At Last the Rogue Returns

by Adele Clee

  Lydia cleared her throat in the hope of gaining his attention.

  Greystone did not move, did not say a word.

  They crept closer still. The lord’s eyes were closed. He wore the same grey coat as the previous evening but now with dark blue breeches and matching waistcoat. No doubt the plain material was easy to carry in a saddlebag. Lydia couldn’t help but stare at his full lips and the cleft in his chin that gave him a roguish air. The absence of a hat drew her gaze to the copper tones in his dark wind-tousled locks.

  “Is he dead, miss?” Ada whispered.

  “Of course he’s not dead,” Lydia said, but she knew of many men who were keen to bury a blade in his back. “He’s sleeping.”

  She noted the gentle rise and fall of his chest. In slumber, Greystone looked nothing like the black-hearted devil she’d believed him to be. There was a softness to his features, an inner radiance that shone from within—a noble air that spoke of honesty and strength of heart.

  “Sleeping?” Ada frowned. “On a stone?”

  “He’s probably tired after such a long journey.”

  The corners of Greystone’s mouth curled up in amusement. “You’re late, Miss Lovell,” he said without opening his eyes. “And don’t try to blame it on my inadequate timepiece.”

  For some odd reason, Lydia’s heart felt a little lighter when he spoke. “As a lady of principle, I am more than happy to admit to my failures, my lord.” She glanced around the circle of stones. “The morning sun has moved beyond the stone to my left. By my estimation, this ancient timepiece confirms I am fifteen minutes late.”

  Greystone opened his eyes, the green gems flashing with admiration. He sat up and swung his muscular legs to the ground. “Impressive, Miss Lovell. Few take time to study the stones.”

  A blush warmed Lydia’s cheeks. Other than the odd insincere compliment from Lord Randall—which always focused on one’s outward presentation—no one had ever praised her intelligence.

  “I’ve spent a lot of time here during the last three years.” Lydia used any excuse to be away from Arabella. “There is something calming about the place, something fascinating.”

  “Indeed.” His gaze drifted over her face. The corners of his mouth twitched when he focused on the bunch of cherries decorating her bonnet. “I’ve always thought so.”

  A brief silence ensued though the charge in the air, coupled with her heightened awareness of him, created an inner chaos.

  In a sudden move, Lord Greystone jumped to the ground and dusted off his bare hands. So, he had forgone gloves and a hat. When one spent days in the sun, no doubt certain items of apparel proved bothersome. But was he not cold? Did he not feel the autumn chill in the air?

  Ada gasped and shrank back. The whites of her eyes bulged from their sockets, and she made the sign of the cross.

  “My maid was told the devil has returned to Cuckfield,” Lydia said by way of an explanation. If she was going to help the tenants, she would need to encourage honesty between herself and Lord Greystone. “I’m afraid to say she believes the worst.”

  “In that regard, she was not alone, Miss Lovell. You had your reservations, too.” He inclined his head though he held Lydia’s gaze. “I shall have to see what I can do to prove my worth.”

  The tickle in her stomach danced up to her throat. Oh, this was ridiculous. “We should begin with a visit to Mr and Mrs Guthrie,” she said, desperate to keep her mind and body occupied with something other than these odd sensations. “Their cottage is but a ten-minute walk from here.”

  Greystone smiled. “Then lead the way, Miss Lovell, and I will gladly follow.”

  “The roof leaks whenever it’s raining.” Mrs Guthrie gathered her shawl around her shoulders and pointed to the damp patch on the wall. “And Mr Gilligan says I’m to collect half the vegetables I grow and give them to the manor.”

  Lord Greystone scanned the interior of the small cottage. The wood basket was empty. The board on the table held nothing but a stale loaf of bread and a chunk of cheese that looked hard and rubbery around the edges.

  A musty scent hung in the air, and the bitter chill sent a shiver from Lydia’s neck to her navel. Heavens, it felt warmer outside than it did in the cottage.

  “Gilligan no longer has any authority here.” Anger flashed in Greystone’s eyes, but he held his calm demeanour. “Am I right in thinking you used to work at the manor?”

  Mrs Guthrie pushed a straggly lock of hair back into her white mobcap. “Yes, my lord. I worked in the kitchen, and Mr Guthrie worked in the stables. He’s off at Burgess Hill, got a day’s work with the farrier.”

  Greystone fell silent, the stillness only broken by the grinding of teeth as he clenched his jaw. “What did I pay you before Mr Gilligan gave you notice?”

  “Eight pounds a year, my lord.”

  “Then I shall pay you ten pounds if you return to the manor today. I’ll increase your husband’s pay if he returns to the stables tomorrow.” He reached into his coat pocket, removed two gold coins and thrust them into the woman’s hand. “That should ease your burden for now, and you can take your meals at the manor. In the meantime, I shall deal with the necessary repairs to your home.”

  Mrs Guthrie’s eyes widened. “Oh, my lord.” She stared at the coins in her hand, then clutched them to her chest and curtsied repeatedly. “I don’t know what to say.”

  Lydia studied the lord’s face. He took pleasure from easing Mrs Guthrie’s woes. The hard line of his mouth relaxed. Those emerald jewels softened at the sight of the poor woman’s smile.

  The devil had a heart it seemed.

  “The kitchen is in a sorry state,” he said in the authoritative tone that marked him as an aristocrat. “Gilligan kept the cook on, but no one else. Consequently, it will take a few days to clean, and to restock the larder.”

  Mrs Guthrie nodded and stared at Greystone as if he were the Messiah and not the beast who’d crawled up from an earthy pit in the ground. “I shall leave for the manor right away, my lord.”

  They left Mrs Guthrie’s cottage and turned right onto the narrow country lane. Despite the chill in the air, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Lydia stopped for a moment to admire the vista. The turning leaves—crimson and bronze and gold—were a majestic sight to behold.

  “There’s beauty in the changing seasons,” Lord Greystone said as they watched birds darting in and out of the hedgerows searching for berries. “I missed the English countryside while away.”

  Lydia couldn’t help but smile. “What, even the torrential rain and muddy thoroughfares?”

  “Most definitely the rain. The heat abroad is stifling. I cannot tell you how many times I wished the heavens would open and soak me to the skin.”

  A tantalising picture formed in her mind, of his damp shirt clinging to his back, of him sating his thirst with some exotic beverage that glistened on his lips and trickled down to the cleft in his chin. “And … and yet you stayed away for so long.”

  “There wasn’t a day that I didn’t yearn to be home.” He gave a weary sigh. “Now, where to next?”

  Not all the tenants were as forgiving as Mrs Guthrie, though they knew not to cross words with the master else they could find themselves looking for shelter as well as food and firewood.

  “I don’t suppose Mr Roberts will take kindly to a visit.” Ada’s whisper was loud enough for his lordship to hear.

  “I don’t suppose he will.” Lydia had wanted nothing more than to see the lord hit with a barrage of complaints and curses. Now, the thought made her anxious.

  “And why is that, Miss Lovell?”

  Lydia wasn’t sure where to start. “Mrs Roberts died last spring. She caught a chill and the damp conditions at home only made matters worse.” Lydia closed her eyes briefly. It pained her whenever she thought about the three boys weeping at their mother’s grave. “Mr Roberts has never forgiven you.”

  Lord Greystone sucked in a breath. He fell silent, his eyes cast down in a mournful gaze.


  “Apportioning blame does little to heal one’s grief,” he said in a melancholic tone that spoke to her heart and piqued her curiosity. “And yet we cling on to vengeance as it is the only thing that feels real, the only thing we know.”

  He spoke from experience, that much was clear, and she found she wanted to peel away the layers of his character to discern what secrets lay beneath.

  “Most people find acceptance difficult,” she said wistfully. “Almost as though the lack of fight means they have failed the injured party in some way.”

  Greystone came to an abrupt halt and waited for her to stop and turn to face him. “How insightful, Miss Lovell. It is as though you have stolen into my mind and peeked at my thoughts.” A sinful smile touched his lips. “Although I sincerely hope you’re not party to them all.”

  The heat of his stare warmed her blood. “When it comes to vengeful thoughts, my lord, I am considered an expert.” Many times she had dreamed of beating him and Arabella until their backsides were black and blue.

  “Then we must strive to find something pleasant to occupy your mind.”

  Lydia struggled to hold his gaze. She gave a nervous laugh, took hold of Ada’s arm and strode on ahead. “We shall visit Albert Crowe next.”

  Greystone was right. In his company, she was out of her depth and drowning in a sea of new sensations.

  “Albert Crowe? Did he not serve as the gamekeeper?”

  “Having worked for your family for fifty years, he earned the right to his home.” Lydia was aware of Greystone walking behind but did not stop or turn around. “And still Mr Gilligan insisted on charging him a nominal rent.”

  Greystone muttered a curse. “Then I shall be only too glad to ease the poor man’s burden.”

  They strode along the lane in silence.

  Ada tripped over her feet numerous times, partly because she did not take her eyes off Lydia once.

  “Are you sure it’s safe, miss?” Ada whispered.

  “Safe? Albert is almost seventy. It’s unlikely he’ll find the strength to wallop his lordship.”

  “I’m talking about his lordship, not old Albert.” Ada’s eyes flicked in their sockets, but she didn’t turn her head. “Happen there’s not much food at the manor. I’ve never seen a gentleman look so hungry.”

  “No doubt Mr Gilligan’s doxies emptied the larder.” Lydia sighed inwardly. The mere mention of the steward’s name made her feel like a naive fool. Oh, how had she been so blind? “Perhaps I should have brought a basket. There is nothing worse than the loud rumble of a man’s stomach.” A hungry man was an angry man, or so the saying went.

  “It’s not his stomach I’m worried about, miss. I’m worried he’s going to pounce on you and gobble you whole.”

  “Pounce on me?” Lydia said a little too loudly. An image of Lord Greystone nibbling and sucking her neck flashed into her mind. “How many times must I tell you?” she said, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Just because he spent time abroad does not mean he’s a savage. Those stories of cannibals are spread merely as an excuse to invade the colonies.”

  “Mrs Cotton said her husband’s ship once ran aground, and they took shelter on an island. Every night a man went missing. They found one on a roasting spit burnt to a crisp.”

  Lydia sighed. “Regardless what Mrs Cotton said, his lordship is not after eating me.”

  Ada frowned. “Then why does he look at you in that odd way?”

  “Maybe he’s not looking at me at all. Maybe after a month at sea, he is simply dreaming of cherry pie.”

  Ada pursed her lips as she considered the comment. “Happen you’re right. He licked his lips ten times or more when you were speaking.”

  “Is everything all right?” the man in question called out behind them.

  “Yes,” Lydia said a little breathlessly. “We were just debating the merits of cherry pie.”

  Lord Greystone quickened his pace and sidled up beside them. “How did you know?”

  “Know what?”

  “That I have a particular fondness for cherries.” He glanced up at her bonnet again. “The mere sight of them rouses a hunger like no other.”

  Lydia noted the ravenous look in Greystone’s eyes. “So you are in need of sustenance?”

  “My dear Miss Lovell, I cannot think of a time when I have been so famished.”

  Chapter Seven

  They visited three more tenants after Mrs Guthrie. Each cottage came with its problems—broken windows, missing tiles, damp walls. The neglect went beyond the five years Miles had been away, beyond his mother’s attempt to manage the estate.

  Gilligan was not the only one to blame.

  Miles had borne witness to his father’s culpability. Within days of his wife producing an heir, his father abandoned his family to reside in London, close to the theatre where his mistress graced the stage. And other than odd irregular visits to the manor, there he remained. Miles’ mother had tried her best to maintain things but was just as starved of funds as the poor tenants.

  But his parents were dead. And now the blame lay firmly upon his shoulders. They were broad enough to bear the weight of responsibility, broad enough so he might stand strong and begin to right the wrongs of the past.

  “We’ll cross the field as it will save the twenty-minute walk,” Miss Lovell said, drawing Miles out of his thoughts. She stood at the stile, her attention flitting between the cottage in the distance and some boys climbing trees in the adjacent field. “But I should warn you. You’ll not get a warm welcome here.”

  Her tone lacked the heavy contempt that clung to her words at their first meeting. Now, he heard a hint of compassion, not only for the tenants but surprisingly for him.

  “As master of Greystone Manor I have failed these people, and so must deal with their hostility not hide from it.” Miles climbed the stile and offered his hand. “Allow me to assist you.”

  Miss Lovell and her maid exchanged nervous glances. They looked at him, at his ungloved hand, and then at each other.

  “Having witnessed the dilapidated state of the cottages, I feel like the worst of scoundrels,” he said. It was true. The crippling sense of inadequacy left a dull ache in his chest. “Please allow me to play the gentleman at least once today.”

  A faint smile caught on Miss Lovell’s lips. “Ada will go first.” She ushered her maid forward, but the girl refused to budge. “I think we’ve established that Lord Greystone is not the devil.”

  With bulging eyes, the maid stared at his hand as if it were the claw of a two-headed beast. “But he’s not w-wearing gloves, miss.”

  Miss Lovell sighed. “Lord Greystone will cup your elbow.”

  The lady met his gaze. She said nothing, but he could read the unspoken words in her dazzling blue eyes. She cared for the maid and begged him silently to tread carefully with the delicate servant.

  Miles held out his arm as one would if hunting with a hawk. “Hold on to my arm if you need to steady your balance.”

  The maid swallowed. Muttering to herself, she stepped forward and clambered over the stile, caught her foot on the top rung, flew forward and knocked Miles to the ground.

  “Oh, goodness. Oh, Lord.” The maid shot up, brushed her skirts and then didn’t know what to do with herself.

  Miss Lovell climbed the stile and hurried over. “Are you all right, my lord?”

  He was about to say no, that he’d missed an opportunity to touch her hand, to test the power of this undeniable attraction. But the lady reached out and offered to help him up. Ordinarily, pride would force him to refuse.

  “Thank you, Miss Lovell.” Miles slid his hand into hers. Though she wore kidskin gloves, the heat from her palm sent a flood of warmth rushing up his arm—a little raced in a southerly direction, too.

  The lady’s gaze flitted from his eyes to their joined hands and back again. Her breath came a little quicker, and he fought the urge to pull her down on top of him and plunder her smart mouth.

  But li
ke all good maids, the girl hurried over to assist Miss Lovell in dragging Miles to his feet. “I’m clumsy, my lord, that’s all I can tell you. Clumsy as … Well, as clumsy as I don’t know what. I fall over my feet most days.”

  “Indeed.”

  “You must forgive Ada, my lord.” Miss Lovell pursed her lips. Was she laughing? “She is easily startled.”

  Ada nodded but looked most perturbed. “Once, a robin flew out of a bush and gave me such a fright I fell face-first into the brook.”

  Now it was Miles’ turn to suppress a grin. Ada needed to spend an hour with Dariell. The man was at one with nature—at one with the universe. He could bring calm to any given situation. And with any luck, he would arrive with the luggage at some point today.

  “We were picking algae out of her hair for hours,” Miss Lovell said. She glanced absently at the cottage in the distance, and all amusement faded. “After we’ve seen Mr Roberts, I should return to home. You don’t need my help.”

  An odd pang in his chest urged him to contest the statement.

  “Regardless what has happened these last five years,” she continued, “it’s clear the tenants still respect your position.”

  “And what of you, Miss Lovell? Do you still wish to punish me for my misdeeds?”

  “Promises fall too easily from the lips,” she said, holding his gaze with a level of confidence he greatly admired. “Few people keep them. Therefore, I shall reserve opinion until a later date.”

  The need to command and conquer this lady took hold again. By way of a distraction, he brushed the dirt from his breeches, looked at Mr Roberts’ property and sighed. It wouldn’t do to march into the man’s house and play the arrogant lord.

  “Are you sure you want to visit Mr Roberts today?” Miss Lovell asked as if sensing his apprehension. Was she attuned to his moods or just remarkably perceptive? “Ada cannot abide raised voices. But for everyone’s sake, I would not have you go there alone.”

  Miles knew her concern veered more towards the man who’d lost his wife. Still, he was touched she had no desire to throw him to the wolves.