At Last the Rogue Returns (Avenging Lords 1)

Damn Greystone. Night after night she’d prayed for his return, and now part of her wished he’d never come back.

Something troubling was afoot at Dunnam Park.

Raised voices echoed from the drawing room. Arabella’s harpy shriek was at the centre of the mayhem. Cecil offered a few mumbled protests, while Randall spoke in the sickly suave way that made him sound superior.

The words ruined and stupid were but two Lydia heard clearly.

Lydia crept closer to the door. Thankfully, Ada had gone to the kitchen else she would have surely sneezed or coughed or done something to alert Arabella of their presence.

“Enough is enough, Cecil.” Arabella must have hit the table because the teacups clattered on the saucers. “We must address this problem at once. Do you hear me? We cannot afford to delay a moment longer.”

Cecil groaned. “Can we not just wait and hope the whole damn thing will blow over?”

“Blow over? Blow over! Trust you to make a such a spineless comment. Do you not know how these things work? It starts as a spark

and ignites into an inferno.”

“Arabella is right, of course,” Lord Randall said coolly. “And the letter is from Lady Martin who, while reliable, is an outrageous gossip.”

“Do you not care for the girl?” Arabella snapped.

The girl?

The comment caught Lydia unawares. Was she the root cause of the argument?

“I would hardly call Lady Martin a girl.” Cecil gave a weak chuckle. “The matron must be sixty.”

Oh, her poor brother really was obtuse.

“I’m not talking about Lady Martin.” Arabella snorted. “Do you not care for Lydia? It is not just her reputation at risk,” she continued, having modified her tone to a more conniving, more slippery level. “Every daughter born to us will have to suffer the same slight, the same black mark against their name.”

Arabella might have a point if she wasn’t barren. Of course, Cecil did not protest.

“I’m afraid you must do something,” Lord Randall said. “This sort of thing does not go away. Your sister has no hope of residing in London now.”

What the devil?

Panic seized Lydia’s heart.

London?

She thought the argument related to her interest in Lord Greystone’s tenants, in her keenness to wander onto his estate and involve herself in his business. But what had it to do with going to London?

Well, there was only one way to find out.

With a straight back and raised chin Lydia pushed open the door. “Good afternoon,” she said to the three people seated on the sofas. Arabella was seated next to Lord Randall while Cecil sat opposite. “I heard you mention my name and am bursting with curiosity to discover why.” She pasted a smile as fake as the mole on Lord Randall’s cheek.

After a brief silence, Arabella scowled. “We would have spoken to you directly had you not been gallivanting about the Greystone Estate like a silly strumpet.”

“Arabella,” Lord Randall chided. He took a pinch of snuff from a ruby-encrusted box, brought it to his nose and inhaled gently. “I cannot and will not permit you to speak like that in my presence.”

“Quite right,” Cecil added bravely, but then bowed his head.

Arabella’s hollow cheeks tinged red, and she patted Randall’s knee absently. Anyone would think Lord Randall was her husband. “Forgive me, Rudolph. But the chit doesn’t realise the trouble she has caused.”

“Then would someone care to enlighten me?” Lydia had used a similar phrase with Greystone and—heavens above—he had done exactly that. “What have I done this time?”

Lord Randall flapped the letter at her. “Apparently, my dear, you’re the talk of the town and for entirely the wrong reasons.”