At Last the Rogue Returns (Avenging Lords 1)

“But in answer to your question,” Dariell said to indicate the lesson was over, “your brothers, they are not fools. A man does not travel—how many miles is it?”

“To London? Almost forty.”

“A man, he does not travel forty miles to play cards when there are clubs aplenty at home. Find your steward, and you may find your answer.”

“Drake spent the day looking for Gilligan. Unless someone in Cuckfield has given him lodgings, I imagine he’s far from here by now.”

Drake appeared at the front door and strolled down the steps. “Well, is that all of them?”

“Oui.”

Disappointment passed over Drake’s face. “Damn, and I was having so much fun.”

Dariell turned his attention to Miles. “May I make a suggestion, monseigneur?”

“Certainly.”

“While you are away in London, someone should remain here. Something is wrong. I can feel it in the air.” Dariell closed his eyes. For a long moment he did not speak or move. “Your focus cannot be in two places,” he eventually said, his eyes glazed and dreamy as if he’d had another one of his premonitions.

“Are you advising I remain at the manor?” As the majority shareholder in Greystone Shipping, Miles had business in London. There were papers to sign, projects to oversee. And his brothers still had no idea he was the one who had bought their vowels and called them in, forcing them to sell more of their shares.

“No. But I shall stay. The house, it needs … work. The energy here is tainted.”

“Well, as much as I would like to be of assistance,” Drake said, “I have my own reason for wanting to return to town.”

Devlin Drake had a vendetta against Baron Bromfield and planned to ruin the entire family, starting with the man’s vain daughter.

“I swear that evil witch will pay for what she did to Ambrose,” Drake added.

Dariell arched a brow. “What about the theory that living a good life is the sweetest revenge?”

“Oh, I’ll live a good life,” Drake said, his mouth curling into a wicked grin. “When I force that harlot to marry me I shall take great pleasure looking at her miserable face each morning.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “I only hope my estate is in better condition than this one.”

Miles sighed. “Can it be any worse?”

The forty-mile journey to London passed by in a blur. When Miles wasn’t focused on keeping pace with Drake—who rode like Lucifer snapped at his heels—he was lost in thoughts of kissing Miss Lovell or strangling Edwin Harridan-Jones. Miles scanned the tap room and yard of every coaching inn they visited, hoping to catch sight of his brothers or that conniving bastard Gilligan.

The London streets were just as Miles remembered: loud and cramped and dirty. Feral dogs charged about scavenging for scraps. Boys in rags hung about on street corners, brushes in hand, waiting to clear a path for anyone willing to throw them a coin.

Life was like a stint at the gaming tables. One’s cards were dealt, and each man made the best hand possible. Some gambled and won—the majority lost. Indeed, Miles found the signs of poverty distressing. He made a mental note to hire servants whilst in town, to ask his man of business, Mr Cardon, to find two orphan boys to train as grooms.

Drake owned an elegant townhouse in Wimpole Street. After his staff recovered from the initial shock of receiving their master after five long years, they busied about catering to his every whim and desire. A meal of eight courses—for Drake was a man with a voracious appetite for all things—was followed by an evening spent emptying the port decanter.

Drinking to excess failed to banish al

l thoughts of Miss Lovell. Instead, Miles took to spouting lovesick nonsense about her beguiling smile and warm heart. Tired of listening to his inane mutterings, Drake went to bed.

The next day, Mr Cardon attended Miles in Wimpole Street.

“You’re certain neither Edwin nor Stephen know I am the one who holds the majority share?” Miles should have insisted Mr Cardon keep a watchful eye on Mr Gilligan. But he’d appointed Cardon secretly and only a month before leaving for India.

“I can assure you, my lord,” Mr Cardon began nervously, “no one is party to that information. I chose the solicitor wisely, based on his reputation for discretion.”

“And you attended the last shareholders’ meeting?”

“Indeed, my lord, though your brothers failed to attend.” Mr Cardon retrieved the paperwork from his leather folder and placed it on Drake’s mahogany desk. “As it stands, Drummond’s Bank owns a fifteen per cent share of Greystone Shipping. Combined, the Harridan-Jones brothers have thirty-five, and you hold fifty.”

A warm glow of satisfaction filled Miles’ chest. He hoped his mother was looking down on him, sporting a huge grin, too. “And the bank is still disinclined to sell?”