At Last the Rogue Returns (Avenging Lords 1)

Drake nodded. “I overheard two gentlemen discussing it, threatened them both with their lives unless they divulged the name of the culprit responsible for starting the rumour. One received a letter from Lord Randall who was eager to mark you as a rogue.”

“I see.”

Miles contemplated the news and could draw only one logical conclusion. In ruining Lydia’s name, she might be more inclined to marry the lord. In ruining Lydia’s name, it meant Randall needed but one thing from their marriage—money.

And was Lydia not an heiress?

“I thought you would want to know,” Drake added.

“Most definitely.” But there was a flaw in Randall’s plan. He assumed Miles lacked honour, assumed he wouldn’t come to the lady’s rescue and save her reputation. “Perhaps it’s time I venture to Dunnam Park and probe the dandy further.”

“By probe do you mean torture?” Drake asked, the wicked glint in his eye returning. “Do you need help? You know how skilled I am with a whip.”

“No, I plan on being discreet. W

hen one plays a high-stake game, is it not best to keep one’s cards close to one’s chest?”

“The first rule in any game is to know your opponent. A visit to Dunnam Park is overdue.” Drake’s gaze drifted past Miles’ shoulder to the bedchamber door. “Though I imagine it won’t be long before Lord Lovell comes knocking.”

“Let us just say it will be sooner than you think.”

It was not his place to speak of Lydia’s earlier problems at Dunnam Park. But her brother would be out searching for her and Greystone Manor would be the first place they’d look.

“Why don’t we both go?” Drake suggested. “Call tomorrow and take tea.”

“Take tea?”

“I can stare at them until their blood freezes in their veins, and you can smile in the way that makes a man piss in his breeches.”

While Miles found the thought tempting, he could not wait that long. The urge to throttle Randall made his fingers throb. And it occurred to him that he could sneak in through the servants’ quarters, venture up to the attic room and collect Lydia’s clothes. He needed something to do to occupy the next few hours. How could he sleep with a temptress at his side? And it was too soon to make love to her again though a certain part of his anatomy begged to differ.

“We’ll discuss it in the morning,” Miles said. If he told Drake of his plans, his friend would insist on coming, too. “You should get some rest.”

The corners of Drake’s mouth curled up in amusement. “As should you though I don’t hold out much hope.”

They parted ways.

Miles returned to his bedchamber to find Lydia asleep. She looked so peaceful, so angelic. He considered dusting off the Greystone carriage and taking a trip across the English-Scottish border to Gretna Green. But he could not desert his tenants now. He considered marching over to Dunnam Park and asking for Lydia’s hand. But knew Lord Lovell would reject his suit in favour of his friend Lord Randall.

Miles stepped closer to the bed, picked the blanket up off the floor and placed it over the sleeping temptress. Dressing with speed and efficiency while mindful not to wake Lydia, Miles took a lantern and crept out into the night.

Although the rain had stopped, Miles’ boots squelched in the sodden earth as he made his way through the woods. The lantern light caught the glint of glassy eyes in the darkness—rabbits and foxes frozen in fear. As Lord Lovell’s house loomed into view, Miles hung back and surveyed the area.

The house sat in darkness—as quiet and still as if it, too, had drifted into slumber. There were no servants with lanterns scouring the grounds calling out for Miss Lovell—no lords on horseback cantering down the drive to search the surrounding lanes. No hounds sniffing out her scent.

Did anyone other than Lord Randall know of Lydia’s sudden departure? Had Lord Randall acted alone in locking her in the attic? What if Randall kept his secret? Lord Lovell might rise in the morning to assume his sister had gone out for a stroll.

Lantern in hand, Miles was about to cross the manicured lawn when he noted a figure moving through the garden. Miles crouched down and extinguished the candle. The man—for the tall, broad shape of the shadow suggested it was so—stopped periodically and scanned the line of trees.

Another figure appeared from the rear of the house. Miles knew it was a woman from the sway of her hips and the short purposeful strides. Both figures met. Their animated gestures suggested an argument, but no words reached Miles’ ears. They both glanced at the woods. The man hesitated when the woman threw her hands in the air and stormed towards the cluster of trees.

“My dear, have some sense.” The irate masculine voice pierced the night as he followed the woman reluctantly. “I assure you Miss Lovell is not in the damn woods.”

The woman’s sharp reply was incoherent. Miles straightened, crept forward and hid behind the broad trunk of an oak tree.

Lord Randall stepped into the woods, grabbed the woman’s wrist and swung her around to face him. “She’ll come back. Let us do what I suggested and return to the house.”

“And what if she doesn’t? What of our plans? So much for using your persuasive wiles to seduce her.”