At Last the Rogue Returns (Avenging Lords 1)

But if I find either of you within a mile of my property again I shall have no option but to deal with the matter myself. Fiercely. Ruthlessly. In the savage way you might imagine in your nightmares.”

Fear flashed in Edwin’s eyes. “Th-the place is a crumbling wreck,” he countered behind the safety of his desk. “Father despised the manor and all those who lived there.”

“Oh, I know,” Miles said coolly, but then the image of his mother’s tear-drenched face flashed into his mind. Feeling a burst of anger, he glanced up at the portrait of the evil bastard. “You both remind me of him in many ways.”

Stephen sat forward, his paunch overhanging the desk. “I shall take it as a compliment,” he said haughtily.

“Don’t.”

A tense silence ensued.

They fidgeted in their plush seats.

Miles suddenly jumped to his feet, and both men gasped. He cracked his knuckles. “I’m here, amongst other things, to discover which one of you enjoys telling tales.”

The brothers exchanged curious glances.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Edwin protested, but his shifty eyes and quivering bottom lip marked him the liar.

Miles prowled towards Edwin’s desk, rested his hands flat on the polished wood and leant forward. “Do you see that beautiful blue bruise you have, Edwin? Well, picture something infinitely more painful. Picture a gaping hole in your chest pouring with blood. That is what you can expect if I hear any more talk about Miss Lovell. That is what you can expect if you do not find a way to restore the lady’s good name.”

Edwin’s hollow cheeks burned red. “It was—”

“Silence.” Miles slammed his fist down hard on the desk, so hard the crystal inkwell clattered on its stand. “You will address the matter this afternoon. Else I shall have no option but to call you out.”

“We don’t have to listen to this.” Stephen rose to his feet, a little slowly as it took a moment to haul himself out of the chair.

“You don’t? Are you sure?”

Stephen’s eyes filled with confusion.

“Are you not the least bit curious to know the real reason I’m here?” Miles said in a slow, teasing tone that aggravated both gentlemen.

“We can have you thrown out you know,” Edwin chimed.

“Is that so? I should like to see you try.” Miles snatched the silver letter opener from the desk.

Edwin almost toppled off his chair in horror. “Good God, you’ve lost your mind.”

“Undoubtedly.” Miles strode over to the painting of his father. With it hanging high on the picture rail, he climbed onto the arm of the sofa and slashed the canvas, cutting the face in two.

“What the hell are you doing?” Stephen’s eyes widened. “Stop that, I say.”

“There. That seems like a more realistic representation, don’t you think?” Miles jumped down from his elevated position. He slipped the letter opener into his coat pocket.

“Here. You can’t take that,” Edwin protested.

“I can take whatever I chose. As the majority shareholder in this company, I have as much right of ownership as either of you.”

Both men looked at him sharply, but then Stephen snorted. “Caught a fever in Madras, did you? Messed with your mind, did it?”

“No, not at all.” Miles brushed imagined dust off the sleeve of his coat. “I purchased a twenty per cent share from Mr Camberwell and a further thirty from the bank. Indeed, with your mounting debts, I hope to purchase more.”

Both brothers cast him a thunderous look.

“Liar! We would have been notified of the sale,” Stephen countered. Panic marred his features and beads of sweat formed on his brow.

“Would you? Perhaps you nodded off when meeting with your solicitor. Perhaps your man of business neglected to pass on the relevant information.” Miles shrugged. “Who can say?” Most men would do anything for money—turn a blind eye, mislay papers, tell half-truths.