Damian gazed over at his friend, Christopher "Kit" Roxbury. "I told you it was."

"You are a renowned liar though," Kit retorted. "I didn't believe you."

Damian snorted at that. They were out on the verandah behind the manor, sipping a whiskey and surveying Damian's new domain. It was late in the afternoon, and the party was about to start so servants were rushing about with final preparations.

There was an enormous amount of confusion among them as to what was happening and if he really was who he said he was. They eyed him either suspiciously or curiously, but no one had dared approach and ask questions.

He'd seen Miss Fogarty flit by a few times, with people constantly inquiring if they should proceed, to which she'd kept replying yes. He and Kit were lurking, glowering, making everyone nervous, and it delighted him very much.

Kirkwood was his. About that fact, he hadn't been lying.

"You should have believed me," he said to Kit. "I wouldn't have gone to all this trouble for a hovel."

"I disagree. You're so vain you'd likely chase after any decrepit property if you craved it badly enough." Kit reached over and clinked their glasses together in a toast. "Congratulations."

"For what?"

"For finally getting what you always wanted. Or maybe it's what you always deserved."

"What I deserve? Is there an insult in there somewhere?"

"Absolutely." Kit grinned. "Now that your dream has come true-you own Kirkwood-are you happy?"

"Not yet," Damian dourly responded.

"When will you be?"

"After I take every last thing from Miles-as he took everything from me."

"Kirkwood is yours-every blade of grass, every brick, every board, every speck of dirt in the fields. What else could you possibly take from him?"

"You might be surprised," Damian said.

"No, I wouldn't. I've known you a long time, remember?"

"Yes, I remember."

They'd met on the streets of London where they'd supported themselves by working as pickpockets for his boss and mentor who'd called himself Michael Scott, but who'd discovered as an adult that he was actually Michael Blair. Kit was a decent, honorable man and had been a decent, honorable boy. He'd hated their illegal behavior, but it had kept them from starving.

Of course they'd eventually been arrested. They'd expected a slap on the wrist, perhaps some months in jail, which they wouldn't have minded. They'd have been fed, clothed, and had a roof over their heads during their incarceration. But their judge had been grumpy and cantankerous and overly sensitive to the offense they'd committed.

They'd been ruled incorrigibles-a designation that enhanced their punishment-and sentenced to seven years hard labor in the penal colonies in Australia. Damian still chafed at the harsh penalty he'd received, at the unfairness of it. Yet by then, he'd grown tough and dangerous, his penchant for violence so deeply ingrained that it seemed drilled into his bones.

Kit though had been small, slight, and terrified. Damian had protected and watched over him so he hadn't suffered the atrocities Damian had suffered. Damian had come through the ordeal a cynical, unrepentant villain.

Kit in contrast was quite an optimist. It hadn't been drummed out of him. Throughout their tribulations, he'd assumed he could rebuild in the future, that good could triumph over evil. When his prison term had ended, he'd saved his money and sailed home on the first ship he could. He'd traveled to London to find his lost siblings, but it had been a futile quest.

They were either deceased or scattered to the four winds, and he was still an optimist.

Damian had stayed in Australia for years, partially to guard his friend Anne Blair, who'd been serving one of the few life sentences in the colony. She'd been the only person with whom he'd bonded besides Kit. She'd mothered and helped him when he'd needed it most so he'd remained behind for her. But he'd also had to remain because he'd had extra time added on for bad behavior.

Botany Bay had been a wicked, dangerous place, and he'd never been able to meekly accept the injustices that were routinely inflicted on those who were too weak to fight back. He'd been a horrific, disrespectful prisoner who was constantly in trouble, but during the lengthy hiatus, he'd honed his criminal skills and ultimately become disgustingly wealthy in the process.

Kit's rehabilitation could mostly be deemed a success, but not Damian's. Society's attempts to mold Damian into a model citizen at the colony had been a tremendous failure. He'd developed no admirable traits, unless the ability to rob, murder, swindle, and betray were viewed as admirable.

He'd returned to England a corrupt and treacherous individual. He was amoral and perfidious. He'd survived his many torments by imagining how he'd make Edward and Miles Marshall pay for what they'd done to his grandfather.

His only regret was that Edward had died before Damian could get any revenge against him. But he'd extract a bit extra from Miles. Miles was more spoiled anyway. Miles would feel the slings and arrows more intensely.

"Have you looked at any of the ledgers?" Damian asked.

"I'm not an accountant, Damian."

"I realize that, but you can add a column of numbers."

"Yes, I can."

"And...?"

"The whole property is a hail storm away from bankruptcy."

"I presumed as much."

"I don't know how Miles staved it off this long."

"He's a talker and a weasel. I'm certain his creditors simply put up with him, and none of them was as obsessed with seizing Kirkwood as I was."

Once he'd arrived in London, he'd had investigators assess Mile's finances, then buy up his debt. Damian owned it all, and his lawyers had served Miles with all sorts of notices to appear in court, to defend himself, but he hadn't shown up a single time, and Damian wasn't surprised.

Miles was an idiot. It would never occur to him that judgment could be entered without his uttering a word. And actually Damian was glad it had happened the way it had. He hadn't had to deal with Miles in a civilized courtroom.

He would deal with him at Kirkwood, and it would make Damian's revenge all the sweeter.

"What is Mrs. Marshall's name?" Kit asked.

"Augusta."

"I'm amazed that she hasn't accosted you."

"I'm not. She'd be too afraid to confront me. She probably spent the afternoon sending frantic messages to Miles to get his butt home."

"Will he?"

"Sooner or later."

"But you're not murdering him," Kit firmly stated. "You promised, and I need you to promise again, or I'm leaving. I won't help you kill him."

"I won't kill him." Damian stared across the park, studiously avoiding Kit's gaze. "It's not why you're here. You're here to guard my back. Not to participate in a homicide."

Kit snorted with derision. "Look at me."

Damian turned so they were face to face. "What?"

"You're not killing him!"

"Spoilsport."

"Tell me you won't, or I'll depart right now. I'm serious, Damian."

Damian sighed. "I won't kill him."

"Swear."

"I swear."

Kit scoffed. "As if your vow is worth a farthing."

Damian shrugged. "I swear I'll try not to kill him."

"That's something I suppose," Kit grumbled.

Damian couldn't guarantee he wouldn't murder Miles. Usually he wanted Miles alive and suffering until he understood that it would never end. It's what he wanted most of the time. The rest of the time, he simply wanted Miles dead and buried in a shallow grave.

Damian had proved too often that people shouldn't cross him. Miles had been the first to get away with it, but back then Damian had been a nave, foolish child. He wasn't anymore.

"Will you attend the party?" Damian asked Kit.

"Probably. Unless you have some reason I shouldn't. May I fraternize with the natives?"

"Yes, as long as you're not too friendly."

"No chance of that."

"Then have fun. Dance until your boots fall off."

"Since you've encouraged me to join in, I guess I'll have to." Damian started off, and Kit asked, "Where are you going?"

"To chat with Miss Fogarty. I have to be sure she hasn't told the cook to poison our supper."

"She isn't the type who'd be that vicious."

"I'm betting she's a fast learner though."

"Don't scare her," Kit said.

"I couldn't possibly. She's made of sterner stuff than you imagine."

"In case you're wrong, be kind, would you? This will be difficult for her."

"Her surname may be Fogarty, but she's a Marshall through and through. I can't be kind."

"Well then, don't be overly horrid."

"I won't be."

He continued on, marching to the front foyer and up the grand stairs that led to the upper floors.

There were plenty of servants about, and they scurried out of his way. Gossip had already spread that the butler had ordered him to leave. Miss Fogarty had too. She'd sent some footmen to warn him away, but to no avail. A few quick remarks from Damian-mostly a suggestion that they should back off if they expected to keep their jobs-had done the trick.

No one knew if he truly owned Kirkwood, but they weren't positive he didn't. They were desperate to stay on his good side if he was the new master, but to not aggravate Augusta or Miles too much lest he wasn't.

He climbed to the third floor, having discovered where Miss Fogarty's suite was located, but he couldn't figure out why he'd been so eager to obtain the information. Nor could he deduce why he was visiting her, but he couldn't seem to help it.

He never bothered with females, deeming them to be especially cruel and duplicitous. Miss Fogarty was a breath of fresh air. She was smart, amusing, and intriguing.

She appeared to be running the estate, a situation he found hilarious and extremely odd. He wouldn't generally have thought a woman would be interested in a task as tedious as farming, and he, himself, couldn't name a more boring endeavor. After sailing the globe, surviving in Australia, and practicing his criminal talents for two decades, a rural farm was the dreariest place he would ever hope to reside.

Which certainly had him wondering why he was at Kirkwood. He'd come to wreck it, to ruin Miles and Edward. The prospect had been his driving force, but he'd been focused on it for so long that he had no plan for after he was finished. He'd likely wind up depressed and adrift.

At the end of a deserted hall, he stopped at her door. He knocked once then entered without waiting to be invited.

He surveyed the sitting room, trying to discern what it indicated about her, but there wasn't anything to provide evidence as to the sort of person she was. She had no paintings on the walls, no knitted throws on the sofa, no portraits on the mantel. It was a very sterile spot, as if it was unoccupied and kept clean in case an unexpected guest showed up.

There was a bedchamber behind the sitting room, and she called, "Sophia, is that you? Where have you been? You won't believe what's happened."

He strolled over to the doorway that separated the two rooms, and he arrived just as she did. She bumped right into him.

"Mr. Drummond!" she snapped like a fussy schoolteacher. "What are you doing in here?"

"I have no idea."

"Get out."

"No."

Her hair was down and brushed out, the pretty auburn tresses falling to her bottom, and he was delighted to report that she was attired in her robe. She wasn't naked underneath it though. He caught a glimpse of a faded chemise before she clutched at the lapels and yanked them more tightly across her chest.

He smirked. As if a bloody lapel could protect her.

"You can't just barge in," she insisted.

"I already have." He scowled. "Haven't I said that to you at least once before? Don't tell me what I can't do after I've already done it. It's annoying."

"Oh, pardon me," she facetiously sneered. "I would never wish to annoy you." She pointed to the door. "Go away."

"No."

"Mr. Drummond! Go."