by Adele Clee
“I assume no one knows of the connection.”
“To pay their vowels they sold the shares to Lord Audley who in turn sold them to Mr Camberwell. For the moment, your brothers believe they still own the majority share. It seems with their interest in sport of all kinds”—whores and horses, he meant—“they have no time to concern themselves with business matters.”
“Then I shall continue to hound them until they own nothing but the shirts on their backs.” Vengeance still burned in Miles’ chest but less brightly since meeting Miss Lovell. Indeed, it dwindled by the day.
Mr Cardon removed a battered notebook and flicked to a certain page. “Regarding their current debts, Edwin Harridan-Jones owes thirty thousand pounds in gambling vowels, Stephen twenty-thousand,” he said, reading from his notes. “The house in Brighton is for sale. And I heard a rumour that they are to play in a high-stakes game of hazard set to take place in the backrooms of Brooks next week.”
So they had received the exclusive invitation. Miles owed Viscount Stapleton a debt of gratitude for agreeing to his request. It was at the same event that Drake planned to ruin Baron Bromfield and take the lord’s daughter as his prize.
“Well, you have certainly done a thorough job in my absence.” Miles stood.
“Thank you, my lord.” Mr Cardon packed away his papers. “Oh, I’ve heard talk that another shipping company is reducing its fleet. Perhaps you might be in mind to make a purchase.”
Miles had enough contacts abroad to run extra routes. “Do you know which company?”
Mr Cardon’s cheeks flushed. “Erm, with your permission I can make enquiries.”
“Then do so. I shall send word when I return to Greystone Manor.” As soon as he mentioned his home, Miss Lovell’s delightful face flashed into his mind. It was odd. Despite being just forty miles away, it felt as though he’d left part of himself behind. “I think that’s all for today.”
“Shall I continue to monitor your brothers’ activities?”
“Indeed.”
Miles rang for Copeland, Drake’s butler, to escort Mr Cardon to the door.
Once alone, Miles sat gathering his thoughts. An hour passed before Drake returned from his outing and entered the drawing room.
“Ah, so you decided against going out,” Drake said, heading for the drinks table.
“I found myself a little restless and chose to remain here.” Miles nodded when Drake pulled the crystal stopper from the brandy decanter. “Indeed, once I’ve revealed myself as the majority shareholder of Greystone Shipping tomorrow, I think I’ll go home.”
“Home?” Drake frowned. “I thought you despised the place.”
“I do—I did—I don’t know.”
A sinful grin formed on his friend’s lips. “Does this have anything to do with Miss Lovell?”
“Perhaps, but not entirely. Town doesn’t suit me. I hate the pomp and ceremony.”
“As do I, which is why I shall leave once I’ve claimed my bride.”
“You’re confident you can win?”
Drake looked at him incredulously and thrust the glass of brandy into Miles’ hand. “I’ve trained for three years, played against the best. Of course I can win.”
They spent a few minutes discussing tactics before the conversation returned to Miss Lovell.
“There’s something I meant to tell you when I came in,” Drake began, and from his strained expression Miles knew it was unpleasant. “There’s talk about you round town.”
Miles breathed a sigh. “There is always talk about me.”
“Yes, but this will matter if you decide to return to the manor.”
“Go on,” Miles said with some trepidation.
“The gossip is that you and Lord Lovell’s sister are lovers. Apparently, you conduct your secret liaisons at that stone monument on the estate.” Drake snorted. “It’s ludicrous. You’ve only been home a matter of days. But I imagine his lordship won’t be best pleased. Name me as your second if he calls you out.”
Bloody hell!
Miles would bet his entire fortune Edwin was to blame. “One does not need to work for Bow Street to come up with a list of prime suspects.”
“No,” Drake agreed. He was about to sip his brandy when he froze, glass in hand. “Hellfire. It’s true. You have had a dalliance with Miss Lovell. You’ve got the word guilt pressed into your forehead.”
“I like her” was all he said in response. It was more than that and Drake knew it.
“Then what the blazes are you doing here?” Drake shrugged. “Well, I know what you’re doing here, but deal with the matter quickly and return home.” Drake swallowed the contents of his glass. “And hire some servants while you go about it. Unless you enjoy sweeping the grate and tending to your bed.”
The offices of Greystone Shipping were located on the second floor of a neoclassical building on Northumberland Avenue. With Mr Cardon in tow, Miles entered through the large oak doors, introduced himself to the sour-faced secretary seated at the desk and allowed the fellow to escort them to the grand staircase.
“You requested that both Stephen and Edwin meet me here?” Miles clarified as he unlocked the door and they entered the oak-panelled office. Two large desks took pride of place in the vast room. A room that boasted a portrait of his father—soon to be ripped down and burnt on the bonfire—and numerous paintings of naval scenes, and of brigs and schooners.
Miles sat on the green leather sofa flanking the fire.
“You do not wish to command a desk, my lord?” Cardon asked politely.
Miles would grant his brothers a few minutes’ grace before bringing their world crashing to their feet. And since he’d spent the night dreaming of Miss Lovell, he planned to deal with business matters quickly and return to Cuckfield.
“No. They should be seated when they receive the news. You told them twelve o’clock?”
“Indeed.”
Miles glanced at the ornate mantel clock. They were five minutes late. The hairs on his nape prickled with irritation. If they failed to show, he would hunt them down at their backstreet club and reveal the shocking news to a gathered audience.
“And you’re happy with the terms we discussed earlier?” Miles said.
“Oh, more than happy, my lord.”
“You won’t find the constant travelling between Cuckfield and London tedious?” Why would he? Miles had doubled his salary. It was worth every penny if it meant he could remain at Greystone Manor. “I will require you to act as my intermediary, though will make regular trips to town myself.”
Mr Cardon did not have time to answer. The rattling of a key in the lock drew their attention. The doors burst open and in strode Stephen and Edwin Harridan-Jones with a level of arrogance that belied the circumstances of their birth. They came to an abrupt halt upon witnessing the unexpected occupants.
“What the devil?” Stephen said, his cheeks puffed. “How the hell did you get in here?”
“With a key.”
“What key? They hang people for trespass you know.”
“Not viscounts they don’t. Mere misters, possibly.” Miles enjoyed taunting them.
Both men sauntered to their desks and dropped into the padded leather chairs.
“What the hell do you want, Greystone?” Stephen’s saggy jowls wobbled as he spoke. At three and twenty, he was two years younger than Miles, but his glutinous appetite for all things was reflected in his overly large bearing.
Edwin, sporting a black eye and a cut on his lip, struggled to hold Miles’ gaze.
With his hands clasped behind his head, Miles said nothing as he relaxed languidly on the sofa.
“If this is about the card game at the manor, then blame your steward, Gilligan,” Stephen continued, clearly disturbed by the lack of response. “He’s the one who arranged the damn thing. He’s the one who invited us.”
“I’m not here about the card game,” Miles said, the sharp, steely edge to his tone capable of cutting to the bone. “
But if I find either of you within a mile of my property again I shall have no option but to deal with the matter myself. Fiercely. Ruthlessly. In the savage way you might imagine in your nightmares.”
Fear flashed in Edwin’s eyes. “Th-the place is a crumbling wreck,” he countered behind the safety of his desk. “Father despised the manor and all those who lived there.”
“Oh, I know,” Miles said coolly, but then the image of his mother’s tear-drenched face flashed into his mind. Feeling a burst of anger, he glanced up at the portrait of the evil bastard. “You both remind me of him in many ways.”
Stephen sat forward, his paunch overhanging the desk. “I shall take it as a compliment,” he said haughtily.
“Don’t.”
A tense silence ensued.
They fidgeted in their plush seats.
Miles suddenly jumped to his feet, and both men gasped. He cracked his knuckles. “I’m here, amongst other things, to discover which one of you enjoys telling tales.”
The brothers exchanged curious glances.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Edwin protested, but his shifty eyes and quivering bottom lip marked him the liar.
Miles prowled towards Edwin’s desk, rested his hands flat on the polished wood and leant forward. “Do you see that beautiful blue bruise you have, Edwin? Well, picture something infinitely more painful. Picture a gaping hole in your chest pouring with blood. That is what you can expect if I hear any more talk about Miss Lovell. That is what you can expect if you do not find a way to restore the lady’s good name.”
Edwin’s hollow cheeks burned red. “It was—”
“Silence.” Miles slammed his fist down hard on the desk, so hard the crystal inkwell clattered on its stand. “You will address the matter this afternoon. Else I shall have no option but to call you out.”
“We don’t have to listen to this.” Stephen rose to his feet, a little slowly as it took a moment to haul himself out of the chair.
“You don’t? Are you sure?”
Stephen’s eyes filled with confusion.
“Are you not the least bit curious to know the real reason I’m here?” Miles said in a slow, teasing tone that aggravated both gentlemen.
“We can have you thrown out you know,” Edwin chimed.
“Is that so? I should like to see you try.” Miles snatched the silver letter opener from the desk.
Edwin almost toppled off his chair in horror. “Good God, you’ve lost your mind.”
“Undoubtedly.” Miles strode over to the painting of his father. With it hanging high on the picture rail, he climbed onto the arm of the sofa and slashed the canvas, cutting the face in two.
“What the hell are you doing?” Stephen’s eyes widened. “Stop that, I say.”
“There. That seems like a more realistic representation, don’t you think?” Miles jumped down from his elevated position. He slipped the letter opener into his coat pocket.
“Here. You can’t take that,” Edwin protested.
“I can take whatever I chose. As the majority shareholder in this company, I have as much right of ownership as either of you.”
Both men looked at him sharply, but then Stephen snorted. “Caught a fever in Madras, did you? Messed with your mind, did it?”
“No, not at all.” Miles brushed imagined dust off the sleeve of his coat. “I purchased a twenty per cent share from Mr Camberwell and a further thirty from the bank. Indeed, with your mounting debts, I hope to purchase more.”
Both brothers cast him a thunderous look.
“Liar! We would have been notified of the sale,” Stephen countered. Panic marred his features and beads of sweat formed on his brow.
“Would you? Perhaps you nodded off when meeting with your solicitor. Perhaps your man of business neglected to pass on the relevant information.” Miles shrugged. “Who can say?” Most men would do anything for money—turn a blind eye, mislay papers, tell half-truths.
“Where’s your damn proof?” Stephen scoffed.
“I shall leave Mr Cardon to deal with the details. After all, this will be his permanent office from now on.” Miles felt a rush of elation at their stricken faces. “And in case you have trouble accepting the situation, let me introduce you to Mr Cardon’s assistant, Mr Budgen.”
With any luck, the fellow would be waiting outside.
Mr Cardon hurried to the door and greeted the mountain of a man who entered. Budgen came to stand next to Miles. He stood almost a foot taller and with clenched fists the size of mallets.
“There now,” Miles said with a grin while his brothers stared open-mouthed. “I’m sure you’ll all get along famously.”
Miles turned to leave.
“Wait!” Stephen cried. “Greystone! Come back here. You can’t do this.”
“I think you’ll find I already have.” Miles turned to Mr Cardon and lowered his voice. “I’m interested in purchasing the ships you mentioned but wish to set up a new company.” In truth, he had no interest in watching his father’s company flourish. “Arrange it and keep me informed of your progress. Any problems, send word to me immediately.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Miles left Mr Cardon to present the necessary papers and marched from the room, relishing in his triumph. In a year, he’d sell his share. By that time, he would have a shipping company of his own to run and a thriving estate in the heart of the English countryside.
Now, it was time to address the most pressing matter on his mind. What was he to do about the delectable Miss Lovell?
Chapter Eleven
Three days had passed since Lydia kissed Lord Greystone. Three sleepless nights left her contemplating the folly of her actions. Clearly regret over their secret interlude had sent him racing back to the manor, eager to throw a few garments into his saddlebag and charge off to town.
Perhaps he thought her a desperate country chit looking to capture a husband, and any devil would do. And to think, she’d permitted him to put his hand on her bare thigh, and worse still—
Oh, Lord!
Lydia scrunched her eyes shut and shook her head. How on earth had she gone from making flirtatious comments to being ravished on the sacrificial stone?
Oh, God!
What must Greystone think of her?
But it was too late to worry about it now. Besides, after his brother’s scandalous behaviour could they both not be excused for their recklessness? Emotions were high. It was easy to lose one’s head after such a shocking confrontation.
Lydia sat on the bed in the attic room—a place she shared with a family of spiders—and contemplated the siblings’ relationship. If Lord Greystone had a brother, why had he not tended to the manor during his lordship’s absence? Why permit the ancestral home to fall into such a sorry state? Why had no one ever mentioned him? But then there seemed no love lost between the two men. During the seven years she had lived at Dunnam Park, she believed Greystone was an only child.
How odd.
After an hour spent lost in thoughts of Lord Greystone, Lydia decided to visit his tenants. With Ada in tow carrying a wicker basket filled with bread rolls, they navigated the narrow lanes—a walk they did three times a week. Lydia knew the Guthries were working up at the manor, but the loud banging nearby drew her to the couple’s small cottage.
“Did you hear that, miss?” Ada ducked quickly and then straightened. “It sounds like gunfire.” She clutched the basket to her chest as they approached the stone building. “What if Mr Gilligan came back and his lordship is punishing him good and proper?”
“You do realise how long it takes to load a pistol? Only an army could make that much noise.” Besides, his lordship had fled to London for fear of being shackled with a country bride.
It wasn’t an army. Nor was it Lord Greystone—more’s the pity.
Three men worked on fixing the roof of the Guthries’ cottage. Lydia recognised one as Jack Painter, a labourer from Cuckfield who’d done small jobs for her in the past, when her a
llowance stretched far enough to help Lord Greystone’s tenants.
Jack was busy stacking tiles into a neat pile. He looked up, doffed his cap and said, “Mornin’, Miss Lovell. Happen you had some clout with the master. Lord Greystone’s given us work enough to keep us busy until Michaelmas.”
“I’m thrilled to hear it.” She’d prayed the tenants would have clean and comfortable lodgings, and a means to earn their keep. “I’m sure Mrs Guthrie is pleased, too.”
“Aye, she went skippin’ out of here this morning with a smile as wide as your Lady Lovell’s summer bonnet.”
Lydia chuckled. Like Rudolph, Arabella had the most preposterous taste in fashion. “Well, we do not wish to intrude. We brought fresh bread rolls. Shall I leave them inside?”
“A man never says no to the offer of food, though his lordship’s staff sent down a flagon of cider and a great hunk of cheese.”
“Oh.” It seems his lordship thought of everything. She gestured to Ada who hurried inside with her basket to deposit the bread. When the maid returned—blinking and wincing with every hit of the hammer—Lydia said, “We shall not keep you any longer. You must get back to your work.”
Jack nodded. “Mr Roberts is comin’ to help, along with his boys. His lordship said he wants things watertight before the winter sets in.”
A sudden flutter in Lydia’s heart forced her to catch her breath. “His lordship? Has he returned to the manor?” Oh, she sounded like a lovesick fool.
“No, Miss Lovell.” Jack shook his head. “His lordship left instructions with Mr Dariell. He’s seeing to things while Lord Greystone is away.”
“Oh, I see.” Lydia tried to keep a neutral tone, tried not to let disappointment affect her mood. And yet, while pleased the tenants would finally have clean, dry homes, Lydia couldn’t help but feel a little useless.
What would she do with her days now?
The tenants had work at the manor. They wouldn’t need her baskets of food, or the second-hand clothes she’d purchased in Cuckfield. Oh, Lydia had never been prone to bouts of sentimentality and yet she would miss the role she’d played these last two years. She would miss conversing with real people, learning of their struggles and feeling the immense satisfaction that came from helping them improve their lives.
