“Ah, but everyone has a choice,” Dariell said.
“Lord Randall has promised to pay me once he’s married Miss Lovell,” Gilligan replied. “I’ve no money and nowhere else to go. And there’s a moneylender in town, in Gower Street, who holds my vowel.” He looked up and threw his hands in the air. “What else was I to do?”
“You could have approached me and told the truth.”
“Oui,” Dariell said with a soft sigh. “Without honesty, a man can have no peace.”
Gilligan sniffed. “I … I couldn’t risk the hangman’s noose.”
While they were making progress, many questions flitted through Miles’ head. “What gripe does Lord Randall have with the Harridan-Jones brothers?”
He could not imagine many people warmed to Edwin or Stephen. And a man as esteemed as Lord Randall would not associate himself with the bastard sons of a whoremonger.
“It’s not a gripe, my lord. They met at the Blackball Club.”
The Blackball Club?
The backstreet den was home to those refused entry into elite establishments, men with no morals, men who lived a life of indulgence and dissipation.
“Lord Randall owes the brothers twenty thousand pounds and cannot pay.” The truth tumbled from Gilligan’s mouth with ease now. “And after hearing of … hearing of the card games held at the manor, he blackmailed me to take their vowels.”
“You approached the brothers and offered them seats at my table?” The answer to the question would prove most telling indeed.
Gilligan shook his head. “They heard of the card games from a member of The Blackball Club.”
“Games? How many times did you entertain them?”
The steward grimaced. “F-five. Their contempt for you kept them coming back.” Mr Gilligan gulped. “They wanted to hear talk of the tenants’ struggles, wanted to look around the house.”
“Oh, I imagine they did.” Miles pictured them touching his mother’s things, their filthy hands tainting his memories. With all the problems at the manor, he hadn’t had time to check the inventory. Men of their ilk could not resist the opportunity to steal. But they’d find little of value. His mother had sold her jewels to save the house and protect her son’s inheritance.
The next Lady Greystone need never worry on that score.
“Let me see if I understand this troubling situation,” Dariell said, clasping his hands behind his back. “Lord Randall cannot pay his creditors.” He turned to Miles. “And the Harridan-Jones brothers, they cannot pay their creditors. A situation that has been favourable for you, monseigneur. So if Randall cannot settle his debts, then that leaves your brothers in a very precarious position.”
“Correct,” Miles said. “Miss Lovell is to come into her inheritance in a matter of weeks. Should she marry Randall, he will have access to all property. Let’s hope her father was wise enough to place a large portion in trust.”
Not that it mattered. Lord Randall hadn’t a chance in hell of making Lydia his wife.
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Dariell sighed. “And so these terrible things people are saying about you, it is all a ploy to discredit your name?”
“I presume Lord Randall wishes to make it impossible for Lord Lovell to accept my suit should I be so inclined.” He was so inclined. Nothing or no one would stand in their way. Miles focused a penetrating gaze on Mr Gilligan. “Well, is that not the case?”
Gilligan blinked and shuffled his feet. “I had nothing to do with the fire in the barn. That was Lord Randall’s coachman.”
“But you were with the coachman at my stables in the early hours.” Miles straightened to his full height. “What was it to be? Arson or theft?”
Arson would have served Lord Randall’s purpose. A fire might have frightened Miss Lovell into returning home.
Mr Gilligan shook his head. “Does it matter? Our mission was unsuccessful.”
“Matter? Of course it bloody matters.” Miles gritted his teeth. The fool spoke as if he’d been on a military exercise for the Crown. “What were you doing there?”
Gilligan glanced back over his shoulder. Was he preparing to bolt?
“There’s little point running,” Miles continued. “The next time I catch you, I shall not be so lenient.”