At Last the Rogue Returns

by Adele Clee

“I am merely here for a night of entertainment,” the pompous lord eventually said. He tried to shuffle backwards without looking craven but only made himself appear weak and pathetic.

  “If entertainment is what you seek, then I do not wish to disappoint.” Greystone glared at the crumpled figure of Mr Gilligan. “Stand like a man and accept the consequences of your actions.”

  Lydia glanced around the room. The musicians sat perched on their chairs, bows frozen in hand, mesmerised by the unfolding spectacle. People hung on Greystone’s every word, watching, waiting, wondering what on earth he would do next.

  Other than Lord Randall, no one dared offer a challenge.

  For all Mr Gilligan’s protestations to the contrary, his lips were sewn shut, too.

  Someone had to do something.

  Stepping forward, Lydia placed her hand on Lord Greystone’s sleeve. Instantly, his head shot around, his gaze locking with hers before drifting down to her silk glove.

  “Please. Don’t do this here,” she whispered. Never in her wildest dreams did she think she would ever speak so softly to this devil. “You don’t know what this man has endured these last five years.”

  Greystone stared at her, and the silly tingling in her stomach began all over again. “While your courage knows no bounds, Miss Lovell, in this instance I believe you are ignorant of the facts.”

  “Then please take it upon yourself to enlighten me.”

  A sinful grin formed on his lips. His eyes flashed with excitement as he studied her mouth, the loose wisps of hair brushing her cheek, the swell of her breasts visible above the neckline of her gown.

  “Perhaps some other time,” he said in a rich drawl.

  For a moment it was as if they were the only two people in the room. No man had ever looked at her that way, with a clawing hunger that made her forget to breathe. Her cheeks flushed hot. Oh, her traitorous body deserved to spend a week on the rack.

  “But for you, Miss Lovell, because you asked so nicely, I shall grant your request.” Greystone squatted—his muscular thighs almost bursting out of his breeches—until eye level with Mr Gilligan. He whispered something in the steward’s ear that made the man whimper.

  “My lord, please,” Lydia implored.

  Greystone stood. “I’ll await Mr Gilligan outside. You shall bring him out to me, Miss Lovell, else I’ll grab him by the scruff of the neck and drag his sorry backside across the dance floor.”

  Lydia nodded. “Very well. I shall do as you ask.”

  Arabella would refuse to let her leave and so all she could do was insist Cecil accompany her.

  “It seems you have a brief reprieve, Gilligan.” Greystone turned to her. “Meet me outside in five minutes, else the people of Cuckfield will wish they’d stayed indoors this evening.”

  Lydia swallowed down a nervous flutter.

  Greystone moved to leave but then stopped beside her, his warm breath breezing across her cheek. “Don’t try my patience, Miss Lovell. Just because I have granted you a boon, do not make the mistake of thinking me weak. You were right in your earlier assessment.”

  “Oh? Right about what?”

  “The devil has returned to Greystone Manor.”

  Chapter Five

  The town hall clock struck nine, indicating the end of the five minutes’ grace Miles had granted Miss Lovell. Seething, he leant back against the Doric column supporting the portico and stared at the large wooden doors. He’d been too lenient. Had given more than the lady had the right to demand.

  What was it about Miss Lovell he found so diverting?

  Why did he feel an overwhelming need to please her?

  During his extensive travels abroad, he’d met many exotic beauties. Women with sleek black hair as soft and shiny as silk, the sultry look in their eyes promising a wealth of pleasure. But none of them came in a pretty package of contradiction—brimming with innocence, burning with passion.

  Miss Lovell was a complex puzzle he felt compelled to solve. A fascination he was drawn to pursue.

  Despite believing the worst of his character, she’d spoken to him tonight as if an honourable man lurked beneath the devilish facade. And while anger flowed through his veins for her failure to do as he asked, her need to defy him proved intriguing.

  He whipped his watch from his pocket, checked the time and then snapped the case shut. Against his better judgement, he’d agreed to the lady’s request, but he could not go back on his word.

  Miles pushed away from the stone column and brushed dust from his coat sleeves. He was about to march back inside when the doors flew open and three people stumbled onto the top step.

  Satisfaction settled in his chest. The feeling had nothing to do with punishing Gilligan and everything to do with the fact the lady had followed his instruction.

  “You’re late, Miss Lovell.”

  “Late?” She raised a challenging brow. “I think not. Might I suggest you take your pocket watch to Mr Marshall and have him inspect the mechanism?”

  Miles suppressed a grin. Miss Lovell had a magical ability to soothe his foul temper. Much like his French friend Dariell.

  “There is nothing wrong with my watch. I bought it a month ago.” It was a lie, but he could not let her have the last word. Besides, he enjoyed this game they played.

  “Then that explains why it is faulty. A gentleman who travels extensively should look to the likes of Mr Arnold if he hopes to make a reliable purchase. The advances he’s made with the chronometer are remarkable.”

  “What need do I have for a chronometer when I am on dry land?” He was impressed she even knew of such things. It would be like him advising her on the texture of silk threads and the stability of needlework frames.

  “Is there not a direct correlation between time and longitude?” she said smugly. “Is that not a factor when venturing to distant lands?”

  “I believe she is right,” said the third person—a gentleman of average height and bland features.

  “Oh, I am right.” Miss Lovell offered a smile that was so blinding Miles almost forgot about his problems with the steward.

  “A chronometer is of use if one is navigating the seas,” Miles countered. “I spent most of my time sleeping below deck.”

  He considered the woman before him. For some men, the sight of bare breasts made the blood rush to their cocks. For him, it seemed to be a rather pointless argument about nautical instruments.

  “Moreover,” Miles continued, “no two watches will ever tell the same time unless one has the correct instrument to set them.”

  The corners of her mouth curled up, and her eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “Then have you not just contradicted your original statement? How can I be late when no two watches are the same?”

  Miles inclined his head in defeat. He admired intelligence almost as much as loyalty. “Then allow me to offer an apology for speaking out of turn. Now, if you will excuse me, I have business with my steward. Good night, Miss Lovell.”

  Gilligan whimpered.

  The lady squared her shoulders. She gripped the sleeve of Gilligan’s coat as a mother would a disobedient child. “My conscience demands that I remain with Mr Gilligan for fear you might kill him.”

  “I am not going to kill Mr Gilligan. I may beat him.” The man deserved a good whipping for his crimes. “But I shan’t kill him just yet.”

  Gilligan’s eyes widened, and he sniffed. “I can explain everything, my lord.”

  “Trust me. I will not be satisfied until you’ve spilt your guts.”

  Miss Lovell gasped. “Clearly you are misinformed. Mr Gilligan has worked tirelessly in your absence. The good people of Cuckfield hold him in the highest regard.”

  “Yes, indeed.” The gentleman with insipid features nodded.

  “Then the good people of Cuckfield have been duped,” Miles countered. He was tired of being branded the villain. “But have no fear, the truth will prevail. Good night, Miss Lovell.”

  “My lord—”

 
“Please return to the assembly, Miss Lovell,” Gilligan interjected, all meek and humble. “I do not wish your delicate sensibilities to suffer an injury on my account.”

  Miles cursed inwardly.

  Gilligan would distort the story. He was a master manipulator and would blame Miles for his failures.

  No.

  Miss Lovell would hear the truth. And for some unfathomable reason, Miles wanted to witness the look on her face when she learnt of her error, wanted to hear a whispered apology fall from those luscious lips.

  “If I am to conduct my business in the street, at least let us find a more secluded place in which to do so.” Miles stormed down the steps, gesturing to the path that ran along the side of the old building. It would not do to have passers-by observing him strangling his steward.

  Tugging Mr Gilligan by the sleeve, Miss Lovell followed.

  “Just deposit Gilligan and let us get back inside,” said the vapid gentleman tottering behind. “This is not our affair.”

  “I am not leaving until I’ve spoken to Lord Greystone.” Miss Lovell spoke loudly enough for Miles to hear. “I shall know why he means to treat Mr Gilligan so abominably.”

  So abominably? The lady had seen nothing yet.

  “Return to the assembly,” Gilligan repeated in a hushed tone. “If he means to kill me, then so be it. But this is not your fight, Miss Lovell.”

  “Not my fight? Am I not the one who has assisted you these last two years?” Miss Lovell looked most offended. “I’m not going anywhere until this matter is addressed. Think of the poor tenants. The ones you’ve tended without complaint.”

  Miles came to an abrupt halt at the side of the building, a place hidden in the shadows. He swung around. “Yes, I should like to hear more about the way I have neglected my responsibilities, Mr Gilligan.”

  Gilligan whimpered again. He tugged his arm free and then suddenly whirled around and took flight.

  “God damn,” Miles muttered and followed with numerous curses under his breath.

  “Clearly he is terrified of you.” Miss Lovell slapped her hand to her chest in shock as Miles darted past. He grabbed the steward by the collar and dragged him back under cover of darkness.

  “Trust me, Miss Lovell,” Miles growled. “He has every right to be terrified. Your presence is the only thing preventing me from forcing my fist down his throat.”

  The fellow with the shiny head stepped forward. “Perhaps we should all sit down with a pot of tea and discuss what seems to be a terrible mistake.”

  “And who the hell are you?” Miles asked bluntly. This man would feel the full force of his wrath if he didn’t stop interfering. He turned to Miss Lovell. “When I granted you licence to help me deal with this matter, I made no mention of recruiting others to assist you.”

  The gentleman bowed. “I am Lord Lovell. We are neighbours it seems.”

  “He’s my brother,” Miss Lovell added apologetically.

  Miles noted the man’s weak chin and nervous eyes. Evidently, Miss Lovell had inherited her brother’s share of courage. No wonder she was free to roam the woods after dark. Lord Lovell shook at the sight of his own shadow. He hadn’t a hope in hell of managing this lady.

  But Miles could.

  And he would have a damnably good time in the process.

  Why that thought popped into his head, he had no notion. He planned to stay at the manor for a few days, a week at most. The stopover was meant to help him gather his thoughts and prepare his battle plan. Only now, his mind had never been more chaotic.

  “Please tell Mr Gilligan that you have no intention of murdering him tonight,” Miss Lovell continued. “I can assure you he has worked hard to improve living standards. Whatever your problem, you should look a little closer to home.”

  Miles snorted. “Without meaning to sound rude, Miss Lovell, you know nothing of my predicament. What you think you know and what happened are two entirely different things.”

  She raised her chin, but uncertainty flashed in her pretty blue eyes. “Then I wish to take you up on your offer.”

  “My offer?”

  “To enlighten me.” Her smiled carried an air of confidence that stirred something deep within.

  “Come.” Lord Lovell tugged his sister’s arm, and Miles resisted the urge to punch him. “We have delivered Mr Gilligan without causing distress to those out for an evening of fun and frivolity. Let’s leave Greystone here to deal with his steward.”

  “Yes, leave now,” Gilligan implored.

  Miles ignored both men, his mind engaged in all the ways he might enlighten this lady. The seductive power of a gentle caresses would leave her breathless. The slow melding of mouths would heat her blood to a fever pitch. The first thrust to fill her full would make her pant with pleasure. Oh, she would moan at him then but for an entirely different reason.

  “Well, Lord Greystone?” said the tiger in the guise of a mouse. “Pray tell all.”

  Miles stared at her. He had the sudden urge to taste her lips, to discover how they moved against his, discover the smooth strokes of her tongue.

  Forcing himself to focus on the pressing problem at hand—the issue of Gilligan, not his arousing reaction to Miss Lovell—Miles said, “Would you care to tell them what has been going on at Greystone Manor or shall I?”

  Mr Gilligan’s eyes bulged. “I don’t know what you mean, my lord. I’ve not been there. I’ve been in Burgess Hill on business.”

  “What, for five years?”

  Miles met Miss Lovell’s gaze, but she averted her attention to the steward. “Now is the time to tell his lordship how doubling the rents left his tenants destitute. Tell him about the Roberts boys.” The lady grew increasingly more agitated. “Go on. Tell him.”

  Mr Gilligan’s face flamed beetroot red, and his head lolled forward.

  “Tell me,” Miles insisted.

  Silence ensued.

  “Mr Gilligan?” Miss Lovell said, but the steward failed to raise his head.

  The longer the man remained mute, the more Miss Lovell’s countenance altered. Suspicion marred her elegant features. Doubt and disappointment swam in the crystal blue waters of her eyes. Her shoulders sagged with the humiliating truth that she might have misplaced her trust.

  Miles shouldn’t care, but he’d witnessed the same look in his mother’s eyes so many times the pain of it still lived inside him. Discovering one’s world was a lie left a cavernous hole in one’s chest. His father had chosen his mistress over his wife and heir. How ironic that after such a betrayal it was the victim who suffered from a crippling sense of inadequacy.

  “Allow me to explain.” Miles had grown tired of waiting. “When a man arrives home after a five-year absence, he does not expect to find card sharps in his drawing room and doxies in his bed.”

  “Doxies? In your bed?” Miss Lovell blinked rapidly. Her gaze drifted over his hair and dishevelled clothes. “What on earth were they doing there?”

  “I’m hoping Gilligan can provide the answer.” Miles gave him a shake. “And I would also like to know why he has arranged for a card game to take place at the manor tomorrow evening and invited a host of disreputable guests?” The latter was merely a guess. Thieves and whores rarely kept good company.

  “It’s just a few friends, my lord, just a few friends.”

  “If they’re your friends pray tell me why they are drinking my brandy and sleeping in my bed?”

  Gilligan kept his head bowed. “The roof in the gatekeeper’s cottage leaks.”

  “And did I not release funds for you to have it replaced?”

  “Replaced?”

  “Yes, replaced. Twelve months ago, you wrote to me so that I might approve the work. If you didn’t get the roof fixed, what the hell did you do with the money?”

  Miss Lovell covered her mouth with her hand and took a step back. Her complexion turned pallid, and she swallowed visibly.

  “For heaven’s sake, Gilligan,” Lord Lovell said with a weary sigh, “just a
dmit to your obvious failures and let us get in out of the cold.” He turned to Miss Lovell and said in a hushed tone, “Now do you see why I prefer to keep my own accounts?”

  Miss Lovell lowered her trembling hand. “You didn’t hire a steward because Arabella forbade it. Heaven help her if she had to account for her frivolous spending.”

  Miles watched the interaction between brother and sister. The relationship showed signs of strain. Anyone could see that. Was it because they were opposites in every regard?

  “I didn’t get the roof rethatched because I spent the money elsewhere,” Gilligan said, desperate to defend his position. “Miss Lovell will tell you.”

  She narrowed her gaze. “While you arranged for the repairs to Mr Roberts’ roof, the cost was a tenth of what it would be to replace a thatched roof. What happened to the rest?”

  Clever lady.

  At this rate, Miss Shrewd would be the one to force a confession.

  Gilligan’s mouth opened, but it took a moment before he formed a word. “Well … there was the replacement window for Mrs Shaw, and the erm … the—”

  “But you said you had gone begging and borrowing to cover the cost of that. You were given supper at the coaching inn and two tankards of ale by way of thanks.”

  Gilligan mumbled to himself.

  “And do not dare say you spent it on fixing the well,” she continued. “We both know where the funds for that came from.”

  Guilt tightened the muscles in Miles’ throat. His stomach roiled with the sickening sense that he’d been remiss in his duties as lord and master. It didn’t matter that he’d entrusted that role to another. He should have hired someone to hold Gilligan to task. He should not have been so trusting.

  “While I would have preferred to hear the truth, Gilligan,” Miles began, “I know enough of men to know you have a gambling habit. You’ve been entertaining whores in my bed. Neglected your duties. In the end, it all amounts to one thing.”

  Gilligan’s bottom lip trembled. “Wh-what is that?”

  “You’re guilty of theft. You’ve used my money to fund a lavish lifestyle beyond your means, and I intend to inform the magistrate immediately.”