At Last the Rogue Returns

by Adele Clee

  Exchanging apprehensive glances, they ventured along the winding drive. Relief flooded Miles’ chest when he spotted the sprawling Jacobean manor. He expected to find the open-work parapets crumbling, stray dogs sleeping on dirty steps, ragged curtains billowing out through missing windowpanes. But the house looked the same as the day he left—just as dark and dismal.

  The faint glow of candlelight drew his gaze to an upstairs window. “Perhaps Gilligan has taken to sleeping in his master’s bed.” Miles snorted with disdain.

  He led Valiant onto the grass verge and gestured for Drake to follow lest they warn the steward of their approach.

  They tethered the reins to a tree and left the horses grazing, dodged the deep ruts in the drive and crept up the stone steps. The front door was unlocked. The empty hall gave no cause for concern. What need had the butler to linger there awaiting visitors?

  Laughter pierced the morbid silence, loud and jarring. Miles tapped Drake on the arm and gestured to the drawing room door. Moving closer, he pushed the door open fully with the tip of one finger.

  The two men seated at the card table were in such high spirits they failed to hear the creak of the hinges. The scrawny one cradled a bottle of liquor, taking regular swigs as he examined the fan of playing cards in his hand. The other man, whose extra chin had swallowed his neck, sat with his muddy boots propped on the arm of the gold Chippendale sofa.

  “Play the damn card.” The tubby man rested his clasped hands on his stout stomach. “You ain’t got a hope in hell of winnin’ this hand.”

  “Don’t be so sure. I might still ’ave a trick up me sleeve.”

  “I’ve had my hawk eyes trained on you this last half hour. There ain’t no way you can win.”

  “Ain’t no way, eh?” The pencil-thin man slammed the bottle onto the table and threw a card on top of the pile. “Ace of clubs. What do you say to that?”

  “What? I say you’ve been cheatin’.”

  “Isn’t that what Gilligan pays us for?”

  Both men laughed.

  Miles had plenty to say, too, but he kept calm. Dariell had trained him well. Remaining alert and aware of oneself and one’s surroundings were key to tackling any potentially volatile situation.

  With confidence, Miles strode into the room. Drake followed closely behind. “I see you started the game without us.”

  Both men jumped at the sudden interruption, but neither moved from their seats.

  “And who might you be?” The man with a stomach the size of a beer barrel narrowed his gaze. “Gilligan said nothing about having friends to stay tonight.”

  Miles scanned the table, searched the piles of cards and coins, looking for a weapon. “Is Gilligan here?”

  Both men stared, assessing Drake’s dusty black greatcoat, Miles’ dirty boots and mud-splattered breeches. The fact neither of them seemed disturbed by the arrival of two strange men did not bode well. Whatever was going on here amounted to more than the neglect of his property and tenants.

  “Gilligan’s gone to Burgess Hill. A few shopkeepers there will still give him credit.”

  “Then we’ll wait.” Miles stepped closer to the table, feigning interest in the cards scattered over the surface. “Is there anything decent to drink?”

  The scrawny one snatched his bottle and hugged it to his chest. “Gilligan’s stopped fillin’ the decanters. But you might find an old bottle in the cellar if you’re ’appy to go gropin’ in the dark.”

  The man with two chins dragged his boots off the arm of the sofa. “You here for the card game tomorrow night?”

  “Why?” Miles said. “Do we look like men desperate for a win at the gaming table?” With sun-kissed skin from his travels, coupled with windswept hair and rumpled clothing, Miles lacked the polish and finesse of an aristocratic gentleman, least of all the lord and master of the house.

  “You look like men with a liking for all the devil’s vices.”

  Drake raised an arrogant brow. “When it comes to sin, there is no one more qualified.”

  The thin man took a swig from his bottle and raised his chin. “There’s a ripe pair upstairs if you’ve got a few shillings a piece to spare.”

  A ripe pair?

  So his bedchamber was now a boudoir for women selling their wares. No wonder Gilligan lacked the time and energy needed to see to the repairs.

  “I’d be quick if I were you,” the twig said. “If I win the next game, I’ll have enough for a romp with Jenny.”

  Miles forced a grin. “What time will Gilligan be back?”

  “After the assembly, I suppose. After he’s bowed and scraped to the nabobs in Cuckfield. Got to keep ’em sweet. Last thing he wants is to have ’em snoopin’ and pryin’ and turnin’ up uninvited.”

  Miles let his arms hang loosely by his sides though excitement flared when his mind skipped to the moment he smashed both men’s heads on the table. By his estimation, they had another minute of ignorance before their violent awakening.

  Miles cast Drake a knowing look. One raise of a brow and his friend could read the silent message. “I assume Greystone is still abroad,” Miles said casually. “The last thing we want is for him to stumble upon Gilligan’s little enterprise and ruin his plans.”

  Both miscreants chuckled.

  “Have no fear on that score. Greystone won’t bother you. He ain’t never comin’ back. Hates the place he does.”

  The fool was not wrong. If Miles closed his eyes, he could still hear his mother’s sobs echoing through the gloomy hall like a banshee’s wail. “Who told you that?”

  “Gilligan says the old viscount left his family to rot and ran off with a lightskirt.” The man’s second chin wobbled as he pointed to the painting in the gilt frame hanging to the left of the fireplace. “Greystone’s made his home across the water in—” He stopped abruptly. Stunned, his gaze shot back and forth between the portrait and Miles. “’Ere, has anyone ever told you—”

  “That I look remarkably like Lord Greystone,” Miles said, finishing the man’s sentence.

  Recognition dawned. Across the cluttered table, both men exchanged nervous glances.

  The atmosphere grew heavy—tense.

  Drake moved to stand behind the round man’s chair, his large hands settling on the top rail.

  No one spoke.

  No one moved.

  No one dared breathe.

  Miles locked eyes with Drake, his curt nod being the signal to attack.

  Miles lunged. He grabbed the scrawny man by the shoulders of his threadbare coat and yanked him backwards. Amid shrieks and a string of curses, the chair toppled to the floor. The liquor bottle landed with a thud, the contents glugging over the Persian carpet.

  “Get off me!” the fool shouted, his feet paddling the air desperate to find a solid surface. “Speak to Gilligan. He said we could stay.”

  “Trust me. I shall take great pleasure informing Mr Gilligan that his master has returned.”

  Drake grabbed the other rogue’s hands and prised them off the edge of the card table. Hauling him to his feet, Drake punched him in the gut. The man doubled over. Stumbled. Coughed. Spluttered.

  Drake swung him around, held him in a stranglehold and exerted pressure on his windpipe whenever he struggled to break free. “One more move and I shall snap your damn neck.”

  A mad scuffle ensued, and they dragged the unwanted houseguests to the front door and threw them down the steps.

  “As master of this house,” Miles began, brushing imagined dirt from his hands, “let me make my position clear. If I see you on my land again, I will put a lead ball between your brows. Is that understood?”

  The gravel crunched beneath the men’s feet as they scrambled to stand. Rain lashed their faces. Neither knew what to do.

  Despite the weather, Miles descended the steps, and the men shuffled backwards. “You have until the count of ten to reach the gate before I chase you down and bury your bodies where no one will ever find you.”

 
“But—”

  “One!”

  The men exchanged terrified glances, shuffled two paces to the left and then one to the right.

  “Two!”

  They turned and scurried down the drive, tripping when they looked back to check the devil wasn’t nipping at their heels. Miles grinned. There was nothing more satisfying than wiping the smirk off the faces of those men who thought they had the measure of him.

  “Three!”

  The men picked up their feet and ran, arms flailing.

  Drake chuckled. “There’s nothing like a fight to heat the blood.”

  “Neither of us would call that a fight.” Miles preferred being the underdog, liked the thrill of winning against the odds.

  “Granted.” Drake cracked his neck. “Still, it felt good to throw the rabble out.”

  Miles glanced up at the warm glow emanating from the window of the master bedchamber. Others took advantage of his hospitality. Others took from him without consent. “We’re not done yet. I need to get rid of the doxies warming my bed.”

  “Now this should be entertaining.”

  Drake mounted the stairs two at a time, eager to be the first to reach the upstairs landing. They followed the sound of feminine laughter. The giggles and playful shrieks had long since lost all notes of innocence and now sang of immorality.

  The double doors to his chamber were open. Two women lay sprawled on the majestic poster bed, naked above the waist as they fondled each other on top of the burgundy coverlet.

  That bed had cradled every Greystone for two centuries. That bed had supported brave men who’d fought and spilt blood for their country. That bed marked Miles as unworthy when compared to his ancestors, although his father was the first to hold the title of wastrel.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Drake, and the answer is no.”

  “What, not even a little light relief?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to keep them? For a short while at least.”

  “I’m certain.”

  Like a scene from an exotic brothel in the far reaches of the Orient, the women continued their sensual teasing. Sinful moans filled the air. Amber flames in the hearth danced to the devil’s tune. The soft glow of candlelight licked the red walls. Like Satan’s finger, the potent scent of lust beckoned them into the lair.

  The woman with blond hair looked up. A grin formed on her lips. “Well, well. What ’ave we ’ere?” She left her friend and prowled to the end of the bed, her saggy breasts brushing the coverlet. “Hmm, I expect Dugan’s told ya the price?” Dark eyes devoured Miles before moving to Drake. “Though for two such ’andsome gentlemen, I’m sure we can strike a bargain. What d’ya say, Jenny?”

  The raven-haired strumpet mewled as she eyed Drake.

  Ladies with loose morals liked a brute. They craved power, liked to drink and suck the lifeblood from a man who commanded fear and respect. Miles smiled to himself. He preferred to keep his strength hidden, preferred to catch his enemy unawares.

  “I doubt you’ve got what it takes to satisfy me.” Miles lusted after innocent eyes and a courageous smile. He strode into the room. “Besides, you need to conserve your strength for what lies ahead.”

  The blond one came up on her knees. “And why is that? D’ya like a lady to do all the work?”

  “No, not always, but it’s a three-mile walk back to Cuckfield.”

  “Cuckfield? We’ve no need to go there.”

  “Oh, but you do, because as master of this house I do not take kindly to theft and trespass.” He reached for the shawl on the chair and threw it onto the bed. “You’ve five minutes to gather your belongings before Drake here kindly escorts you to the gate.”

  Their mouths fell open. Confusion marred their brows, the worry lines conveying a host of silent questions.

  “Whatever deal you struck with Mr Gilligan is void,” Miles added.

  Jenny’s anxious expression faded, replaced by a sly grin. “Did Dugan put ya up to this?”

  “If Dugan is one of the men in the drawing room, then he is running down the drive for fear I’ll put a lead ball in his back.”

  Panic surfaced in the women’s eyes once again. Both doxies sat frozen on the bed.

  “But Gilligan said we’d make a tidy sum at the card game tomorrow night.”

  “Gilligan no longer holds any authority here.” Miles pulled his watch from his pocket and checked the time. “A fact he will learn sometime within the next hour. Now get the hell out of my house.” The command swiped the air like a blade, cutting the atmosphere in two.

  The women scrambled from the bed, grabbed stockings and petticoats. One jiggled her breasts back into the bodice of her dress. They ransacked the drawers by the bed, stuffing coins into the secret pockets sewn into their skirts. One filled a cloth purse and pushed it down the valley of her ample bosom.

  Drake folded his arms across his chest and watched the amusing spectacle.

  “You realise I could have sent for the magistrate,” Miles said, keen to let them know their punishment was light when compared to transportation or the hangman’s noose.

  Neither woman bothered to thank him for his compassion nor for the use of his bed. With a mound of clothes in their arms, they hurried out of the room and down the stairs.

  “Do you want me to follow them to the gate?” Drake asked.

  “I think that’s wise lest we find them lurking in the cellar. I’ll leave you to keep watch here while I deal with Gilligan.” Miles relished the thought of wrapping his hands around the steward’s disloyal neck and squeezing until his face turned blue. “I’m going to the assembly in Cuckfield.”

  Drake groaned. “But Dariell won’t arrive with the trunks until tomorrow.” He brushed road dust off the shoulder of Miles’ coat. “What will the fine folk of Cuckfield think if you stroll in dressed like that?”

  “They already think I’m a rogue. And you know how I hate to disappoint. The good people of Cuckfield want to see a murderous devil. A murderous devil is exactly what they’ll get.”

  Chapter Four

  The elegant assembly room at Cuckfield town hall shone beneath the light of three chandeliers. Lydia’s brother, Cecil, had donated the extravagant fixtures a year ago. Arabella did not want their friends from London thinking those who lived in the provinces lacked refinement.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Arabella said through gritted teeth. She looked up at the orchestra seated on the balcony and shook her head. “Could they not find trained musicians? Mr Jethro holds that bow like a cleaver and is intent on murdering Haydn.”

  Lydia glanced at the man’s meaty paws wondering if she might hire him to murder Lord Greystone instead.

  “It’s a community event.” Lydia winced as another missed note rent the air. “The idea is to involve all those willing to participate.”

  “It seems Mr Jethro is not the only one who falls short of expectations this evening.” Arabella’s green eyes narrowed as she scanned Lydia’s coiffure. “Perhaps it is time I replaced your maid. I should never have employed the girl in the first place.”

  It had taken days of pleading and begging before Arabella agreed to hire the fifteen-year-old orphan girl. Lydia promised Ada she would always have a home and for two years she’d kept her word. Besides, a little over an hour ago, Lydia had been racing through the woods in the rain, barely able to catch her breath. Ada deserved a reward for rustling up the simple creation.

  “I asked for something graceful yet understated.” A simple style unlike the monstrosity of feathers and flowers woven into Arabella’s red hair. “Ada merely followed my instructions.”

  Arabella huffed. “So why drag you from the drawing room as if the hay barn had caught fire? I assumed you’d decided to make an effort. Lord Randall is coming. He is accustomed to dancing with duchesses, not dowdy spinsters.”

  “At twenty, I’m hardly a spinster.” Though she happily admitted to being dowdy. There were more important thin
gs in life than succumbing to the demands of fashion. A pretty silk polonaise had failed to save the heads of the French aristocracy.

  Staring down her nose, Arabella shook her head. “A spinster you most definitely will be unless you take a husband soon. Lord Randall has an estate of four thousand acres and is besotted with you.”

  And having met Rudolph Randall numerous times, he could own half of England and still Lydia would not entertain him.

  “His estate makes ours look positively paltry,” Arabella complained. “If only your brother had taken my advice and invested in Lord Randall’s shipping venture, then we might boast the same.”

  Bless Cecil. Arabella found him lacking. He was too short, too weak, too affable.

  “Cecil errs on the side of caution. You know that.”

  “And where has it got him?”

  “There are plenty of gentlemen in debtors’ prison whose only crime is recklessness,” Lydia argued. “Should you not be grateful he devotes all of his time”—and money—“to you?”

  Arabella scowled. “You would see it that way. You don’t have to rely on rent from tenant farmers to make ends meet.”

  Why did Arabella always bring the conversation back to Lydia’s inheritance?

  “You’re hardly poor, Arabella.” Anyone who could afford to hire Madame Albertini to design their gowns did not need to count the pennies. “Did you not make an eight per cent return on the dividends from bank stock?”

  “That is nothing compared to the fortune your father left you.”

  Every day, Arabella reminded Lydia of her father’s failures. As the only son, Cecil should have inherited everything, right down to their father’s baggy stockings. And yet he received only that which was entailed. Lydia inherited the townhouse in London, and a sum large enough that she need never marry.

  And in less than a month it would be hers.

  “Any loyal sister would acknowledge that there has been a terrible miscarriage of justice,” Arabella grumbled. “Let us hope that when you come of age you reward your brother for his devoted service to you these last two years.”

  “Reward him? You mean give Cecil my inheritance?” It was the first time Lydia had spoken so candidly. The altercation with Greystone had given her the courage to be bold.