At Last the Rogue Returns (Avenging Lords 1)

Lydia chuckled. Like Rudolph, Arabella had the most preposterous taste in fashion. “Well, we do not wish to intrude. We brought fresh bread rolls. Shall I leave them inside?”

“A man never says no to the offer of food, though his lordship’s staff sent down a flagon of cider and a great hunk of cheese.”

“Oh.” It seems his lordship thought of everything. She gestured to Ada who hurried inside with her basket to deposit the bread. When the maid returned—blinking and wincing with every hit of the hammer—Lydia said, “We shall not keep you any longer. You must get back to your work.”

Jack nodded. “Mr Roberts is comin’ to help, along with his boys. His lordship said he wants things watertight before the winter sets in.”

A sudden flutter in Lydia’s heart forced her to catch her breath. “His lordship? Has he returned to the manor?” Oh, she sounded like a lovesick fool.

“No, Miss Lovell.” Jack shook his head. “His lordship left instructions with Mr Dariell. He’s seeing to things while Lord Greystone is away.”

“Oh, I see.” Lydia tried to keep a neutral tone, tried not to let disappointment affect her mood. And yet, while pleased the tenants would finally have clean, dry homes, Lydia couldn’t help but feel a little useless.

What would she do with her days now?

The tenants had work at the manor. They wouldn’t need her baskets of food, or the second-hand clothes she’d purchased in Cuckfield. Oh, Lydia had never been prone to bouts of sentimentality and yet she would miss the role she’d played these last two years. She would miss conversing with real people, learning of their struggles and feeling the immense satisfaction that came from helping them improve their lives.

Lydia mentally shook herself. There were poor people in London. But London was not Cuckfield.

With a heavy heart, she forced a smile. “Well, we shall leave you to your work.”

Jack gave a curt nod and resumed the laborious task of lifting and arranging the roof tiles.

“Everyone seems mighty happy, miss,” Ada said as they headed towards the lane.

“Yes, they do, Ada.” Everyone, it seemed, but Lydia.

A loud shout from behind caught their attention. They swung around to find Jack pointing to the lane. “Here’s Mr Dariell coming now if you want to ask after his lordship.”

“Why does everyone assume I’m interested in Lord Greystone?” Lydia muttered to Ada under her breath. “Thank you, Mr Painter,” she called back, feigning politeness.

“It’s only right you’d ask about him after all the things you’ve done for the folks here,” Ada said, and her logic made perfect sense.

Lydia shook off her irritation. “Yes, of course. And I am keen to learn of his plans to renovate.”

Ada smiled and took to swinging her basket. “And happen it’s because you’ve found someone who likes the same things you do.”

“The same things?” Eager to hear more—she could talk about Lord Greystone all day—Lydia asked, “What sort of things?”

“Well …” Two deep furrows appeared on Ada’s brow. “You both care for his tenants. You both like cherries and sitting on that stone altar.”

The stone altar?

Panic flared.

Had Ada followed her and spied on her lewd liaison with Lord Greystone?

“Wh-why would you think I like to sit on the altar?”

“Because you had that grey dust on your dress when you came back from your walk. And you had one of those umbrella mushrooms squashed to the sole of your boot.”

Good Lord. With such insight, Ada could work for Bow Street. What else had the girl noticed? But Lydia had no time to probe the maid further because Mr Dariell approached.

Ada froze. The basket’s wicker handle creaked beneath the pressure of her anxious grip.

Mr Dariell was a quirky fellow, Lydia had to admit, though he looked relaxed in his odd blue tunic and long trousers. Of course, he did not wear a hat, and his shoes were more like dancing slippers. Not the robust footwear one needed to walk the country lanes in early autumn. Thankfully, the day was quite mild else the man might catch his death.

“Mr Dariell,” Lydia said by way of a greeting, and she tried not to blush. Not knowing the man’s exact status or profession—and not meaning to sound rude—she added, “Forgive me, but I’m told that is your name.”