Drake raised an arrogant brow. “When it comes to sin, there is no one more qualified.”
The thin man took a swig from his bottle and raised his chin. “There’s a ripe pair upstairs if you’ve got a few shillings a piece to spare.”
A ripe pair?
So his bedchamber was now a boudoir for women selling their wares. No wonder Gilligan lacked the time and energy needed to see to the repairs.
“I’d be quick if I were you,” the twig said. “If I win the next game, I’ll have enough for a romp with Jenny.”
Miles forced a grin. “What time will Gilligan be back?”
“After the assembly, I suppose. After he’s bowed and scraped to the nabobs in Cuckfield. Got to keep ’em sweet. Last thing he wants is to have ’em snoopin’ and pryin’ and turnin’ up uninvited.”
Miles let his arms hang loosely by his sides though excitement flared when his mind skipped to the moment he smashed both men’s heads on the table. By his estimation, they had another minute of ignorance before their violent awakening.
Miles cast Drake a knowing look. One raise of a brow and his friend could read the silent message. “I assume Greystone is still abroad,” Miles said casually. “The last thing we want is for him to stumble upon Gilligan’s little enterprise and ruin his plans.”
Both miscreants chuckled.
“Have no fear on that score. Greystone won’t bother you. He ain’t never comin’ back. Hates the place he does.”
The fool was not wrong. If Miles closed his eyes, he could still hear his mother’s sobs echoing through the gloomy hall like a banshee’s wail. “Who told you that?”
“Gilligan says the old viscount left his family to rot and ran off with a lightskirt.” The man’s second chin wobbled as he pointed to the painting in the gilt frame hanging to the left of the fireplace. “Greystone’s made his home across the water in—” He stopped abruptly. Stunned, his gaze shot back and forth between the portrait and Miles. “’Ere, has anyone ever told you—”
“That I look remarkably like Lord Greystone,” Miles said, finishing the man’s sentence.
Recognition dawned. Across the cluttered table, both men exchanged nervous glances.
The atmosphere grew heavy—tense.
Drake moved to stand behind the round man’s chair, his large hands settling on the top rail.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
No one dared breathe.
Miles locked eyes with Drake, his curt nod being the signal to attack.
Miles lunged. He grabbed the scrawny man by the shoulders of his threadbare coat and yanked him backwards. Amid shrieks and a string of curses, the chair toppled to the floor. The liquor bottle landed with a thud, the contents glugging over the Persian carpet.
“Get off me!” the fool shouted, his feet paddling the air desperate to find a solid surface. “Speak to Gilligan. He said we could stay.”
“Trust me. I shall take great pleasure informing Mr Gilligan that his master has returned.”
Drake grabbed the other rogue’s hands and prised them off the edge of the card table. Hauling him to his feet, Drake punched him in the gut. The man doubled over. Stumbled. Coughed. Spluttered.
Drake swung him around, held him in a stranglehold and exerted pressure on his windpipe whenever he struggled to break free. “One more move and I shall snap your damn neck.”
A mad scuffle ensued, and they dragged the unwanted houseguests to the front door and threw them down the steps.
“As master of this house,” Miles began, brushing imagined dirt from his hands, “let me make my position clear. If I see you on my land again, I will put a lead ball between your brows. Is that understood?”
The gravel crunched beneath the men’s feet as they scrambled to stand. Rain lashed their faces. Neither knew what to do.
Despite the weather, Miles descended the steps, and the men shuffled backwards. “You have until the count of ten to reach the gate