“Mrs Sanders mentioned something about it this morning,” Arabella said dismissively. “But what happens on Greystone’s land is none of our affair. If the devil started the blaze, what’s stopping him coming here and causing mayhem?”
“Lord Greystone did not burn down his own barn.” Lydia stamped her foot in frustration.
“How do you know? The man has a vile temper. You saw how he treated Mr Gilligan.”
“Mr Gilligan stole money from Greystone and his tenants to fund his gambling habit. I imagine I would beat him, too, under the circumstances.”
Arabella raised her chin. “Cecil said Mr Gilligan may have been coerced into making a half-hearted confession. One cannot blame a man for spouting poppycock when he feels his life is threatened. And Rudolph agrees.”
All hail Rudolph Randall.
Lydia stared incredulously. They were so convinced of Greystone’s duplicity that nothing would change their biased opinion. Guilt surfaced. She was the reason everyone thought so little of the viscount. She had branded him a devil, cursed him back to the fiery pits of hell more times than she could count.
“Lord Greystone is not the rogue I believed him to be. I made a mistake. Indeed, he is every bit the gentleman.” And a sinfully handsome one to boot.
“I knew it.” Arabella narrowed her gaze until her eyes were small and beady. “So you have seen him again.”
“Him?”
“You know damn well who I mean. Greystone.” Arabella snorted with contempt. “He’s unbalanced, you know. He takes after his mother. I’m told that’s why his father left. Why else would a man abandon his ancestral home if not to be free of her?”
“Every man has his torments.” And Lydia would be damned before she’d listen to any more tales. She knew little of Greystone’s background and yet it didn’t seem to matter. When in his company nothing else mattered. “Now, I see no point continuing this conversation on the doorstep. Unless I’ve been evicted from the attic and must take shelter in the stables.”
Arabella was about to spit poison when Lord Randall appeared at the open front door. He leant languidly against the jamb and offered a wry grin. “Ah, I see the wanderer returns. Where on earth have you been, Miss Lovell? Refilling the tenants’ troughs? Mucking out the cottages?” A weary sigh left his lips. “It’s a sad day indeed when a lady of your standing would rather parle with the peasants. What does it say about your character, I wonder?”
Cecil muttered and said, “I think that’s a low blow, Rudolph. The chit has a large heart that’s all.”
“That’s all? That’s all!” Arabella complained. “The girl will be the downfall of this family.” The witch stepped forward and wagged her bony finger. “Now, you will promise your brother you’ll stay away from Lord Greystone.”
Lydia inhaled deeply. “I cannot do that.” Her stomach grew warm and fuzzy at the prospect of seeing Greystone again. This obsession she had for him, this compelling need to be close to him, overshadowed every thought and feeling. “And you have no authority over me. Cast me out if you will, but I shall be friends with whomever I choose.”
Lord Randall clapped as if witnessing the end of a dramatic play, the mocking sound accompanied by a derisive chuckle. “I imagine there are gentlemen in town prepared to duel for your hand, Miss Lovell. Of course, their efforts would be in vain as no doubt you’d prefer to keep company with their footmen.”
Lydia pasted a smile. She’d listened to enough nonsense for one day. “You seem to think you have the measure of me, my lord. Therefore, you must know we are not at all suited. Although o
ne must question who is at fault here. The one who’d rather mingle with the lower classes than suffer the hypocrisy of her own kind? Or the one whose sole purpose in life is to berate his valet when he discovers a crease in his cravat?”
And without another word, Lydia stormed past Arabella, sank into a mocking curtsy when she came before Lord Randall and then retired to the peace of her attic room.
For hours, Lydia remained in her room. She did not go in search of Ada, and the maid never came to offer tea or to bring clean water.
Her stomach rumbled. The last thing she’d eaten was a finger sandwich and a piece of seedcake at the Pardues’. With no concept of the time, Lydia watched the setting sun and decided to leave the house and make her way to the sacred stones. Knowing of Greystone’s fondness for timekeeping, she did not want to be late. And nothing or no one would prevent her from meeting him tonight.
With the stairs located near to the door leading down to the servants’ quarters, Lydia was rather glad she’d been relegated to the attic. Arabella was baying for blood and grew more irrational by the day.
After washing her face with cold water and tidying her hair, Lydia wrapped her cloak around her shoulders and tiptoed to the door. She turned the knob quietly, but the damn thing wouldn’t budge. She firmed her grip and tried again to no avail. Two hands grappling with the darn thing failed to gain a result. Dropping to her knees, she peered through the keyhole and found her view hindered by the end of a black iron key.
Good God. The spiteful witch had locked the door. Lydia was surprised she’d not heard the gloating cackles of satisfaction from the hallway. Feeling the urge to do something useful, Lydia flung her cape onto the chair and set about trying to push the key out of the lock with her hairpins. That proved hopeless.
Time ticked on.
She rapped loudly on the door—rattled the iron knob again hoping to shake it loose—but no one came.
Three hard kicks with her boot only eased her anxiety and did nothing to separate the door from the jamb.
“That’s it,” she whispered through gritted teeth. “I’m moving to London.” A hotel would suffice for the time being. “And I’m taking Ada with me.”
Instantly, all thoughts turned to Lord Greystone. The craving to see him intensified with the knowledge she must leave. Why could she not stop thinking about him? Why did she feel as though he was her destiny? Oh, he would take her failure to attend tonight as a sign of disinterest.