperate need of sustenance.”

  “Then are you going to inform the lady of her mistake or do I get the privilege?”

  Lydia frowned. “My mistake?”

  The man with the greenest eyes she’d ever seen turned to face her—held her captive in his spell. “Allow me to present my good friend Devlin Drake,” he said, gesturing to the beast at his side. “He is not the gentleman you want.”

  Devlin? The name sounded much like devil. No wonder Ada was confused.

  Lydia swallowed. “He isn’t?”

  “No.” The kind gentleman straightened. “I am the tyrant you seek. I am Greystone.”

  Chapter Two

  “Pardon?” Wild and confused, the lady’s blue eyes shot to Drake before returning to settle on Miles. “Would you mind repeating that?”

  “I am Greystone,” Miles said in a commanding voice. Not as harsh as the one that made men quiver in their boots. “If you have a gripe, madam, it is with me.”

  Miles suppressed a smirk as he watched the lady’s cheeks flush from her embarrassing misconception. He had no notion what crime he had committed to rouse her ire.

  “You’re Greystone?” Her inquiring sapphire gaze fell to his lips and the cleft in his chin.

  By all that was holy, the damn muscles in his abdomen tensed in response. Anger flared to dispel the sudden jolt of desire. Just because he lacked his friend’s terrifying countenance did not mean she shouldn’t fear him.

  “Well?” he continued, suddenly eager to put this woman in her place. “Am I to hear of this gripe or are you to stand there gawking until dawn?”

  The lady did not flinch at his gruff tone, did not avert her gaze, did not flounder under the heat of his stare. Instead, she straightened her shoulders ready to wage war. “I have a grievance with you, sir, not a gripe.”

  “Then I must assume your grievance has addled your brain. As a viscount, madam, you may address me as my lord.”

  Most people’s cheeks would flame red with shame at the faux pas. But, no. She glared at him, shooting ice-blue darts of discontent.

  “And as an unmarried lady, you may address me as Miss Lovell.”

  Miss Lovell? If memory served, this lady was his neighbour. And she was without a husband. Why did he take pleasure from that thought?

  “Love all?” Miles said with amusement. “How ironic when you have nothing but hatred in your eyes.”

  “Lovell,” she repeated with a huff of frustration.

  “Love hell? Then perhaps Drake is your man.” Miles had berated his friend for teasing her and yet he couldn’t shake the urge to unsettle her steely composure.

  Moving on from that thought, his mind conjured an image of her soft body lying beneath him, of her begging and writhing for his love and attention. He considered her raised chin and perfect pout, and those dazzling eyes that held a hint of pain.

  The lady was a conundrum.

  She appeared too prim, too innocent for his liking and yet he couldn’t help but find her courage appealing.

  “You surprise me, my lord,” she said, stressing the correct form of address. “I presumed a gentleman with such a black heart would find little amusing.”

  Drake chuckled. “Your crime must be great indeed if the lady has held a grievance for five years.”

  Miles observed Miss Lovell’s stirring countenance. The lady could be no older than twenty, was but a slip of a girl when he’d left Greystone Manor. Odd that he didn’t remember her. But then he’d spent most of his time at school before heading out to make his fortune. He scoured his mind trying to think of a relative he’d offended to such a great degree that she would seek him out upon his return.

  No one came to mind.

  “Are your parents aware you’ve escaped the nursery?” he said, batting back the ball in this game of quips.

  “My parents are dead,” she snapped.

  Was that the cause of her complaint?

  “Then that explains why a lady of good breeding is wandering around the woods after dark. Are you in the habit of accosting rogues, Miss Lovell?”

  “Ha, so you admit you’re a scoundrel.”

  Oh, he could be downright ruthless when pressed but never dishonourable. Miles opened his arms wide—a challenge for her to do her worst. “I’m tired from my travels. Have at it and let me go to my bed.”

  “Are your sins so great that you cannot remember those innocent people you’ve injured? Surely, you don’t need me to act as court clerk and draw up an extensive list of indictments.”

  Her eyes filled with water. A host of emotions swam there—sorrow and anger and fear. Whatever he was supposed to have done, it had caused this lady great pain.

  “Will you get to the point, Miss Lovell?” The uncomfortable feeling in his chest forced his brusque response.

  Miss Lovell lowered the hood of her cloak as if she no longer needed to hide in its depths, no longer needed its protection.

  God damn!

  Unmanned by her beauty, Miles inhaled deeply. If this lady wanted to fight, the least she could do was fight fairly.

  The combination of her rich brown hair, of her full mouth and wide eyes, stole his breath. Everything about her spoke of understated elegance, of innocence, of benevolence. No doubt she had a heart so large she would love deeply, with a passion that would make a man feel like a king.

  Only now, that heart was bursting with vengeance—much like his own.

  “Your lack of attention to your tenants, my lord, is the reason I stand here before you. Do you have any idea how they suffer?” A solitary tear trickled down her cheek and Miles fought the urge to drag a handkerchief from his pocket and wipe it away. “Well? Do you?”

  Miles shrugged. “How could I possibly know of their plight when I have been away thes
e last five years?”

  Miss Lovell shook her head, an incredulous look now marring her fine features. “And how do you suppose men can provide for their families when there is no work on the estate? How can they be assured of good health when water leaks into their cottages at the first sign of rain? How can they seek help when abandoned by their master? Please tell me how?”

  “It is Mr Gilligan’s responsibility to ensure the tenants’ needs are met,” he countered.

  “And yet under your instruction, he has doubled the rents.”

  Doubled the rents? Miles had given no such order.

  “Under your instruction, he has turned out the staff.” Miss Lovell braced her hands on her hips. “While you have been attending to your … your appetites abroad, your tenants have been rotting in squalor.”

  Miles did not reply immediately. Now was not the time to correct her assumption. The years spent in India and the Far East had been about gathering a fortune large enough to wreak vengeance on those who’d harmed him. Nothing had distracted him from his lust for revenge. Years of sweat and toil had left little time for life’s pleasures. Knowing the estate was in good hands afforded him the focus needed for the task.

  “You’re saying the estate has fallen into disrepair in my absence,” Miles clarified.

  The blood chilled in his veins.

  The monthly letter he received from his steward assured him things were in order. Although judging by the look of anguish and resentment on this lady’s face, something was dreadfully amiss at Greystone Manor.

  “Disrepair?” She screwed up her nose as if listening to the mumblings of the village idiot. “The Greystone Estate has been sorely neglected for years.”

  Neglected? What the hell had Gilligan been doing with his time?

  Miles inclined his head, eager to get rid of this woman and discover the truth for himself. “I thank you for bringing the matter to my attention, Miss Lovell. Now, if you will excuse me, I have important business to address.”

  He would assess the property before searching for Mr Gilligan. After all, Miss Lovell might be prone to exaggeration or bouts of sentimentality. Out of boredom, perhaps she sought to invent stories. Perhaps she meant to capture his interest. He imagined there was a shortage of young marriageable gentlemen living in Cuckfield. And a title always attracted more than the desperate.

  “Have you no desire to offer an explanation for your actions, my lord?” she continued.

  Miles ignored the question. A man did not admit to anything when ignorant of the facts. “I would offer to escort you home, Miss Lovell, but I doubt you want the pious people of Cuckfield to know you keep company with a disreputable devil.”

  She snorted—a sound of contempt not amusement. “My lord, you would be the last person I would turn to for assistance. If you must expend your energy doing something worthwhile may I suggest you concentrate on improving the lives of your tenants?”

  Miss Lovell whipped up her hood, the abrupt action robbing him of the opportunity to gaze upon her delightful face. Without uttering another word, the lady turned on her heels and marched off before disappearing into the copse.

  “While the weather is just as miserable,” Drake began, holding out his hand to catch the first few drops of rain, “the ladies are more spirited than I remember.”

  “Spirited? Is that not a polite word for annoying?” Even so, Miles had to admit it took courage to stand up to the monster of one’s nightmares. “Miss Lovell has mettle. I’ll give her that.”

  “There are few men brave enough to tackle you, although you didn’t seem to mind taking a whipping from her pretty tongue.”

  No, he hadn’t minded. He hadn’t minded at all. If anything, he welcomed an opportunity to banter some more, to see if all that pent-up passion might be directed into a more pleasurable pursuit.

  Miles stared through the darkness, contemplating whether he should escort the lady safely through the woods. But he had no desire to play the knight errant. When it came to the delectable Miss Lovell his thoughts were far from noble—they were downright immoral.

  Chapter Three

  Miles was still staring at the cluster of trees when Drake’s deliberate cough dragged him from his reverie.

  “It’s been some time since I’ve seen you so enthralled with a woman,” Drake said, his tone full of mischief. “Some time since I’ve seen the hazy look of desire warm your eyes.”

  Miles snorted. “Then you mistake drooping lids for a sign of affection. I’m simply tired and need my bed.”

  “Is that so?”

  In all his dalliances, Miles had never felt an instant tug of attraction. But it would pass. Celibacy did that to a man. And it had been almost a year since he’d shared a woman’s bed.

  “The lady piqued my interest,” he admitted. “You know how I thrive when faced with a challenge.”

  Could he turn hatred to lust? That was the question.

  “Do you not have enough problems without dallying with the locals?” Drake patted his mount and took hold of the reins. “Your brothers will not simply sit back while you take control of their company.”

  “God damn, Drake. How many times must I tell you? Those fools are not my brothers.” Miles struggled to maintain his calm composure whenever anyone mentioned his father’s illegitimate offspring. “And it is no longer their company.”

  When it came to Greystone Shipping, Miles now held the majority share. Although his father had wished for his favourite sons to inherit his fortune, Stephen and Edwin Harridan-Jones—derived from their mother’s name—lacked business acumen. The fools preferred brothels to boardrooms, lost more money in gaming hells than they did from ships sunk by storms in the Indian Ocean. For years Miles had craved nothing other than grabbing their heads and rubbing their noses in their defeat.

  “They’re your father’s sons,” Drake replied, deliberately goading him. “Does that not make them family?”

  “That makes them half-brothers.” The bastard sons of a whoremonger. Anger bubbled in Miles’ throat. “Don’t taunt me, Drake, not tonight. Not when I have other matters to contend with.”

  Drake inclined his head in acquiescence. “You fear Miss Lovell has grounds for complaint?”

  Miles sighed. A hollow feeling settled in his chest. “I doubt the lady would have taken the trouble to come here otherwise.”

  “Then it’s time to see what awaits us beyond the gates.”

  With some trepidation, Miles gathered Valiant’s reins and drew the stallion towards the entrance.

  If horses were named after their owners, Miss Lovell’s mount might be called Brave or Gallant. Then again, Temptress would be more apt. How was it her eyes teased him with their innocence while still conveying disdain? How was it every derogatory word that flew from her lips left him more intrigued?

  Miles shook his head to banish all thoughts of the lady from his mind then gripped the gate. Anger surfaced again when the rust coating the iron bars stained his riding gloves. “Damn Gilligan.” If the entrance to Greystone Manor was any indication, a blind fool could see that Miss Lovell spoke the truth.

  “While I know you’ve been absent for some time, I didn’t imagine you’d have to force your way inside,” Drake said as Miles kicked open the gate and the damn thing nearly came off its hinges. “Tell me I have not postponed my return to London to slum in a hovel.”

  “A hovel? Greystone Manor is the finest example of Jacobean architecture in England.” Miles considered the shabby gates and the plethora of dead weeds and leaves blocking their path. “I swear I shall bury that bastard Gilligan if half of what Miss Lovell said is true.”

  Guilt pricked his conscience. Mr Gilligan had been a loyal and trustworthy steward for the ten years he’d been employed. Well, at least for the first five when his mother, Lady Greystone, served as mistress of the manor.

  They led their horses through the entrance and Miles came to a halt outside the gatekeeper’s cottage. “Wait. Mr Gilligan lives here. Let’s
see what the fellow has to say for himself.”

  One did not need to study the stone cottage in the daylight to note the thick carpet of moss covering the thatched roof, or the broken panes in the leaded windows. A strange smell clung to the air in the overgrown garden. That of roots rotting in the soil. That of death and decay.

  Drake strolled over to the cottage shrouded in darkness, rubbed dirt off the window and peered inside. “Except for a few hungry mice, the house is empty.”

  Had Miles not received his monthly correspondence from Gilligan, he might suppose the steward had met his maker. But then it had been months since Miles left for England. Even so, it was a year since Miles granted him the funds to replace the rotten roof, a year since he received word the job was done.

  “I doubt anyone has lived here for years,” Drake continued. “Did you send word to the steward to inform him of your return?”

  “As we were originally heading to London, I thought to deal with it then.” Oddly, Miles had been overcome with the sudden urge to ensure things were in order at home before seeing to the downfall of his half-brothers. “As far as Gilligan knows I’m still brokering deals in Assam.”

  “Then he is in for one hell of a shock. From what I’ve seen so far, I’d say the lady has the measure of the situation. When you find the steward, he’ll be lucky to escape with his ballocks intact.”

  “The rest of the estate can’t be as bad as this.”

  Drake frowned. “I thought your steward had access to extra funds now you’ve made your fortune?”

  “He does. My mother struggled to manage the estate after my father left, but it was by no means in this sorry state.” The then Lord Greystone controlled the purse strings with an iron hand. The Greystone Estate paid for his mistress’ lavish lifestyle rather than the upkeep of the ancestral home. “Gilligan knew he need only ask, and I would have made the funds available to deal with any repairs.”

  “Well, from what I’ve seen so far, I’d prepare yourself for the worst.”