At Last the Rogue Returns (Avenging Lords 1)

“Well, you can forget any plans you had to live in London,” Arabella added, looking smug.

Lydia exhaled. “Will you please stop talking in riddles and speak plainly. Tell me exactly of what I am accused.”

Suspicion flared.

Was this another one of Arabella’s ploys to get her to marry Lord Randall?

“The gossip is that you’re Lord Greystone’s lover,” Lord Randall said with an air of disapproval. “Everyone believes it to be so.”

“His lover?” Lydia shook her head. An incredulous laugh escaped. “What utter nonsense?”

“Are you saying it isn’t true?” Lord Randall’s eyes searched her face, then dropped briefly to her breasts. “Arabella said you spend most of your time there.”

“Yes, helping his tenants. I have already told you. Charitable work gives me purpose.”

“Oh, really,” Arabella scoffed. “You have been out after dark twice this week. Don’t think I don’t know. I’m sure if we prodded your maid we would learn the full extent of your transgressions.”

Hot anger raced through Lydia’s body. Little lights danced before her eyes. No one threatened Ada—not in her presence. “I have nothing to hide”—except for a wild and highly stimulating affair at the stones—“so you’ve no need to harass the girl. Besides, a late-night walk hardly constitutes treason.”

“It’s autumn,” Arabella retorted.

“She’s right, dear girl,” Cecil said. “It seems rather odd to be out in all weathers.”

“Compared to most ladies, I am rather odd.” Although when she looked at the fools around her, she was rather glad. Her thoughts returned to the aforementioned gossip. “So Lady Martin likes to concoct stories. I’m sure Lord Greystone will correct any misunderstanding.”

Arabella shot to her feet, her oversized coiffure wobbling like blancmange. The style was more suited to a soirée than an afternoon spent sipping tea and ruining people’s lives. “Who do you think started the rumour in the first place?”

Lydia contemplated the question. “Are you suggesting Lord Greystone is the guilty party?”

“Oh, the lady finally wakes from her foolish daydream.” Arabella’s tone brimmed with condescension. “Of course it was Greystone. Who else could it be? Other than those seated here, he’s the only one who knows of your indecorous escapades.”

“Indecorous escapades?” Lydia wanted to laugh. Indeed, she would have done so had her mind not been frantically debating the possibility of Lord Greystone’s duplicity.

Had he kissed her merely to provide a lewd story fit to entertain his friends?

No, she didn’t think so. And, though not one to boast of her own attributes, she was a reasonably good judge of character. That was when the likes of Mr Gilligan were not distorting the facts.

She studied Lord Randall as he dropped his snuffbox back into his coat pocket. For a man who was supposedly keen to marry her, he did not seem distraught or disappointed by the news of her ruination.

Was it all a ruse?

Lydia straightened. “May I see the letter?”

“I don’t see why not.” Too idle to move from the sofa, Lord Randall waved the letter at Cecil who hurried to his feet like a boy hoping to earn a penny. “It arrived this morning. And I’m inclined to agree. Greystone must be the source.”

“Look, dear girl,” Cecil whispered as he handed her the missive. “Admit to your mistake and agree to Arabella’s demands. If you—”

“Cecil!” Arabella squawked. “Sit down and let her read the evidence of her duplicity. Let her see how foolish she’s been.”

Cecil scurried back to the sofa. Arabella kept her husband’s wings clipped. Soon he would be locked in a cage, and she’d pass by periodically to whistle at him and feed him seeds.

Lydia read the dire warning.

The feminine flourish did not belong to her crow of a sister-in-law. Rumour had it that Lydia cavorted with Lord Greystone at night—though there was no mention of when or where.

Good heavens. She could feel heat rise to her cheeks at the memory of their illicit encounter. Perhaps Greystone’s brother chose gossip as a form of revenge. Perhaps Mr Dariell had mentioned stumbling upon them in their state of dishabille.

“A blush won’t save you now.” Arabella focused her beady eyes. “And you’ll not be able to walk a London street without someone passing a derogatory comment.”