At Last the Rogue Returns (Avenging Lords 1)

“Cecil errs on the side of caution. You know that.”

“And where has it got him?”

“There are plenty of gentlemen in debtors’ prison whose only crime is recklessness,” Lydia argued. “Should you not be grateful he devotes all of his time”—and money—“to you?”

Arabella scowled. “You would see it that way. You don’t have to rely on rent from tenant farmers to make ends meet.”

Why did Arabella always bring the conversation back to Lydia’s inheritance?

“You’re hardly poor, Arabella.” Anyone who could afford to hire Madame Albertini to design their gowns did not need to count the pennies. “Did you not make an eight per cent return on the dividends from bank stock?”

“That is nothing compared to the fortune your father left you.”

Every day, Arabella reminded Lydia of her father’s failures. As the only son, Cecil should have inherited everything, right down to their father’s baggy stockings. And yet he received only that which was entailed. Lydia inherited the townhouse in London, and a sum large enough that she need never marry.

And in less than a month it would be hers.

“Any loyal sister would acknowledge that there has been a terrible miscarriage of justice,” Arabella grumbled. “Let us hope that when you come of age you reward your brother for his devoted service to you these last two years.”

“Reward him? You mean give Cecil my inheritance?” It was the first time Lydia had spoken so candidly. The altercation with Greystone had given her the courage to be bold.

“No. Not all of it.”

“How much would please you?”

“Half would suffice.” Arabella stepped closer and placed her bony fingers on Lydia’s arm. “Think of it this way. If you marry Lord Randall, half will be more than ample for your needs.”

“And what of the house in London?” Lydia probed, determined to learn of Arabella’s true intentions.

“You wouldn’t need it. Lord Randall has a mansion house in Grosvenor Square. What use have you for a townhouse in Queen Street?”

“But you would have a use for it, of course.”

“A gentleman of your brother’s status must be seen to own property in town.”

Was that the status of an affable imbecile or peer of the realm? Lydia wondered.

Lydia recalled the moment her father summoned her into his bedchamber, raised a limp hand to her cheek and made her swear never to let the evil crow—meaning Arabella—get her hands on a penny of his money.

“Do you really think I would disrespect my father by going against his wishes?”

“He’s dead!” Arabella’s shriek drew attention. Her cheeks flamed. She pasted an affected smile and inclined her head to those who stared. “It’s not as though he would know,” she whispered through clenched teeth.

There was little point offering a retort. Arabella’s greed was so deep-rooted nothing could weaken its branches.

The music suddenly stopped, and a hum of excitement caught Lydia’s attention. The energy in the room sparked to life. Lord Randall had arrived. Like mice lured by a chunk of cheese, people scurried towards the double doors, eager to greet the prestigious guest.

Lydia groaned inwardly.

“Oh, Rudolph is here.” Arabella clasped her hands to her chest. Her countenance brightened dramatically as she stood on her tiptoes and craned her neck. “He thinks so highly of your brother. One word of encouragement from you, and he would be sure to offer marriage.”

Marriage?

Good Lord. Lydia had best do everything in her power to deter him.

With a raised chin and a lofty air of arrogance, Lord Randall spoke to all those who clawed at his heels for attention. The gentry gathered around and gawked as if drinking in the sight of a breathtaking piece of art.

Randall’s clothes did have aesthetic appeal. They spoke of elegance, a natural sophistication that bordered on the feminine. He wore russet silk breeches and a matching tailcoat. Pristine white stockings served to demonstrate shapely, well-defined calves. His gold brocade waistcoat and fussy cravat confirmed he was a man obsessed with appearances. So obsessed, he’d worn court clothes to a provincial assembly.