"I really don't recollect." He pushed back his chair and stood. "I need a bath and a nap. I'll meet with you later. You can tell me about all the minor catastrophes that occurred while I was away and all the wonderful repairs you've implemented that will prove you're stupendous."

"You can't go up to your room, Miles."

"Why can't I?" he sullenly pouted.

"Because Mr. Drummond has seized it for himself."

"He what?"

"He's moved in, and he's moved you out."

"He wouldn't dare!"

"He has."

"The man is mad as a hatter."

"He says he foreclosed and Kirkwood is his now."

Miles looked thunderous. He leaned forward and hissed, "He said that and you allowed him to stay on in my house?"

"We didn't know what to do, Miles. We had no idea where you were, and he simply barged in and took over."

"When?"

"Two days ago."

"Why didn't you stop him? It appears to me you've been sitting here, twiddling your thumbs and letting him gambol as he pleases."

"Your mother and I-"

"My bloody mother can screw off!" he shouted. "I'm asking what you did to stop him."

"I didn't do anything, Miles. I couldn't figure out how."

"He's a liar! He strutted in with his tall tales about Kirkwood, and you accepted him at his word! What is wrong with you?"

"Like I said, I didn't know how to stop him."

"Well, I will stop him, and after I've run him off, I'll deal with you next."

He stormed out, and for the slightest instant, she thought about jumping up and rushing after him. She thought about explaining what Mr. Drummond was like, how tough and commanding and dangerous he seemed. She thought about mentioning the cadre of clerks and guards he'd brought, how Miles couldn't counter that virtual army.

But then she remembered how Miles had shouted at her, how he'd blamed her for what had happened. For once, she remained right where she was and kept her mouth shut.

Miles marched up the stairs, headed for his bedchamber. He was exhausted, hung over, and eager to fall into bed and sleep for a week. He was also furious that Georgina had accosted him with her nonsense.

He humored her by permitting her to manage the estate, and he'd be the first to admit she did a good job. She cared about the property and the people on it as he never could, but she'd overstepped her bounds.

Damian Drummond had returned? Georgina and his mother had let the little rat slither in and make himself at home? There would have to be consequences-after he'd chased the wretched boy away of course. The irksome child had an incredible amount of gall to show his face at Kirkwood.

When Miles and his father had initially sent old Walter Drummond scurrying away, Edward had often worried that the sorry pair might stagger back. But Miles had always assured his father that they wouldn't. Walter had been an underling, a servant. He'd understood his lowly place in the world, had understood that his grandson had crossed a line that couldn't be uncrossed.

No one betrayed Miles and emerged unscathed.

He wondered what Damian could want. He was likely beggared, and Miles smirked. He would probably plead for money, which was a supplication Miles would be humored to hear, pretend to consider, then deny in the cruelest manner possible.

As he stomped down the hall to the end, he noted that the doors to his grand suite were open. There were armed men loitering who seemed to be guards.

He stumbled to a halt and frowned. Guards outside his bedchamber? Was he to be intimidated? By a former servant's whelp? A former servant who'd been fired for insubordination? The notion didn't bear contemplating.

He straightened and assumed his most regal, most haughty expression, then he approached as if he had every right to enter. Yet even though he was being particularly arrogant and surly, two men blocked his path.

"You there!" Miles snapped. "Do you know who I am?"

"I'm betting you're Miles Marshall."

"You're correct," he snarled. "Get out of my way."

To his great surprise, neither of them budged. One of them grabbed him, and the other pawed over Miles's person, apparently searching for weapons. He was so offended he shook with outrage.

When he was released, he blustered into his sitting room, but there was an imposing man seated on a chair in the center. He was dressed all in black, and he looked ominous and threatening.

There were others scattered about. They all seemed to have been waiting for Miles, as if they were aware he was on the premises, as if they'd been warned that he was headed up the stairs.

"Who the hell are you," Miles said to the man in black, "and why are you in my home?"

"Hello, Miles," the man blandly replied.

"Stand up when you address your betters," Miles told him.

"My betters?"

The man bristled as if he might leap up and attack Miles, but a man behind him laid a hand on the fellow's shoulder, silently urging him to calm down.

"Don't you remember me, Miles?" the man in black asked.

"Why would I? I don't bother myself with the lower classes, and it's Master Miles to you."

The man pushed himself to his feet, and it took forever for him to reach his full height. He was several inches taller than Miles, broad in the chest, his arms and legs muscled from strenuous endeavor. He exuded danger and menace, and Miles quickly stepped back.

He assessed the man's eyes, those very black Drummond eyes. For a moment, he felt dizzy and off balance, as if the world had tipped off its axis.

The last time Miles had seen Damian, they'd been on the lane that led to the village. Damian and his grandfather had been living with the vicar, and every morning he'd sent supplicants to the manor to beg for mercy.

Miles had taunted Damian over his pitiable, whiny grandfather, had thrown rocks at him and chased him away. In his mind, Damian hadn't aged since that day, but this man wasn't the boy Miles recalled. There was naught about him that resembled that child in the slightest.

How could that boy have morphed into this powerful, daunting brigand?

"What do you want, Drummond?"

"So you remember me after all." Sarcastically Drummond added, "How nice."

"Speak your piece, then get out."

"I'm not going anywhere. I own Kirkwood now."

"You couldn't possibly."

"You should read your mail once in a while. You should show up for your court hearings."

Miles scowled. There had been process servers hounding him for months in London. It was the reason he'd sneaked away to hide at all those parties in the country. For a bit of time whenever he'd turned a corner, he'd had either a judgment or a summons slapped into his hand.

He recognized that his fiscal condition was precarious, but he'd refused to appear in court and let a paltry creditor shame him. Not having the patience for conflict, he always ignored horrid situations and nothing awful ever occurred when he did. He'd figured this situation would resolve itself too if he simply declined to respond.

"What are you saying?" he asked.

"I'm saying that I own Kirkwood so I am not going anywhere. But you are."

"Where am I going?"

"You, your mother, your sister, and your cousin, Miss Fogarty, are moving to the estate agent's house today."

"We most certainly are not. That place is a hovel. It's been shuttered for two decades. Ever since..."

His voice trailed off as he realized-while staring down Walter's grandson-he couldn't finish with, ever since we tossed Walter out on the road.

"We're not moving there," he insisted.

"Yes, you are. The servants have already packed your belongings."

"What do you expect us to do?"

"I expect you to spend a week begging me for mercy-just as my grandfather begged."

"I never will."

"If you won't beg, you and your female relatives will immediately be kicked out to fend for yourselves."

"Where is your grandfather?" Miles asked. "I demand to speak with him."

Drummond scoffed. "You shouldn't mention my grandfather to me."

He waved to his guards. They approached and grabbed Miles. He tried to shake them off, but their grip was very tight.

"Release me at once!" he fumed.

Of course they didn't listen, and Drummond said, "I plan to talk to your fiancee. Portia, isn't it?"

"About what?"

"I'll inform her of how poor you suddenly are. I intend to suggest that she break her engagement to you and marry me instead."

Miles was aghast. "You're proposing to Portia?"

"Yes, and I'm sure she'll agree."

"She never will."

"We'll see, I guess."

Drummond motioned to the men, and as they started out, Miles wrenched away and asked Drummond, "Why are you doing this?"

"You don't know? Seriously?"

"No."

Drummond sauntered over until they were toe to toe and rage wafted off him. It was so potent and so volatile that Miles wondered if the room might explode.

"For years," Drummond said, "I dreamed about revenge. It's all that kept me sane. It's the only thing that will make me whole."

"You're mad," Miles spat.

"Yes, mad for justice. Mad for vengeance. I'm taking everything you have, everything you own, everything you love, and I'll leave you with nothing."

"You can't!" Miles blustered. "I won't allow it!"

"Oh, but Miles, look around you. It's already over."

Drummond motioned to his men again, and as they dragged Miles away, a scream rent the air.

"Put that back, you cur!" his mother shrieked from her suite down the hall. "Put it back! Don't touch it!"

Miles glared at Drummond over his shoulder, but Drummond was unflappable and unaffected.

"Your mother doesn't sound very happy," he said.

"What's happening to her?"

"I told you. She's being moved to the estate agent's cottage."

"We won't go!" Miles actually stamped his foot in protest.

Drummond smiled a sly smile. "I think you will."

"I'll get even with you for this!"

"Funny," Drummond retorted, "but that's what I've said about you for ages. It was my constant vow, and now it's become my reality." He nodded to his men. "He sickens me. Get him out of my sight."