At Last the Rogue Returns

by Adele Clee

  Lydia mentally shook herself. There were poor people in London. But London was not Cuckfield.

  With a heavy heart, she forced a smile. “Well, we shall leave you to your work.”

  Jack gave a curt nod and resumed the laborious task of lifting and arranging the roof tiles.

  “Everyone seems mighty happy, miss,” Ada said as they headed towards the lane.

  “Yes, they do, Ada.” Everyone, it seemed, but Lydia.

  A loud shout from behind caught their attention. They swung around to find Jack pointing to the lane. “Here’s Mr Dariell coming now if you want to ask after his lordship.”

  “Why does everyone assume I’m interested in Lord Greystone?” Lydia muttered to Ada under her breath. “Thank you, Mr Painter,” she called back, feigning politeness.

  “It’s only right you’d ask about him after all the things you’ve done for the folks here,” Ada said, and her logic made perfect sense.

  Lydia shook off her irritation. “Yes, of course. And I am keen to learn of his plans to renovate.”

  Ada smiled and took to swinging her basket. “And happen it’s because you’ve found someone who likes the same things you do.”

  “The same things?” Eager to hear more—she could talk about Lord Greystone all day—Lydia asked, “What sort of things?”

  “Well …” Two deep furrows appeared on Ada’s brow. “You both care for his tenants. You both like cherries and sitting on that stone altar.”

  The stone altar?

  Panic flared.

  Had Ada followed her and spied on her lewd liaison with Lord Greystone?

  “Wh-why would you think I like to sit on the altar?”

  “Because you had that grey dust on your dress when you came back from your walk. And you had one of those umbrella mushrooms squashed to the sole of your boot.”

  Good Lord. With such insight, Ada could work for Bow Street. What else had the girl noticed? But Lydia had no time to probe the maid further because Mr Dariell approached.

  Ada froze. The basket’s wicker handle creaked beneath the pressure of her anxious grip.

  Mr Dariell was a quirky fellow, Lydia had to admit, though he looked relaxed in his odd blue tunic and long trousers. Of course, he did not wear a hat, and his shoes were more like dancing slippers. Not the robust footwear one needed to walk the country lanes in early autumn. Thankfully, the day was quite mild else the man might catch his death.

  “Mr Dariell,” Lydia said by way of a greeting, and she tried not to blush. Not knowing the man’s exact status or profession—and not meaning to sound rude—she added, “Forgive me, but I’m told that is your name.”

  Mr Dariell inclined his head. A warm and genuine smile brightened his olive complexion. He possessed such a pleasant countenance that even Ada’s lips curled up a fraction.

  “You may call me Dariell,” he said in a smooth French accent.

  “You’re Lord Greystone’s friend,” Lydia clarified.

  “Oui. That is correct.” His dark, inquisitive eyes considered Ada. The girl stiffened and held her breath until her cheeks puffed and turned berry red. “Lord Greystone, he was in such a hurry to reach London that he failed to inform me of your connection.”

  Their connection? Having been caught with her skirt hiked up past her knees what was she supposed to say to that? And must the man remind her that her seductive skills had forced Greystone to put forty miles between them?

  “I am Miss Lovell. My brother’s estate runs adjacent to the Greystone Estate.”

  Dariell remained silent for a moment as he studied her with a perception she found highly unnerving. “You have—oh, what do you say—a good energy, madame. A vibrant spirit. You bring life where there is none, no?”

  “Why, thank you.” When his penetrating gaze moved to Ada, Lydia felt inclined to say, “And this is my maid, Ada. We came to see the progress his lordship is making with the cottages.” She cast Ada a sidelong glance and whispered, “Breathe.”

  Dariell’s attention settled on Ada. “Ah, listen. Do you hear that?” The Frenchman stood statue still.

  Both Lydia and Ada cocked their heads to listen. It would be rude not to.

  “Tell me. Tell me, what do you hear?” Dariell said in a soft, dulcet tone.

  Lydia was about to say the horrid banging behind, but then the wind whistled past her ear, and the birds chirped sweetly as they foraged in the hedgerow.

  “I hear the trees talking,” Ada suddenly said. “I hear the birds singing a pretty song.”

  “Oui.” Dariell raised a brow. “When you are listening, you are not thinking. Your mind is at peace, n’est-ce pas?”

  With a look of wonder, Ada simply nodded.

  “Next time, when the head is loud with noise and the heart is full of fear, all you need do is listen.” He swept a graceful bow. “Now, I shall leave you to walk while the sun is shining. Bonne journée.” And with that, he sauntered past.

  “Well,” Ada said when Dariell moved out of earshot. “Well …” The poor girl couldn’t find her words.

  “Mr Dariell is a rather unusual fellow.”

  “Well, yes. But he’s kind and gentle-spoken and … and I like that.”

  Lydia recalled Greystone’s threat to set Dariell on his brother. The lout had turned white with terror. But what had he to fear? That Dariell might make him listen to something other than the sound of his own arrogant voice?

  “Where to now, miss?” Ada said when they reached the lane.

  “Do you know, I think we’ll head home.” The tenants were busy working and overseeing the necessary repairs. What use had they for a few bread rolls when Greystone was quite capable of taking care of their needs?

  A hollow feeling settled in her chest.

  Upon reflection, it had nothing to do with the tenants and everything to do with her sudden desire to speak to the gentleman in question. All those years she’d spent despising him, and yet she found she craved his company. Kissing Lord Greystone had thrilled her like nothing else before. And the way he looked at her—oh—her body turned to liquid fire at the thought.

  In the past, when troubled by Arabella or when struck with bouts of boredom, Mrs Guthrie’s ramblings about her vegetable plot, or Mr Roberts’ tales of his errant boys kept her occupied. Now, when she needed a distraction from all thoughts of Lord Greystone, there wasn’t a place she could go to escape him.

  “But what about the bread rolls, miss?” Ada shook her basket, the motion dragging Lydia from her reverie.

  “What … did you say something?”

  Ada frowned. “Miss Lovell, are you all right? You were muttering and mumbling a moment ago.”

  “Was I?”

  Lydia mentally shook herself. She was not a silly girl anymore. She was an heiress, soon to be in command of her own destiny. What need had she for flights of fancy and passionate encounters in the forest? The flutter in her stomach begged to differ.

  Damn Greystone. Night after night she’d prayed for his return, and now part of her wished he’d never come back.

  Something troubling was afoot at Dunnam Park.

  Raised voices echoed from the drawing room. Arabella’s harpy shriek was at the centre of the mayhem. Cecil offered a few mumbled protests, while Randall spoke in the sickly suave way that made him sound superior.

  The words ruined and stupid were but two Lydia heard clearly.

  Lydia crept closer to the door. Thankfully, Ada had gone to the kitchen else she would have surely sneezed or coughed or done something to alert Arabella of their presence.

  “Enough is enough, Cecil.” Arabella must have hit the table because the teacups clattered on the saucers. “We must address this problem at once. Do you hear me? We cannot afford to delay a moment longer.”

  Cecil groaned. “Can we not just wait and hope the whole damn thing will blow over?”

  “Blow over? Blow over! Trust you to make a such a spineless comment. Do you not know how these things work? It starts as a spark
and ignites into an inferno.”

  “Arabella is right, of course,” Lord Randall said coolly. “And the letter is from Lady Martin who, while reliable, is an outrageous gossip.”

  “Do you not care for the girl?” Arabella snapped.

  The girl?

  The comment caught Lydia unawares. Was she the root cause of the argument?

  “I would hardly call Lady Martin a girl.” Cecil gave a weak chuckle. “The matron must be sixty.”

  Oh, her poor brother really was obtuse.

  “I’m not talking about Lady Martin.” Arabella snorted. “Do you not care for Lydia? It is not just her reputation at risk,” she continued, having modified her tone to a more conniving, more slippery level. “Every daughter born to us will have to suffer the same slight, the same black mark against their name.”

  Arabella might have a point if she wasn’t barren. Of course, Cecil did not protest.

  “I’m afraid you must do something,” Lord Randall said. “This sort of thing does not go away. Your sister has no hope of residing in London now.”

  What the devil?

  Panic seized Lydia’s heart.

  London?

  She thought the argument related to her interest in Lord Greystone’s tenants, in her keenness to wander onto his estate and involve herself in his business. But what had it to do with going to London?

  Well, there was only one way to find out.

  With a straight back and raised chin Lydia pushed open the door. “Good afternoon,” she said to the three people seated on the sofas. Arabella was seated next to Lord Randall while Cecil sat opposite. “I heard you mention my name and am bursting with curiosity to discover why.” She pasted a smile as fake as the mole on Lord Randall’s cheek.

  After a brief silence, Arabella scowled. “We would have spoken to you directly had you not been gallivanting about the Greystone Estate like a silly strumpet.”

  “Arabella,” Lord Randall chided. He took a pinch of snuff from a ruby-encrusted box, brought it to his nose and inhaled gently. “I cannot and will not permit you to speak like that in my presence.”

  “Quite right,” Cecil added bravely, but then bowed his head.

  Arabella’s hollow cheeks tinged red, and she patted Randall’s knee absently. Anyone would think Lord Randall was her husband. “Forgive me, Rudolph. But the chit doesn’t realise the trouble she has caused.”

  “Then would someone care to enlighten me?” Lydia had used a similar phrase with Greystone and—heavens above—he had done exactly that. “What have I done this time?”

  Lord Randall flapped the letter at her. “Apparently, my dear, you’re the talk of the town and for entirely the wrong reasons.”

  “Well, you can forget any plans you had to live in London,” Arabella added, looking smug.

  Lydia exhaled. “Will you please stop talking in riddles and speak plainly. Tell me exactly of what I am accused.”

  Suspicion flared.

  Was this another one of Arabella’s ploys to get her to marry Lord Randall?

  “The gossip is that you’re Lord Greystone’s lover,” Lord Randall said with an air of disapproval. “Everyone believes it to be so.”

  “His lover?” Lydia shook her head. An incredulous laugh escaped. “What utter nonsense?”

  “Are you saying it isn’t true?” Lord Randall’s eyes searched her face, then dropped briefly to her breasts. “Arabella said you spend most of your time there.”

  “Yes, helping his tenants. I have already told you. Charitable work gives me purpose.”

  “Oh, really,” Arabella scoffed. “You have been out after dark twice this week. Don’t think I don’t know. I’m sure if we prodded your maid we would learn the full extent of your transgressions.”

  Hot anger raced through Lydia’s body. Little lights danced before her eyes. No one threatened Ada—not in her presence. “I have nothing to hide”—except for a wild and highly stimulating affair at the stones—“so you’ve no need to harass the girl. Besides, a late-night walk hardly constitutes treason.”

  “It’s autumn,” Arabella retorted.

  “She’s right, dear girl,” Cecil said. “It seems rather odd to be out in all weathers.”

  “Compared to most ladies, I am rather odd.” Although when she looked at the fools around her, she was rather glad. Her thoughts returned to the aforementioned gossip. “So Lady Martin likes to concoct stories. I’m sure Lord Greystone will correct any misunderstanding.”

  Arabella shot to her feet, her oversized coiffure wobbling like blancmange. The style was more suited to a soirée than an afternoon spent sipping tea and ruining people’s lives. “Who do you think started the rumour in the first place?”

  Lydia contemplated the question. “Are you suggesting Lord Greystone is the guilty party?”

  “Oh, the lady finally wakes from her foolish daydream.” Arabella’s tone brimmed with condescension. “Of course it was Greystone. Who else could it be? Other than those seated here, he’s the only one who knows of your indecorous escapades.”

  “Indecorous escapades?” Lydia wanted to laugh. Indeed, she would have done so had her mind not been frantically debating the possibility of Lord Greystone’s duplicity.

  Had he kissed her merely to provide a lewd story fit to entertain his friends?

  No, she didn’t think so. And, though not one to boast of her own attributes, she was a reasonably good judge of character. That was when the likes of Mr Gilligan were not distorting the facts.

  She studied Lord Randall as he dropped his snuffbox back into his coat pocket. For a man who was supposedly keen to marry her, he did not seem distraught or disappointed by the news of her ruination.

  Was it all a ruse?

  Lydia straightened. “May I see the letter?”

  “I don’t see why not.” Too idle to move from the sofa, Lord Randall waved the letter at Cecil who hurried to his feet like a boy hoping to earn a penny. “It arrived this morning. And I’m inclined to agree. Greystone must be the source.”

  “Look, dear girl,” Cecil whispered as he handed her the missive. “Admit to your mistake and agree to Arabella’s demands. If you—”

  “Cecil!” Arabella squawked. “Sit down and let her read the evidence of her duplicity. Let her see how foolish she’s been.”

  Cecil scurried back to the sofa. Arabella kept her husband’s wings clipped. Soon he would be locked in a cage, and she’d pass by periodically to whistle at him and feed him seeds.

  Lydia read the dire warning.

  The feminine flourish did not belong to her crow of a sister-in-law. Rumour had it that Lydia cavorted with Lord Greystone at night—though there was no mention of when or where.

  Good heavens. She could feel heat rise to her cheeks at the memory of their illicit encounter. Perhaps Greystone’s brother chose gossip as a form of revenge. Perhaps Mr Dariell had mentioned stumbling upon them in their state of dishabille.

  “A blush won’t save you now.” Arabella focused her beady eyes. “And you’ll not be able to walk a London street without someone passing a derogatory comment.”

  Lydia lifted her chin. “People are fickle. They will soon forget.” Perhaps it was a naive assumption, easily made when one lived a provincial life. “Next month someone else will be the topic of conversation in the salons.”

  “This is serious. Something must be done to mitigate the damage.”

  Keen to discover if Arabella really did have a list of demands, Lydia said, “Then in light of the fact I am utterly ruined, I will have to alter my plans. When I come into my inheritance, I shall sell the London townhouse and buy a property by the coast—perhaps Brighton. No one knows me there.”

  “Brighton? Brighton!” Arabella’s scowl disappeared. Her bottom lip quivered. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Lord Randall raised a coy brow. “Bravo. Most ladies would crumble beneath the weight of such news. But not you, Miss Lovell.” He rose languidly to his feet. “Might I be so bold as to sugges
t another option?”

  Oh, Lord!

  Had the window been open she might have dived out.

  “While some would view you as a trifle soiled,” Randall continued as he prowled towards her, “I am willing to overlook this mishap. A few words in the right ears, coupled with an announcement of our betrothal, would bury the gossip for good.”

  Their betrothal?

  She would rather marry old Albert.

  “Oh, you would do that, Rudolph?” Arabella clutched her hands to her chest in feigned appreciation. “How awfully considerate you are.”

  “I know.” Lord Randall smiled as he stopped a mere foot away from Lydia. He caught her chin between his fingers and stared into her eyes. “I think we will suit very well, Miss Lovell. You will have to modify your behaviour, of course. But once we have you swathed in the latest gowns from Paris, and bathe you in eau de chypre, I think your attitude will change.”

  Lydia noted the heated look in his gaze as his thumb brushed her chin. How was it that Randall made her feel like a silly girl while Greystone made her feel like an irresistible woman? Oh, the days until her birthday could not come soon enough.

  “Do not answer now,” Randall continued. “You may give me your answer at dinner tomorrow evening.” His green eyes flashed cold. “But know this is the only time I shall make the offer.”

  Lydia did not need time to think. She had a strange suspicion Lord Randall was not as kind and understanding as he seemed. The man was a snob brimming with superior pretensions. Even so, there must be an abundance of wealthy heiresses of excellent character willing to marry the popinjay.

  So why her? Why now?

  Chapter Twelve

  “And I told Mother that even quiet hens lay eggs.” Miss Pardue put her hand to her mouth and giggled. For a woman approaching thirty, she still behaved like a girl from the schoolroom. “Didn’t I say that, Mother?” she called to the hunched figure in the chair, sporting an ear trumpet attached to a chain around her neck.