At Last the Rogue Returns (Avenging Lords 1)

“If you will excuse me for a moment.” Miles dropped his hands and swung around to face the bastard who thought he had the right to manipulate people to do his bidding.

Randall flinched. He raised his hands, though the barrier might as well be made of cobwebs for all the good it would do. “Wait. We merely discussed the possibility of marriage.”

Crossing his arms low and then swiping high and wide, Miles broke through the dandy’s defence with ease. “I’m not like other gentlemen of your acquaintance,” Miles said, his voice filled with vehemence.

“No, they say you’re a devil,” Randall muttered almost to himself.

“Oh, I can be wicked and cruel when the need arises. I can be your worst nightmare.” Miles gestured to Lydia standing behind him. “And I would risk my life to protect that lady from scoundrels like you.”

The punch came quick, an uppercut to the jaw that whipped Randall’s head back though it was meant only to stun. He would deal with Randall in his own time, his own place. “I could kill you now, but where is the pleasure in that? You will meet me on Blackmoor Common at dawn.”

“No,” Lydia cried. “He’s not worth the time or the trouble.”

She was right of course. But it was a question of honour, and he could not have every rogue thinking they could ride roughshod over him.

From the corner of his eye, Miles noticed the reverend edging closer to the door. “I do not recall saying you could leave.”

“I am merely a bystander, my lord, summoned to perform a wedding ceremony,” the reverend said, his shifty eyes belying his innocent tone. “If there is to be no ceremony, then I am not needed and shall simply take my leave.”

Lydia cleared her throat. “Arabella bribed the Reverend Wyatt to perform the ceremony even though he knew I was against the match.”

Miles could hardly challenge a man of God to a duel, though evidently, the reverend was not as pious as he would have the good people of Cuckfield believe.

What could Lady Lovell possibly know about the man that would tempt him to act in such an unchristian fashion?

“The fact that you’re here is an admission of guilt,” Miles informed him. “What happened to trusting in one’s faith? What happened to standing by one’s principles?”

The reverend remained silent.

“I shall call on you tomorrow, and we can discuss the matter further.” As the most prominent peer in the district, Miles would lay down his expectations when it came to those preaching morals. “I suggest you leave now before I change my mind.”

He did not have to tell the man twice. Indeed, the reverend scurried from the room as if his breeches were on fire.

“What makes you think you’ll be alive tomorrow?” Arabella said haughtily. “Rudolph is an excellent marksman. He killed the Comte de Aubert. A man

considered the best shot in all of France.”

Miles glanced at the dandy whose cheeks turned the colour of his ugly purple-brown coat. Lord Randall stuttered when Lady Lovell prompted him to tell all, to boast of his glorious victory.

Satisfaction swirled hot in Miles’ chest. The words he longed to say danced about excitedly on his tongue.

“The Comte de Aubert?” Miles questioned. “When was this?”

“A year ago,” Lady Lovell countered. “Tell him, Rudolph. Tell him you’re the last person a man would wish to meet on the common.”

“Be quiet, Arabella,” Lord Randall said through gritted teeth.

“Quiet?” she replied, bemused. “Why?”

“Because Lord Randall is a fraud, madam.” Miles knew Aubert personally. The French aristocrat was living and breathing the last time they met. “The Comte de Aubert lives in Egypt. I saw him eight months ago when he came to India. He left France because he fell in love with the daughter of a British explorer.”

An awkward silence filled the room.

Lady Lovell’s complexion turned pallid, but the woman shook off her embarrassment as a bird did rainwater. “That does not mean you’ve not met your match on the field.”

“Granted, but Lord Randall will have the opportunity to prove his worth on Blackmoor Common.” Miles shot the lord a hard stare. “I suggest you polish your pistols.”

The fop’s eyes glazed over and he pressed his fingers to the red mark on his jaw. Beads of sweat littered his brow. Miles had met men of Randall’s ilk before. Indeed, he’d wager a thousand pounds the lord would sail for France on the morning tide.