At Last the Rogue Returns (Avenging Lords 1)

“Rain? Today? Oh, I do hope so.”

“You do?”

“The rain is sure to help poor Mr Roberts’ cause. Honestly, that man has the mightiest bad luck.” She turned to her mother. “I said Mr Roberts has terrible luck.”

“What?” Mrs Pardue looked bewildered. “Oh, yes.”

Curiosity burned in Lydia’s chest for it was such an odd thing to say. “Why would Mr Roberts desire rain?”

“Have you not heard?”

“Heard what?”

“Lord Greystone set fire to the barn last night in a fit of rage. It’s the talk of the village this morning. Mr Amos told me while filling the coal chute.”

Stunned by the news, Lydia froze. She opened her mouth to speak, but it took a moment to form a word. “But … but Lord Greystone is in London.”

“The devil’s back again they say. An argument broke out, and his lordship smashed a lantern in the hay barn.”

The pounding in Lydia’s heart shot up to her throat, and her hands grew clammy. She wasn’t sure what shocked her the most—her reaction to the news that Greystone had returned, or the fact Mr Roberts had suffered another terrible setback.

“There must be a mistake. Why would Lord Greystone burn down his own barn? Mr Roberts is only a tenant.”

“The man’s a rogue, just like his father,” Mrs Pardue said in a croaky voice from her fireside chair.

No. Lydia could not believe it. Not after seeing the way Greystone conducted himself with his tenants. Yes, the gentleman had a temper, and a strength that surpassed expectation, but his heart was warm and full of compassion. She’d seen it in the soft glint of those emerald eyes, heard it in the tender tone of his voice.

That being said, in his grief, Mr Roberts’ manner was often unpredictable. Perhaps Greystone had caught him at a vulnerable moment.

“We heard no mention of it at home,” Lydia said, still suffering from shock.

She had taken breakfast early, hoping Lord Randall would be abed. By all accounts, he’d been wandering the garden late last night. Mrs Sanders told Ada that she’d seen him looking up at the trees while making all sorts of strange bird noises. Perhaps the lord’s peculiar habits stemmed from his addiction to snuff.

“Did no one call at the manor to inform you?” Miss Pardue said, astonished. “With the property being so close to Dunnam Park, I’m surprised you didn’t see the blaze from your window.”

How could she when she slept in the attic?

“No. I noticed the smell of smoke in the air this morning but assumed the gardener had lit a fire.”

“I imagine your brother knew but didn’t want to worry you. Indeed, I tremble every time I think of those poor people.”

Or perhaps Arabella had kept the news to herself out of spite.

“Thank you for bringing the matter to my attention, Miss Pardue. It is only right I go there directly and offer my help.” There was only one way to discover the truth, and that was to go to Mr Roberts’ cottage and inspect the scene for herself.

“Of course.” Miss Pardue stood. “Please send word if there is anything we can do.”

Lydia said goodbye but hovered in the lane for a moment lost in thoughtful contemplation. Cecil’s coachman, Barrow, was instructed to take her straight back to Dunnam Park. If she planned to visit Mr Roberts, she would have to make her way there on foot. If she kept a good pace, it would take but an hour.

With her mind made up, Lydia fastened the top button on her pelisse and set off for Mr Roberts’ cottage. After that, she would venture to Greystone Manor. The thought sent the blood rushing through her veins though she pushed aside her excitement at the prospect of seeing Greystone again.

She had another more pressing reason for seeking him out. Was Lord Greystone the one who started the gossip? Could she trust him or was there an ulterior motive for his amorous attentions?

A few charred and blackened pieces of timber were all that remained of Mr Roberts’ barn.

On his return from London, Miles had stopped at The Wild Boar in Cuckfield and taken supper, had seen the plumes of swirling smoke stretching up into the night sky as he rode towards the manor. When he arrived at the cottage, he found a few men busy pumping water into buckets in an effort to extinguish the roaring flames. Amid the panic, Miles had dismounted and calmed his horse before racing over to help.

They’d worked tirelessly for hours. The noxious fumes choked their throats. They coughed. Spluttered. The blistering heat scorched their skin. But it was hopeless. And so they retreated to a safe distance, covered their mouths with wet rags and watched the fire burn with wild ferocity.