At Last the Rogue Returns

by Adele Clee

  Lydia sipped her tea as the white-haired woman fiddled about with the contraption. Even though a conversation with the duo often proved difficult, Lydia would rather sit with them than Lord Randall and Arabella.

  “What was that, dear?”

  Miss Pardue leant forward. “I said quiet hens lay eggs, too.”

  “Eggs?” Mrs Pardue narrowed her gaze as she forced the end of the trumpet so far into her ear she was likely to do herself an injury. “No, I’m not hungry, dear.”

  Miss Pardue pasted a smile. “Oh, that silly machine. It’s no use you know. We shall have to write things down.”

  “Well, it might be worth persevering. These things often take time.”

  “Perhaps you’re right though I fear I may lose my voice and my patience long before then.”

  A brief silence ensued. Miss Pardue suffered from a nervous disposition, much like Ada.

  “So you came in the carriage today,” Miss Pardue clarified for the second time.

  With the Pardues’ cottage situated on a narrow lane off the main street in the village, Cecil’s coachman had no choice but to park the carriage next to the church.

  “My brother feared it might rain,” Lydia said, placing her cup and saucer on the side table. It was a lie. Arabella insisted on accompanying her and only rescinded when Lydia agreed the coachman could ferry her door to door.

  “Rain? Today? Oh, I do hope so.”

  “You do?”

  “The rain is sure to help poor Mr Roberts’ cause. Honestly, that man has the mightiest bad luck.” She turned to her mother. “I said Mr Roberts has terrible luck.”

  “What?” Mrs Pardue looked bewildered. “Oh, yes.”

  Curiosity burned in Lydia’s chest for it was such an odd thing to say. “Why would Mr Roberts desire rain?”

  “Have you not heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “Lord Greystone set fire to the barn last night in a fit of rage. It’s the talk of the village this morning. Mr Amos told me while filling the coal chute.”

  Stunned by the news, Lydia froze. She opened her mouth to speak, but it took a moment to form a word. “But … but Lord Greystone is in London.”

  “The devil’s back again they say. An argument broke out, and his lordship smashed a lantern in the hay barn.”

  The pounding in Lydia’s heart shot up to her throat, and her hands grew clammy. She wasn’t sure what shocked her the most—her reaction to the news that Greystone had returned, or the fact Mr Roberts had suffered another terrible setback.

  “There must be a mistake. Why would Lord Greystone burn down his own barn? Mr Roberts is only a tenant.”

  “The man’s a rogue, just like his father,” Mrs Pardue said in a croaky voice from her fireside chair.

  No. Lydia could not believe it. Not after seeing the way Greystone conducted himself with his tenants. Yes, the gentleman had a temper, and a strength that surpassed expectation, but his heart was warm and full of compassion. She’d seen it in the soft glint of those emerald eyes, heard it in the tender tone of his voice.

  That being said, in his grief, Mr Roberts’ manner was often unpredictable. Perhaps Greystone had caught him at a vulnerable moment.

  “We heard no mention of it at home,” Lydia said, still suffering from shock.

  She had taken breakfast early, hoping Lord Randall would be abed. By all accounts, he’d been wandering the garden late last night. Mrs Sanders told Ada that she’d seen him looking up at the trees while making all sorts of strange bird noises. Perhaps the lord’s peculiar habits stemmed from his addiction to snuff.

  “Did no one call at the manor to inform you?” Miss Pardue said, astonished. “With the property being so close to Dunnam Park, I’m surprised you didn’t see the blaze from your window.”

  How could she when she slept in the attic?

  “No. I noticed the smell of smoke in the air this morning but assumed the gardener had lit a fire.”

  “I imagine your brother knew but didn’t want to worry you. Indeed, I tremble every time I think of those poor people.”

  Or perhaps Arabella had kept the news to herself out of spite.

  “Thank you for bringing the matter to my attention, Miss Pardue. It is only right I go there directly and offer my help.” There was only one way to discover the truth, and that was to go to Mr Roberts’ cottage and inspect the scene for herself.

  “Of course.” Miss Pardue stood. “Please send word if there is anything we can do.”

  Lydia said goodbye but hovered in the lane for a moment lost in thoughtful contemplation. Cecil’s coachman, Barrow, was instructed to take her straight back to Dunnam Park. If she planned to visit Mr Roberts, she would have to make her way there on foot. If she kept a good pace, it would take but an hour.

  With her mind made up, Lydia fastened the top button on her pelisse and set off for Mr Roberts’ cottage. After that, she would venture to Greystone Manor. The thought sent the blood rushing through her veins though she pushed aside her excitement at the prospect of seeing Greystone again.

  She had another more pressing reason for seeking him out. Was Lord Greystone the one who started the gossip? Could she trust him or was there an ulterior motive for his amorous attentions?

  A few charred and blackened pieces of timber were all that remained of Mr Roberts’ barn.

  On his return from London, Miles had stopped at The Wild Boar in Cuckfield and taken supper, had seen the plumes of swirling smoke stretching up into the night sky as he rode towards the manor. When he arrived at the cottage, he found a few men busy pumping water into buckets in an effort to extinguish the roaring flames. Amid the panic, Miles had dismounted and calmed his horse before racing over to help.

  They’d worked tirelessly for hours. The noxious fumes choked their throats. They coughed. Spluttered. The blistering heat scorched their skin. But it was hopeless. And so they retreated to a safe distance, covered their mouths with wet rags and watched the fire burn with wild ferocity.

  Thank the Lord the children were safe. Perhaps it was a blessing Roberts had sold his livestock. No one wanted to listen to the cries of distressed animals.

  Miles surveyed the area. The smell of smoke still hung in the air. Jack Painter and Mr Roberts poked and prodded the remains though nothing could be saved. Beneath the debris, the dying embers still smouldered.

  Miles wandered over to the well and raised the bucket. He used the water to wash his face and hands. The best laundress would struggle to remove the soot and dust from his white shirt.

  He stared at his reflection in the water as he contemplated recent events.

  The fire was deliberate. An attempt to destroy the barn and blacken his name. A few possible candidates sprang to mind. Gilligan. Edwin. Stephen. Perhaps one of the tenants lied and were less than forgiving. Perhaps Roberts had started the damn thing himself out of spite.

  The man in question came trudging over, his face covered in black smudges, his shoulders hunched. “I say we douse the embers. There’s nothing more to do here.” From the grave look on his face, Miles knew the man was innocent of any involvement.

  They’d watched the fire all night—merely as a precaution. There was always a chance the culprit would return to finish what he had started. Dariell had arrived at three in the morning and Miles sent him back to the manor to keep watch.

  “Can you tell me anything more about who did this?”

  Roberts shook his head. “Like I said. I heard the barn door slam, saw a figure running down the lane. Heard someone shout Greystone.” A deep frown creased the man’s already weathered brow. With some hesitance, he added, “And twenty minutes later you arrived.”

  “I supped at The Wild Boar. Numerous people can bear witness to the fact.”

  “I wasn’t accusin’ you, milord.”

  “Someone is out to make mischief. Rest assured, it is not me.”

  Roberts nodded.

  “You’re certain you only saw one man?”

&n
bsp; “Aye. He was short and stocky, strong by the looks of it. He bolted down the lane fast as you like.”

  “Definitely not Gilligan then?” Miles doubted the steward would show his face in the area again. With only a few personal possessions at the manor, the steward must have another abode. Nor did the description bear any likeness to Stephen or Edwin.

  “No, milord.”

  Miles rubbed his chin. “Would you do something for me?”

  “Aye, milord.”

  “Would you move into the gatehouse? Just for a week or two.” Whoever burnt down the barn was willing to take risks to make a point. Miles would not have the death of Mr Roberts’ boys on his conscience, too. “The place needs cleaning, but I shall send Mrs Guthrie to assist you.”

  Mr Roberts looked at the cottage, and his mouth thinned. “I’ve not left my home since … since …”

  “I understand.” Miles sighed. “But it’s imperative your children are safe. At least until we’ve found the culprit.”

  “I suppose it can’t hurt.” The man’s gaze drifted to a point beyond Miles’ shoulder. He raised his chin. “Happen someone’s come to brighten your day.”

  Miles glanced back to find the delectable Miss Lovell, flushed and breathless. The mere sight of the woman sent his heart leaping about like a frog on a lily pad. With pinched cheeks from overexertion and stray tendrils of hair escaping her bonnet, the lady was as beguiling as the night he’d ravaged her mouth and taken liberties with her body.

  Guilt should have gnawed away at him—and yet he knew he would fall under her spell again if given a chance.

  As Roberts ambled away, Miles turned to face her. Blood pooled heavy and low in his loins as he imagined kissing her again.

  “Lord Greystone.” She stared at him for a moment, the power of those penetrating blue eyes touched him like a soothing caress.

  “Miss Lovell.” Lydia Lovell. The words carried a sensual tone as they drifted through his mind.

  “So it is true,” she continued, scanning the pile of charred rubble and shaking her head in disbelief. “I came as soon as I heard. What happened?”

  Numerous people had arrived throughout the night to offer assistance. Miles had wondered why she’d not come.

  “I believe the legal term is arson. Someone is determined to cast me in the role of villain.”

  “Do you know the fiend responsible?”

  “Not yet, but I will.” Oh, he wouldn’t rest until the blackguard paid for his crime.

  “There’s talk in the village. That’s how I knew to come here.”

  “Is there? And what are the good people of Cuckfield saying?” He raised his hand to stall her. “Don’t tell me. They say the devil has returned to rain fire on all those who seek to challenge him.” The comment was made in jest, to ease her obvious anxiety although the furrows on her brow deepened.

  “Yes,” she breathed. “That is exactly what they are saying.” Shame marred her flawless features. “That you caused the fire in a fit of rage.” She paused as her eyes studied his. “Though I know it’s not true.”

  Damnation!

  “Do all the people in Cuckfield have such a bad opinion of me?” Miles dragged his hand through his hair. Oh, he could show them the devil if that’s what they wanted. “Did you doubt me, too?”

  Miles waited eagerly for her answer. Her opinion mattered more than most. Honesty was the one thing he demanded from those few people close to him. He would know if she lied.

  “I did not believe it for a second.” She stepped forward, so close he could smell the sweet scent of roses. With trembling fingers she placed her hand lightly on his shirt sleeve. Her gentle touch did things to him no other woman ever had. “I judged you once, before I knew you, before I knew the facts. Now I know better.”

  A lump formed in his throat as he picked out the compliment woven within her words. “And now, do you feel you know me well enough to make that declaration?”

  The dainty hand on his arm fluttered in response. The air between them crackled with lust, with longing, with something far more potent, something infinitely more dangerous. He focused on her slightly open mouth, on the plump lower lip so ripe for the plucking. God, he wanted to kiss her. Yet once he started, he would struggle to stop.

  “I could know you better,” she began, and although her tone sounded as smooth as velvet, it was not meant to tease or seduce. “But I have seen enough to believe the best of you.”

  Miles raised a challenging brow. Oh, he wanted to hear more, wanted to drink in her good opinion until it made him dizzy.

  “Seen enough of me?” His tone carried a seductive quality brought about by hot blood raging through his veins. What was this strong force, this strange bond that existed between them? “And there is plenty more you’ve yet to see.”

  Miss Lovell’s sapphire gaze fell to the opening of his loose, soot-stained shirt. She pressed her lips together. “And more to probe.”

  Good God! The lady knew how to bring a man crashing to his knees.

  Her cheeks flushed, and she shook her head. “Oh, that sounded so wrong.”

  On the contrary, the comment was sweet music to his ears. And her obvious embarrassment only excited him further.

  Miss Lovell snatched her hand from his sleeve. “What I meant to say was I have another reason for seeking you out.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. I—I wish to discuss the malicious gossip that is currently making the rounds.”

  “In Cuckfield?” She could not know of the shocking things said about them in London. If Edwin valued his life, he would address his mistake.

  “In London,” she corrected.

  How the hell had she learnt of it so soon?

  “Lord Randall received a letter from Lady Martin,” she said, answering his silent question. “Apparently, people believe … they believe we are lovers.”

  They did indeed. And, oh, how he wished it were true.

  Still, Miles cursed inwardly. Not because he cared what people said about him but because Miss Lovell deserved better. He examined her calm countenance. Most ladies in her position would have a fit of apoplexy, would crumple to the ground a quivering wreck.

  But not Miss Courageous.

  He couldn’t help but think she was glad. While her family had designs on her marrying Lord Randall, Miss Lovell had other plans. And he had a burning desire to know what they were.

  “They say you’re my mistress,” he said. “Apparently, the devil is renowned for seducing innocent maidens.” There was some truth to the gossip. They were intimately acquainted—delightfully so. “But I shouldn’t worry. My brother Edwin started the rumour and by threat of death will clear your name.”

  “Your brother?” Miss Lovell appeared relieved. “Lady Lovell and Lord Randall suggested you were the one responsible.”

  “Me?” Miles jerked his head back and pointed to his chest. He’d disliked the ponce the moment he saw him at the assembly. “What possible motive would I have for ruining your good name?”

  “That was my thought. In their defence, they knew nothing of our little … interlude. Knew nothing of your brother’s vicious attack. Therefore, they drew what seemed the obvious conclusion.”

  Miles listened though could not resist the urge to comment on her description of their amorous affair. “You say little as if you regret what happened between us, as if it bears no significance.”

  A pink blush stained her cheeks. “Not at all.” She glanced at the ground but then looked him directly in the eye. “And what of you? Do … do you regret kissing me?”

  “I think you’ll find you kissed me first.”

  Affronted, she sucked in a breath. “I did not.”

  “Yes. You did. You kissed me on the cheek. You placed your palm on my bare chest and thanked me for my assistance.” His persistence stemmed from an eagerness to force a confession. To discover what their passionate exchange meant to her.

  “I—I …” She frowned. “But you were wea
ring a shirt.”

  “A shirt?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think you’re mistaken.”

  “I’m not. I clearly remember.”

  “Though you wished I wasn’t.”

  “Wasn’t what?”

  “Wearing a shirt.”

  “Yes.” She floundered, confused. “I mean no.”

  “Which is it, Miss Lovell?” A smile formed, and he fought to suppress it. “Yes or no?”

  “You’re trying to twist my words.”

  “Not at all. But you want me to.”

  “Twist my words?”

  “No. Kiss you again.”

  “Of course.” Her eyes widened, and she plastered her hand to her mouth in shock.

  “Is covering your mouth a way of telling me you’ve changed your mind, or am I to kiss your glove and not those sweet lips?”

  She gulped. Her hand slipped to her neck and came to rest on her chest. “Why do you tease me so?”

  “Tease you? Miss Lovell, I think about kissing you every minute of the day. Trust me. When it comes to rousing your passion, I have every intention of following through on my promise.”

  Had she no interest in pursuing the matter, she would have reprimanded him for his conduct. Indeed, what she said next would prove extremely telling.

  Despite numerous attempts to avert her gaze, it drifted back to his mouth. “But surely you don’t mean to kiss me here?”

  A triumphant glow filled his chest. She wanted him. He was not alone in his devotion or enthusiasm to explore their connection. Feeling an exultant rush of excitement, he captured her hand.

  “I refuse to give the gossips cause to think ill of you.” In a slow, languorous fashion, Miles removed her glove. “And so I shall resist ravishing you here.” He brought her fingers to his lips and pressed a chaste kiss on her knuckles. “Meet me tonight.” He kissed the length of her fingers, dared to guide the tips across his bottom lip, to skim the inside of his mouth where it was warm and wet. “Meet me at the stones,” he added before releasing her hand.

  “At the stones?” She sounded breathless, and he detected a nervous edge to her tone.