At Last the Rogue Returns

by Adele Clee

  Gilligan rolled onto his side and clutched his throat. He coughed and spluttered, raised his limp hand in the air to beg for more time. He crawled up onto his knees and retched.

  “Good God, man,” Miles said, shocked the steward hadn’t an ounce of fight in him. “Stand up. Anyone would think I’ve beaten you to a pulp.”

  The steward scrambled to his feet and took flight again, tripping and stumbling until he landed face-first in the copper-coloured ferns.

  “There is nowhere left to run, monsieur.” Dariell laughed. “And Greystone, he is not a man who takes kindly to deceit. Honesty is your only friend. Honesty might save your life. Think about that while your nose is pressed into the dirt.”

  Miles stared at Gilligan’s sprawled body. From the rapid rise and fall of his chest, clearly, he was alive. No doubt he was taking time to contemplate his options.

  “You’re working for someone,” Miles snapped. “Tell me his name, and I shall let you live. Tell me his motive, and I shall let you leave here.”

  Miles had experience when it came to bartering for goods and information. That’s how he’d made his fortune. Gilligan was of no interest to him. Desperate people did desperate things. He could crush the man in an instant if that was what he truly wanted.

  “I shall count to three, Mr Gilligan,” Miles said in the frosty tone that could freeze a man’s blood in his veins. “You will tell me what I want to know, or I will put an end to the matter here and now.”

  Miles locked eyes with Dariell, who bowed his head respectfully.

  “One!” Miles’ menacing tone sent the crows scattering from the boughs above. “Two!” He cracked his knuckles merely to intimidate. “Three!”

  “Wait.” Gilligan moved. “I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you everything once you’ve escorted me out of the woods.”

  “You’ll tell me now, Mr Gilligan, else you’ll not be leaving here.”

  Miles had spent enough time running around in circles. Impatience had got the better of him. He had no time for this nonsense. Not when he had a shipping company to run, a new business venture to oversee and a beguiling woman he wanted to marry.

  “I want a name, Mr Gilligan.” Miles dragged the steward to his feet.

  Gilligan stared at Miles in terrified silence. His bottom lip quivered, and still, the man managed to form an odd grin. “I … I’ve been working for … for Lord Randall.”

  “Randall?” Miles had expected him to say Edwin. Particularly when he’d had no dealings with the dandified lord. “For how long?”

  “Four months. Since one of his recent visits to Dunnam Park.”

  Miles might be lovesick, but he failed to see the connection. Had Gilligan said a week it might be a different story. Jealousy would be the motive.

  He glanced at Dariell, who returned his gaze with a curious twitch of a brow.

  “And what was Lord Randall’s purpose approaching you?”

  Gilligan scanned the woods as if fearing the fop lurked in the shrubbery. “I—I was to make sure the Harridan-Jones brothers lost at cards. I hired card sharps so I might take their vowels and give them to Lord Randall.”

  The mere mention of his brothers’ names caused bile to bubble up to his throat. Miles recalled the night he threw Gilligan’s lackeys out of his house. Gilligan paid them for their skill at cheating. Did Edwin and Stephen know they were about to be fleeced? Had Miles known of the steward’s plans, he’d have let the game go ahead.

  “In return for what?” Miles said, though suspected the answer was money. “What did Randall promise you?”

  Gilligan’s head lolled to the side. “That he … that he’d keep my secret. That he wouldn’t tell Miss Lovell I was st-stealing from the Greystone Estate.”

  Lord Randall knew of the steward’s betrayal and had not eased Lydia’s fears? Miles recalled the pained look in her eyes at that first meeting.

  “You bastard.” Anger burst to the fore when Miles recalled Lydia’s eagerness to defend the steward. “You preyed on Miss Lovell’s kind heart and warm nature. You took money from her whenever she had spare funds. She thought she was helping the tenants and all the time she was lining your blasted pocket. God damn, have you no conscience?”

  Miles clenched his fists, ready to rip the man’s head from his shoulders.

  Dariell placed his hand lightly on Miles’ arm. “Let us return to the matter of Lord Randall. Else I fear this might become—how you say—messy.” His soft melodic tone brought calm to any situation.

  Miles drew a deep breath to master his temper. “And yet you’re still working for Randall, despite the fact Miss Lovell and the whole of Cuckfield know the depth of your betrayal.”

  The steward’s gaze dropped to his boots. His whole body shook. “I’ve no choice.”

  Was he crying?

  “Ah, but everyone has a choice,” Dariell said.

  “Lord Randall has promised to pay me once he’s married Miss Lovell,” Gilligan replied. “I’ve no money and nowhere else to go. And there’s a moneylender in town, in Gower Street, who holds my vowel.” He looked up and threw his hands in the air. “What else was I to do?”

  “You could have approached me and told the truth.”

  “Oui,” Dariell said with a soft sigh. “Without honesty, a man can have no peace.”

  Gilligan sniffed. “I … I couldn’t risk the hangman’s noose.”

  While they were making progress, many questions flitted through Miles’ head. “What gripe does Lord Randall have with the Harridan-Jones brothers?”

  He could not imagine many people warmed to Edwin or Stephen. And a man as esteemed as Lord Randall would not associate himself with the bastard sons of a whoremonger.

  “It’s not a gripe, my lord. They met at the Blackball Club.”

  The Blackball Club?

  The backstreet den was home to those refused entry into elite establishments, men with no morals, men who lived a life of indulgence and dissipation.

  “Lord Randall owes the brothers twenty thousand pounds and cannot pay.” The truth tumbled from Gilligan’s mouth with ease now. “And after hearing of … hearing of the card games held at the manor, he blackmailed me to take their vowels.”

  “You approached the brothers and offered them seats at my table?” The answer to the question would prove most telling indeed.

  Gilligan shook his head. “They heard of the card games from a member of The Blackball Club.”

  “Games? How many times did you entertain them?”

  The steward grimaced. “F-five. Their contempt for you kept them coming back.” Mr Gilligan gulped. “They wanted to hear talk of the tenants’ struggles, wanted to look around the house.”

  “Oh, I imagine they did.” Miles pictured them touching his mother’s things, their filthy hands tainting his memories. With all the problems at the manor, he hadn’t had time to check the inventory. Men of their ilk could not resist the opportunity to steal. But they’d find little of value. His mother had sold her jewels to save the house and protect her son’s inheritance.

  The next Lady Greystone need never worry on that score.

  “Let me see if I understand this troubling situation,” Dariell said, clasping his hands behind his back. “Lord Randall cannot pay his creditors.” He turned to Miles. “And the Harridan-Jones brothers, they cannot pay their creditors. A situation that has been favourable for you, monseigneur. So if Randall cannot settle his debts, then that leaves your brothers in a very precarious position.”

  “Correct,” Miles said. “Miss Lovell is to come into her inheritance in a matter of weeks. Should she marry Randall, he will have access to all property. Let’s hope her father was wise enough to place a large portion in trust.”

  Not that it mattered. Lord Randall hadn’t a chance in hell of making Lydia his wife.

  Dariell sighed. “And so these terrible things people are saying about you, it is all a ploy to discredit your name?”

  “I presume Lord Randall wishes to make it i
mpossible for Lord Lovell to accept my suit should I be so inclined.” He was so inclined. Nothing or no one would stand in their way. Miles focused a penetrating gaze on Mr Gilligan. “Well, is that not the case?”

  Gilligan blinked and shuffled his feet. “I had nothing to do with the fire in the barn. That was Lord Randall’s coachman.”

  “But you were with the coachman at my stables in the early hours.” Miles straightened to his full height. “What was it to be? Arson or theft?”

  Arson would have served Lord Randall’s purpose. A fire might have frightened Miss Lovell into returning home.

  Mr Gilligan shook his head. “Does it matter? Our mission was unsuccessful.”

  “Matter? Of course it bloody matters.” Miles gritted his teeth. The fool spoke as if he’d been on a military exercise for the Crown. “What were you doing there?”

  Gilligan glanced back over his shoulder. Was he preparing to bolt?

  “There’s little point running,” Miles continued. “The next time I catch you, I shall not be so lenient.”

  “Lord Randall said …” Gilligan paused but then sighed and began again. “We were supposed to borrow your horse. The grey one. The one everyone knows belongs to you. But when we got to the stables, none of the horses were chained in the stalls. The black stallion reared and charged at the open door.”

  Trust Drake’s horse to be the one to fight back.

  “The other horses followed … and …” Gilligan grimaced and struggled to continue.

  “And what?” Miles grabbed the steward by his mud-stained cravat and shook him. “Tell me.”

  “W-we were trying to round them up when Mr Guthrie stumbled sleepy-eyed out of the coach house.”

  Miles tightened his grip on the steward’s cravat. “You thought to punish me by borrowing my horse?” The idea was preposterous. Was there no end to Rudolph Randall’s pathetic plots?

  At least Lord Lovell had the backbone to call Miles out.

  “No, my lord.” The man gave a strangled cry and Miles released him. “Your horse was … was to be used in a highway robbery.”

  A highway robbery?

  A bloody highway robbery!

  While Miles found the whole idea ludicrous—the cowardly schemes of a craven ponce—anger drove him to punch Mr Gilligan so hard in the stomach the bastard landed on his arse.

  “You’re lucky to be alive, Mr Gilligan,” he said, dragging the fellow to his feet only to put him on his arse again. “Perhaps love has made me weak. Or perhaps I’m eager for Lord Randall to feel the full force of my wrath. Were I not already engaged to meet Lord Lovell on the common, gentleman or not, I might be inclined to put a lead ball in your chest.” Miles hauled the steward to his feet again.

  Gilligan cowered and tried to cover his body with his hands.

  “What do you say?” Miles turned to Dariell and flexed his fingers. “Shall I give him one more for the road?”

  “But of course.” Dariell inclined his head. “A man must take all punishment due.”

  “Wait, my lord, there’s something else.” Gilligan raised his hands in surrender. “Lord Lovell isn’t the one who … who issued the challenge,” he stuttered.

  Miles arched a brow though it hardly came as a surprise. “No, I don’t imagine he was.”

  “It’s a ploy to force Miss Lovell to return to Dunnam Park.”

  “Of course it is.”

  The letter said as much. Lydia understood that, too. Didn’t she? A sudden sense of foreboding gripped him. Surely Lydia knew to remain with Mr Guthrie as instructed.

  “But Lord Lovell isn’t at Dunnam Park,” Gilligan replied. “He left for Burgess Hill this morning to meet with his solicitor and won’t be back until tomorrow. By then it will be too late.”

  Panic brought a lump to Miles’ throat. “Too late for what?”

  “Too late to save Miss Lovell.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Despite the cuts and bruises on Lydia’s feet, the ten-minute walk to Dunnam Park was easier when wearing soft flowing trousers. Never had she felt so free and unconstrained. She was tempted to ask Dariell if she could keep a pair to wear at her leisure—if only to annoy Arabella.

  A smile touched her lips when she imagined the crow’s horrified expression, imagined hearing her cries of “Oh, what a scandal.”

  Any amusement gleaned from the thought dissolved the moment Lydia reached the mansion’s imposing gates. The sudden heaviness in her chest, coupled with the prickling hairs on her nape, prevented her from taking another step.

  Arabella often forced Cecil to do her bidding.

  But to fight a duel? It was a ridiculous notion.

  Perhaps Arabella hoped Greystone would put a lead ball between Cecil’s brows so she might continue her dalliance with Lord Randall.

  Yet while Lydia cared for Cecil, her motive for returning home stemmed from the need to ease Lord Greystone’s troubles. Should she need assistance, her hero was but minutes away. Like a gallant knight, he would come to her aid if Arabella kept her prisoner.

  Dismissing the odd sense of trepidation, Lydia continued along the gravel drive.

  The butler—the third one in as many years—failed to hide his surprise at her unconventional attire as he stepped back to permit her entrance.

  “Thank you, Hopkins.”

  Hopkins inclined his head.

  “Where might I find Lord Lovell?”

  “His lordship is—”

  “There you are,” Arabella interjected as she made a surprise appearance in the hall. It was as if the crow had a permanent perch in the shadows and stood waiting for someone to peck. “Where on earth have you been?” Her tone was light and carefree, without a trace of anger. She even managed a smile as she shooed Hopkins away.

  It seemed Lydia had cause to feel apprehensive. Arabella’s fake smile was as menacing as a madman brandishing a blade.

  “Let us not play games, Arabella. You know perfectly well where I have been and why I left the house in such a hurry.”

  Cracks appeared in Arabella’s calm facade. The fine lines around her eyes crinkled. Her lips twitched, desperate to form a scowl. The fact Arabella said nothing about Lydia’s odd clothes or loosely tied hair confirmed treachery was afoot. Like anyone who found themselves on enemy territory, it was wise to proceed with caution.

  “Where might I find Cecil?” Lydia asked bluntly.

  “He’s out riding. But come into the drawing room and take tea while you wait.”

  “How long will he be?”

  “Not long. Look I’ve no intention of berating you over those ridiculous clothes, or demanding you explain your foolish actions last night.” Arabella spoke calmly. “Rudolph likes you and got a little carried away. Men do, you know. There is no need to make more of the situation.”

  Lydia suspected many men behaved as scandalously as Lord Randall. How ironic that they were free to saunter about in Society with unblemished reputations.

  “Come,” Arabella continued, “let us find some common ground and begin from there.” She gestured to the drawing room door.

  “When it comes to talk of common ground, I think we have plenty to discuss.” Lydia strode into the drawing room and sat in the chair flanking the fireplace.

  Arabella tugged the bell pull and then sat demurely on the sofa opposite. The muscles in her cheek pulsed as she scanned Lydia’s attire.

  “Having left the house in your nightclothes, I suppose I must be grateful you found something to cover your modesty.” Arabella tried to force another smile but the effort proved too taxing, and she sneered instead.

  “Well, you’re hardly one to preach of modesty.” The time had come for honesty, regardless of the consequences. “I hear you often wander the woods in just your wrapper. If I’m not mistaken, Lord Randall happened upon you there last night.”

  The colour drained from Arabella’s face.

  A timely knock on the door brought Ada. After scanning the maid for signs of mistreatment and findi
ng nothing alarming, Lydia breathed a relieved sigh.

  “We require tea, Ada. I’m sure even you can manage that.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Ada curtsied, but as she retreated towards the door, she glanced back over her shoulder and jerked her head in the direction of the hall. Stone-cold fear flashed in the poor girl’s eyes.

  Lydia gripped the arms of the chair. “While we wait for tea, I would like to speak to Ada.”

  “You can go to her later.” Arabella’s nostrils flared. “I’m sure you have plenty to discuss, but the girl has work to do. That is why we pay her.” She gave a weak chuckle to disguise her annoyance. “But tell me how you come to know I suffer at night, that I walk in my sleep?”

  “You walk in your sleep?” Oh, please. Did Arabella think her a fool?

  “When it happens, I have no recollection of these odd night time events,” Arabella said.

  “Then how fortunate I am able to shed some light on the experience.” Lydia recalled what she’d learnt from Lord Greystone. “No doubt you were dreaming about wolves or wild dogs. By all accounts, you were heard panting and growling and clawing at a tree.”

  Arabella snorted and shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “Well, you more than anyone should know not to listen to spiteful gossip.”

  Ada returned with the tea tray. The china cups clattered on the saucers as the maid’s hands shook. The tray careened left and right, and the dainty milk jug almost toppled over the edge.

  “Just put it down.” Arabella’s curt tone frightened the maid further.

  Lydia jumped to her feet and hurried to take the tray.

  Ada relinquished her grip, but bent her head and whispered, “Leave here, miss. Leave now, before it’s too late.”

  Too late?

  Too late for what?

  “That is all, Ada,” Arabella scolded. “Find Lord Randall and ask him to join us.”

  After his failed seduction attempt, Lydia had no desire to see the foppish lord. “There’s no need. I came to see Cecil. I’m sure you’re aware of his ridiculous ultimatum. He challenged Lord Greystone to a duel on Blackmoor Common.”