At Last the Rogue Returns (Avenging Lords 1)

Their mouths fell open. Confusion marred their brows, the worry lines conveying a host of silent questions.

“Whatever deal you struck with Mr Gilligan is void,” Miles added.

Jenny’s anxious expression faded, replaced by a sly grin. “Did Dugan put ya up to this?”

“If Dugan is one of the men in the drawing room, then he is running down the drive for fear I’ll put a lead ball in his back.”

Panic surfaced in the women’s eyes once again. Both doxies sat frozen on the bed.

“But Gilligan said we’d make a tidy sum at the card game tomorrow night.”

“Gilligan no longer holds any authority here.” Miles pulled his watch from his pocket and checked the time. “A fact he will learn sometime within the next hour. Now get the hell out of my house.” The command swiped the air like a blade, cutting the atmosphere in two.

The women scrambled from the bed, grabbed stockings and petticoats. One jiggled her breasts back into the bodice of her dress. They ransacked the drawers by the bed, stuffing coins into the secret pockets sewn into their skirts. One filled a cloth purse and pushed it down the valley of her ample bosom.

Drake folded his arms across his chest and watched the amusing spectacle.

“You realise I could have sent for the magistrate,” Miles said, keen to let them know their punishment was light when compared to transportation or the hangman’s noose.

Neither woman bothered to thank him for his compassion nor for the use of his bed. With a mound of clothes in their arms, they hurried out of the room and down the stairs.

“Do you want me to follow them to the gate?” Drake asked.

“I think that’s wise lest we find them lurking in the cellar. I’ll leave you to keep watch here while I deal with Gilligan.” Miles relished the thought of wrapping his hands around the steward’s disloyal neck and squeezing until his face turned blue. “I’m going to the assembly in Cuckfield.”

Drake groaned. “But Dariell won’t arrive with the trunks until tomorrow.” He brushed road dust off the shoulder of Miles’ coat. “What will the fine folk of Cuckfield think if you stroll in dressed like that?”

“They already think I’m a rogue. And you know how I hate to disappoint. The good people of Cuckfield want to see a murderous devil. A murderous devil is exactly what they’ll get.”

Chapter Four

The elegant assembly room at Cuckfield town hall shone beneath the light of three chandeliers. Lydia’s brother, Cecil, had donated the extravagant fixtures a year ago. Arabella did not want their friends from London thinking those who lived in the provinces lacked refinement.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Arabella said through gritted teeth. She looked up at the orchestra seated on the balcony and shook her head. “Could they not find trained musicians? Mr Jethro holds that bow like a cleaver and is intent on murdering Haydn.”

Lydia glanced at the man’s meaty paws wondering if she might hire him to murder Lord Greystone instead.

“It’s a community event.” Lydia winced as another missed note rent the air. “The idea is to involve all those willing to participate.”

“It seems Mr Jethro is not the only one who falls short of expectations this evening.” Arabella’s green eyes narrowed as she scanned Lydia’s coiffure. “Perhaps it is time I replaced your maid. I should never have employed the girl in the first place.”

It had taken days of pleading and begging before Arabella agreed to hire the fifteen-year-old orphan girl. Lydia promised Ada she would always have a home and for two years she’d kept her word. Besides, a little over an hour ago, Lydia had been racing through the woods in the rain, barely able to catch her breath. Ada deserved a reward for rustling up the simple creation.

“I asked for something graceful yet understated.” A simple style unlike the monstrosity of feathers and flowers woven into Arabella’s red hair. “Ada merely followed my instructions.”

Arabella huffed. “So why drag you from the drawing room as if the hay barn had caught fire? I assumed you’d decided to make an effort. Lord Randall is coming. He is accustomed to dancing with duchesses, not dowdy spinsters.”

“At twenty, I?

?m hardly a spinster.” Though she happily admitted to being dowdy. There were more important things in life than succumbing to the demands of fashion. A pretty silk polonaise had failed to save the heads of the French aristocracy.

Staring down her nose, Arabella shook her head. “A spinster you most definitely will be unless you take a husband soon. Lord Randall has an estate of four thousand acres and is besotted with you.”

And having met Rudolph Randall numerous times, he could own half of England and still Lydia would not entertain him.

“His estate makes ours look positively paltry,” Arabella complained. “If only your brother had taken my advice and invested in Lord Randall’s shipping venture, then we might boast the same.”

Bless Cecil. Arabella found him lacking. He was too short, too weak, too affable.