What a Reckless Rogue Needs (The Sinful Scoundrels, #2)(3)

“What about the entail?” Harry said.

“Sommerall was intentionally left out. My grandfather intended the property for a younger son, but my father was the only male issue.” His parents had lived there until his mother’s death, and then his father had abruptly moved to his grandfather’s nearby estate, Deerfield.

Colin walked to the window and pushed the draperies aside. Sommerall had been his boyhood home for six years. No one had occupied it since then. He’d always assumed his father would grant him the property.

“When do you leave?” Harry asked.

He gave his friend a wry look. “At my earliest convenience.”

“Sorry about the property. Perhaps you could persuade the marquess not to sell.”

“Right,” he said, the one word full of sarcasm.

“How long will you stay?” Harry asked.

He shrugged. “Long enough to find out what prompted my father’s decision.” He meant to change his father’s mind, and he had just cause.

When the kettle started shrieking, he rescued it and poured the hot water.

“Will the Duke of Wycoff and his family visit for the house party as usual?” Harry asked.

“I doubt it. For all I know, the duchess and her eldest daughter are still in Paris.”

“They returned six months ago.”

He poured tea over a strainer into two cups and handed one to Harry. “How do you know this? Oh, never mind, your mother and female cousins would have told you.”

Harry sipped his tea. “You know my mother’s drawing room is famous for scandal broth. My cousins know everything about everybody. You do know Lady Angeline jilted Brentmoor over a year ago.”

“I heard.” That was all he knew of her situation, although he couldn’t figure out how she’d gotten tangled up with that roué. He didn’t want to know. Their families were close, but he’d had a falling out with Angeline years ago. His father had blamed him for supposedly breaking her heart at her come-out ball, but it was the exact opposite. When he’d requested a dance, she’d turned him down flat and accepted an offer from someone else. To be fair, he’d been nipping from a flask with friends and she’d been disgusted. Ever since they’d been like oil and water. They didn’t mix well.

Harry set his cup aside. “Supposedly the broken engagement is the reason she fled to Paris last year.”

He wasn’t surprised. Crying off an engagement was serious business. The scandal sheets had reported it, albeit with poorly disguised names. He’d never understood why her father had approved the marriage in the first place. Brentmoor’s sorry reputation was well known, after all.

Harry frowned. “Why would the marquess sell Sommerall?”

“That’s the thousand-pound question.” Colin clenched his jaw. He considered his father’s decision an insult, but he wouldn’t voice the words.

“The marquess will come around,” Harry said.

“This is no idle inclination on my father’s part.”

“Do you think he’s bluffing?”

“No, he’s serious, but so am I.”

“What are you planning?” Harry said.

Colin lifted his chin. “An offer he can’t refuse.”



Suffolk, Sommerall House, two days later

The carriage slowed six miles from Deerfield Manor and rounded the circular drive of Sommerall. Mercifully, the weather had held. When the vehicle rolled to a halt, Colin collected his hat and stepped out. The crisp autumn breeze chilled his face as he inhaled the fresh country air. It was invigorating after the filthy, choked skies of London.

He directed the driver to wait and strode off. His boots crunched in the gravel as he walked toward the sandstone house built in the early part of the eighteenth century. The darker blue hues in the sky signaled impending twilight. He was glad he’d arrived before all the light waned, as he wanted to inspect the condition of the property. When he met with his father, he intended to report any initial needed repairs. If he expected his father to consider his request, he must show that he had made a preliminary investigation.

He felt above the lintel for the key, but it wasn’t there. Frowning, he tried the door, but it was locked tighter than a virgin’s legs. There was nothing for it except to question his father about the missing key.

Colin tramped through the grass to the back of the house. The lower windows might have afforded him a view inside, but he couldn’t see much from this vantage point. Colin gritted his teeth, but frustration wouldn’t change a damned thing.


He walked west along a path that had probably once been well worn, but he couldn’t be certain. His father’s house was a mere six miles down good road, but there were reasons he seldom returned to Deerfield.

In the distance, a swing hung from a tall oak. Perhaps his late mother or father had given him a push, but he would never know, for he recalled very little of his childhood.

The papery autumn leaves crackled beneath his boots as he strode onward. Long shadows reached out from the barren birch trees. The property was far smaller than Deerfield Park, but it was excellent land. He envisioned workers in the now-fallow fields, but there was no rush. He was thirty-one years old and not ready to settle down.

The capes of his greatcoat snapped in the biting wind, but he was determined. In the distance, he saw the marble domed roof and the four Ionic columns of the mausoleum. When he reached it, he gripped the rail of the balustrade and looked down the flight of steps. Twenty-four years had elapsed, but all he had left of her was her grave and vague snatches of childhood memories.