Miss Lovell covered her mouth with her hand and took a step back. Her complexion turned pallid, and she swallowed visibly.
“For heaven’s sake, Gilligan,” Lord Lovell said with a w
eary sigh, “just admit to your obvious failures and let us get in out of the cold.” He turned to Miss Lovell and said in a hushed tone, “Now do you see why I prefer to keep my own accounts?”
Miss Lovell lowered her trembling hand. “You didn’t hire a steward because Arabella forbade it. Heaven help her if she had to account for her frivolous spending.”
Miles watched the interaction between brother and sister. The relationship showed signs of strain. Anyone could see that. Was it because they were opposites in every regard?
“I didn’t get the roof rethatched because I spent the money elsewhere,” Gilligan said, desperate to defend his position. “Miss Lovell will tell you.”
She narrowed her gaze. “While you arranged for the repairs to Mr Roberts’ roof, the cost was a tenth of what it would be to replace a thatched roof. What happened to the rest?”
Clever lady.
At this rate, Miss Shrewd would be the one to force a confession.
Gilligan’s mouth opened, but it took a moment before he formed a word. “Well … there was the replacement window for Mrs Shaw, and the erm … the—”
“But you said you had gone begging and borrowing to cover the cost of that. You were given supper at the coaching inn and two tankards of ale by way of thanks.”
Gilligan mumbled to himself.
“And do not dare say you spent it on fixing the well,” she continued. “We both know where the funds for that came from.”
Guilt tightened the muscles in Miles’ throat. His stomach roiled with the sickening sense that he’d been remiss in his duties as lord and master. It didn’t matter that he’d entrusted that role to another. He should have hired someone to hold Gilligan to task. He should not have been so trusting.
“While I would have preferred to hear the truth, Gilligan,” Miles began, “I know enough of men to know you have a gambling habit. You’ve been entertaining whores in my bed. Neglected your duties. In the end, it all amounts to one thing.”
Gilligan’s bottom lip trembled. “Wh-what is that?”
“You’re guilty of theft. You’ve used my money to fund a lavish lifestyle beyond your means, and I intend to inform the magistrate immediately.”
“Good gracious,” Lord Lovell said, glaring at the steward. His hard stare lacked the power to frighten a puppy. “And to think we treated you with the utmost respect, sir.”
With a look of shock and utter disbelief, Miss Lovell watched the exchange. Her breathing grew erratic as she focused on Mr Gilligan and shook her head.
“You lied to me, sir. Worse still, you lied to those poor people. I suppose Lord Greystone never asked for the rents to be doubled or instructed you to dismiss the farmhands, groomsmen and gamekeepers?”
Gilligan remained silent.
Only a fool confessed before witnesses.
“The only instruction I gave was that he was to maintain the estate in my absence,” Miles said, almost wishing he could ease Miss Lovell’s anxiety rather than gloat in her defeat.
“Then you are not short of funds, my lord?”
Miles gave an amused snort. “No, Miss Lovell. Money is not a problem for me.”
Not anymore.
Oh, his father had run up debts amounting to thousands, purely out of spite. As heir apparent, Miles became responsible for the debt. And his half-brothers got the shipping company, a house each in London, and another in Brighton. Over the years, his father had lavished his bastard sons with emotional and material wealth to make up for the fact Society struggled to accept them. But rather than serve as an advantage, the excessive indulgence turned his brothers into greedy, self-obsessed prigs.
“Then my anger was misdirected.” Miss Lovell pursed her lips. “All the times I cursed you to the devil, you were oblivious to what was going on here.”
“Indeed.”
“I feel rather foolish now.”