At Last the Rogue Returns (Avenging Lords 1)

“Is he dead, miss?” Ada whispered.

“Of course he’s not dead,” Lydia said, but she knew of many men who were keen to bury a blade in his back. “He’s sleeping.”

She noted the gentle rise and fall of his chest. In slumber, Greystone looked nothing like the black-hearted devil she’d believed him to be. There was a softness to his features, an inner radiance that shone from within—a noble air that spoke of honesty and strength of heart.

“Sleeping?” Ada frowned. “On a stone?”

“He’s probably tired after such a long journey.”

The corners of Greystone’s mouth curled up in amusement. “You’re late, Miss Lovell,” he said without opening his eyes. “And don’t try to blame it on my inadequate timepiece.”

For some odd reason, Lydia’s heart felt a little lighter when he spoke. “As a lady of principle, I am more than happy to admit to my failures, my lord.” She glanced around the circle of stones. “The morning sun has moved beyond the stone to my left. By my estimation, this ancient timepiece confirms I am fifteen minutes late.”

Greystone opened his eyes, the green gems flashing with admiration. He sat up and swung his muscular legs to the ground. “Impressive, Miss Lovell. Few take time to study the stones.”

A blush warmed Lydia’s cheeks. Other than the odd insincere compliment from Lord Randall—which always focused on one’s outward presentation—no one had ever praised her intelligence.

“I’ve spent a lot of time here during the last three years.” Lydia used any excuse to be away from Arabella. “There is something calming about the place, something fascinating.”

“Indeed.” His gaze drifted over her face. The corners of his mouth twitched when he focused on the bunch of cherries decorating her bonnet. “I’ve always thought so.”

A brief silence ensued though the charge in the air, coupled with her heightened awareness of him, created an inner chaos.

In a sudden move, Lord Greystone jumped to the ground and dusted off his bare hands. So, he had forgone gloves and a hat. When one spent days in the sun, no doubt certain items of apparel proved bothersome. But was he not cold? Did he not feel the autumn chill in the air?

Ada gasped and shrank back. The whites of her eyes bulged from their sockets, and she made the sign of the cross.

“My maid was told the devil has returned to Cuckfield,” Lydia said by way of an explanation. If she was going to help the tenants, she would need to encourage honesty between herself and Lord Greystone. “I’m afraid to say she believes the worst.”

“In that regard, she was not alone, Miss Lovell. You had your reservations, too.” He inclined his head though he held Lydia’s gaze. “I shall have to see what I can do to prove my worth.”

The tickle in her stomach danced up to her throat. Oh, this was ridiculous. “We should begin with a visit to Mr and Mrs Guthrie,” she said, desperate to keep her mind and body occupied with something other than these odd sensations. “Their cottage is but a ten-minute walk from here.”

Greystone smiled. “Then lead the way, Miss Lovell, and I will gladly follow.”

“The roof leaks whenever it’s raining.” Mrs Guthrie gathered her shawl around her shoulders and pointed to the damp patch on the wall. “And Mr Gilligan says I’m to collect half the vegetables I grow and give them to the manor.”

Lord Greystone scanned the interior of the small cottage. The wood basket was empty. The board on the table held nothing but a stale loaf of bread and a chunk of cheese that looked hard and rubbery around the edges.

A musty scent hung in the air, and the bitter chill sent a shiver from Lydia’s neck to her navel. Heavens, it felt warmer outside than it did in the cottage.

“Gilligan no longer has any authority here.” Anger flashed in Greystone’s eyes, but he held his calm demeanour. “Am I right in thinking you used to work at the manor?”

Mrs Guthrie pushed a straggly lock of hair back into her white mobcap. “Yes, my lord. I worked in the kitchen, and Mr Guthrie worked in the stables. He’s off at Burgess Hill, got a day’s work with the farrier.”

Greystone fell silent, the stillness only broken by the grinding of teeth as he clenched his jaw. “What did I pay you before Mr Gilligan gave you notice?”

“Eight pounds a year, my lord.”

“Then I shall pay you ten pounds if you return to the manor today. I’ll increase your husband’s pay if he returns to the stables tomorrow.” He reached into his coat pocket, removed two gold coins and thrust them into the woman’s hand. “That should ease your burden for now, and you can take your meals at the manor. In the meantime, I shall deal with the necessary repairs to your home.”

Mrs Guthrie’s eyes widened. “Oh, my lord.” She stared at the coins in her hand, then clutched them to her chest and curtsied repeatedly. “I don’t know what to say.”

Lydia studied the lord’s face. He took pleasure from easing Mrs Guthrie’s woes. The hard line of his mouth relaxed. Those emerald jewels softened at the sight of the poor woman’s smile.

The devil had a heart it seemed.

“The kitchen is in a sorry state,” he said in the authoritative tone that marked him as an aristocrat. “Gilligan kept the cook on, but no one else. Consequently, it will take a few days to clean, and to restock the larder.”