“Then he is in for one hell of a shock. From what I’ve seen so far, I’d say the lady has the measure of the situation. When you find the steward, he’ll be lucky to escape with his ballocks intact.”
“The rest of the estate can’t be as bad as this.”
Drake frowned. “I thought your steward had access to extra funds now you’ve made your fortune?”
“He does. My mother struggled to manage the estate after my father left, but it was by no means in this sorry state.” The then Lord Greystone controlled the purse strings with an iron hand. The Greystone Estate paid for his mistress’ lavish lifestyle rather than the upkeep of the ancestral home. “Gilligan knew he need only ask, and I would have made the funds available to deal with any repairs.”
“Well, from what I’ve seen so far, I’d prepare yourself for the worst.”
Exchanging apprehensive glances, they ventured along the winding drive. Relief flooded Miles’ chest when he spotted the sprawling Jacobean manor. He expected to find the open-work parapets crumbling, stray dogs sleeping on dirty steps, ragged curtains billowing out through missing windowpanes. But the house looked the same as the day he left—just as dark and dismal.
The faint glow of candlelight drew his gaze to an upstairs window. “Perhaps Gilligan has taken to sleeping in his master’s bed.” Miles snorted with disdain.
He led Valiant onto the grass verge and gestured for Drake to follow lest they warn the steward of their approach.
They tethered the reins to a tree and left the horses grazing, dodged the deep ruts in the drive and crept up the stone steps. The front door was unlocked. The empty hall gave no cause for concern. What need had the butler to linger there awaiting visitors?
Laughter pierced the morbid silence, loud and jarring. Miles tapped Drake on the arm and gestured to the drawing room door. Moving closer, he pushed the door open fully with the tip of one finger.
The two men seated at the card table were in such high spirits they failed to hear the creak of the hinges. The scrawny one cradled a bottle of liquor, taking regular swigs as he examined the fan of playing cards in his hand. The other man, whose extra chin had swallowed his neck, sat with his muddy boots propped on the arm of the gold Chippendale sofa.
“Play the damn card.” The tubby man rested his clasped hands on his stout stomach. “You ain’t got a hope in hell of winnin’ this hand.”
“Don’t be so sure. I might still ’ave a trick up me sleeve.”
“I’ve had my hawk eyes trained on you this last half hour. There ain’t no way you can win.”
“Ain’t no way, eh?” The pencil-thin man slammed the bottle onto the table and threw a card on top of the pile. “Ace of clubs. What do you say to that?”
“What? I say you’ve been cheatin’.”
“Isn’t that what Gilligan pays us for?”
Both men laughed.
Miles had plenty to say, too, but he kept calm. Dariell had trained him well. Remaining alert and aware of oneself and one’s surroundings were key to tackling any potentially volatile situation.
With confidence, Miles strode into the room. Drake followed closely behind. “I see you started the game without us.”
Both men jumped at the sudden interruption, but neither moved from their seats.
“And who might you be?” The man with a stomach the size of a beer barrel narrowed his gaze. “Gilligan said nothing about having friends to stay tonight.”
Miles scanned the table, searched the piles of cards and coins, looking for a weapon. “Is Gilligan here?”
Both men stared, assessing Drake’s dusty black greatcoat, Miles’ dirty boots and mud-splattered breeches. The fact neither of them seemed disturbed by the arrival of two strange men did not bode well. Whatever was going on here amounted to more than the neglect of his property and tenants.
“Gilligan’s gone to Burgess Hill. A few shopkeepers there will still give him credit.”
“Then we’ll wait.” Miles stepped closer to the table, feigning interest in the cards scattered over the surface. “Is there anything decent to drink?”
The scrawny one snatched his bottle and hugged it to his chest. “Gilligan’s stopped fillin’ the decanters. But you might find an old bottle in the cellar if you’re ’appy to go gropin’ in the dark.”
The man with two chins dragged his boots off the arm of the sofa. “You here for the card game tomorrow night?”
“Why?” Miles said. “Do we look like men desperate for a win at the gaming table?” With sun-kissed skin from his travels, coupled with windswept hair and rumpled clothing, Miles lacked the polish and finesse of an aristocratic gentleman, least of all the lord and master of the house.
“You look like men with a liking for all the devil’s vices.”