Lord Greyson couldn't believe his luck.
As the Inn came into view that afternoon, he sighed, shifting on his horse. He had been riding since early morning, having found his carriage with a broken axle.
Broken.
What didn't make sense to Greyson was the fact that the carriage had resided in Thorne's stables all evening. It had been in perfect working condition on his journey north. Greyson had looked upon the damage himself, and only one cause for the damage had suited.
Foul play.
The axle hadn't broken by itself. The wood had been splintered in the middle, almost sawed clean through. Enough that if his carriage had rounded a curve too fast or if his horses had been urged into a trot, the carriage would have gone careening, overturning with his person inside.
By God, even now Greyson could have been on the side of the road, bleeding.
Foul play.
The notion was bitter on his tongue. He had confronted everyone in the stables through the early morning hours. The staff had sworn that no one suspicious had been seen coming or going from the stables. Greyson had spoken with each stable hand and servant, looked into their eyes, and seen only truth.
But how else would an axle break in such a way? And even more harrowing, who would wish harm upon him?
Greyson pulled on the reigns, his stallion, Maximus, giving a shake of his head at the abrupt action. He patted the horse's neck, whispering an apology as he descended, his booted feet casting plumes of dust into the air. A stable hand came running, taking the reins and leading his mount to the stables.
It was why Greyson had insisted on leaving at dawn's light. If someone actually wanted him out of commission, he needed to be home, in his own stables. Not to mention the fact that Mr. Benedict Havershim was coming to view his stallion, Perseus. The man wouldn't buy from Greyson's stock with the rumor going around of an enemy. Or even if the ton thought he similarly didn't take care enough of his belongings.
Nothing was worse for business than a reputation of incompetence.
His father was rolling in his grave at the perceived slight already.
Greyson was sure of it.
He sighed, thinking of the stallion that needed to be readied. Mr. Havershim was looking for a racehorse of elegant breeding with the right musculature and temperament.
All of which Perseus had.
Well, all but perhaps the last one, Greyson thought. The horse was still half wild. No one had been able to get close enough. But he would, Greyson vowed. He would make sure of it.
Unfortunately, Greyson knew he wouldn't reach Claymore lands until the morrow. He had ridden as long as he dared, the fingers of dusk caressing the sky with purples and blues. Only fools rode alone and at night. It was asking to be robbed or worse.
Entering the Inn, he welcomed the warmed interior. It's proprietor, spying Greyson instantly, clambored over, his eyes taking in each article of Greyson's clothing. Like a buyer looking over a horse on the block, he imagined.
Proof that all of society was as civilized as those without its circle.
"My lord, I hope you have not been waiting long." Greyson shook his head in the negative, bringing an overbright smile to the proprietor, one Mr. Simon Mulberry. "Good. Good. Do you need to let a room for the night?"
It was a moment's wait for everything to be settled. Greyson was led to the common room. He inhaled the fresh scents of baking bread and roasted pheasant. The spices of garlic and cinnamon in the air. He groaned aloud at the pleasing aromas earning him a curious look by Mr. Mulberry.
Chastened, Greyson sought to keep his grumbling stomach to himself as he made his way through the throng of tables, feeling various eyes on his back. It was halfway to his designated table when Greyson felt a curious sensation. His neck prickled, as if a pair of eyes were trained upon it. Glancing about the room precipitously, his eyes jumping from group to group, person to person, he could see nothing out of the ordinary. Greyson drew a hand over the back of his neck, shrugging it off. Little sleep and the events of the morning were no doubt making him paranoid.
Mr. Mulberry halted next to a table, turning to Greyson with a smile. His brown hair was wavy, held back in a queue. His overlarge navy jacket stood about his ears, and he bowed, his hand coming out in a flourish. "Would you like to start with an ale, my lord?"
Greyson settled into his chair with a sigh. He nodded to the proprietor, ordering his meal and watching as Mr. Mulberry shuffled off as if the hounds of hell were on his heels. The table was in the far corner, the view unimpeachable in that he could look out at all the other patrons of the establishment. The warmth of the fire settled upon his back, keeping him secluded from the crisp autumn air.
Usually, Greyson preferred a table like any other, having no use for accommodations or the curious glances trained his way.
For today, however, he appreciated the solitude.
His liquor was delivered quickly, and Greyson sent the serving woman off with a fine bit of coin, ensuring he could imbibe slowly and at his leisure. Greyson sighed, the glass perched precariously between his fingers.
It was inevitable, the turn of his thoughts. He closed his eyes, casting off the other noises of the room to the edges of his consciousness.
A pair of laughing blue-green eyes were there to greet him.
Like they had all through the evening. Sometimes, those eyes flirted under sultry lashes, a teasing smile. Other times, like now, they sparkled with vibrancy and mischief, the concept as foreign to him now as it always had been.
She had so much life.
At one point during the evening, Greyson had awoken from a restless sleep with the delicate scent of lilacs luring him to find her. Find this elusive maiden of his imaginings, capture her essence through her lips, the warm sweetness of her tongue. He felt wild, as if he were half-starved and the only thing to satisfy his appetites was Charlotte herself.
Greyson had fallen into a hazy dream state. Picturing the ripeness of her breasts, lifted high in her corset, the rounded tops quivering with her laugher. Greyson had buried his nose in her thick chestnut tresses, felt her slight form trembling beneath him as he brought her pleasure.
Soft, where he was hard. Sweet, where he was rough and callused.
He had awoken with her calling out his name, his cock hard, and his fingers clutching his coverlet. Greyson had given up on sleep, then. Had taken himself in hand like a green lad, muffling his shout with his teeth digging into the flesh of his hand.
Greyson opened his eye to a sliver, making sure he wasn't attracting undue notice. The last thing he desired was for someone to notice his state of decomposure.
How had she bewitched him so thoroughly, in so short a time?
Perhaps, he should have stayed abed, forced his thoughts to give up their meanderings. For then, he never would have found himself in the stables at such an abominably early hour, checking on his horses and investigating the wheels of his carriage.
Hell, he should have never left the country to begin with.
Greyson's thoughts were interrupted when a prickling of his senses alerted him to being watched. Glancing surreptitiously around the room, Greyson crossed one booted foot over the other. He made the effort to appear oblivious, a lord of leisure, all the while his eyes tracked each person. It was a tactic Greyson found useful in his business ventures. Get his enemy talking, or in this case, weed the man out.
It had worked last evening on Crowley, although it failed utterly in regards to Charlotte. Seemed to him that nothing ever worked quite as well on the female of the species. Thinking of Georgiana, Greyson found himself smiling. No, some ladies were impervious to intimidation tactics.
Greyson watched two ladies, their bonnets together as they bent their heads, peeking at Greyson before giggling and turning about. A taller gentleman was reading a paper, his cloak left lying on the back of the chair across from his person. There was an acquaintance he knew, a Mr. Bainsbury, glancing back at him as if waiting for an invitation. Greyson made sure to skirt over his person. Though the man was a danger to him, it was for nothing more than complete boredom. One couldn't talk to the man without him blathering on about the advantages and comeuppance of indoor plumbing or some such.
A fool's dream, Greyson was sure.
The smell of food brought his attention back to the table. At some point, the serving lass had laid out his meal, a plate of steaming roast goose with greens and cauliflower. Their scents mingled, and Greyson, ravenous, made quick work of it. As he was sitting back, reaching for his napkin, he happened to glance up.
A ruckus had broken out. A lady screeched, a gentleman's gruff, "Watch where you are going, lad." A glass broke, and Greyson's gaze went to where a boy, no more than sixteen or seventeen it seemed, was issuing apologies, picking up the shards of shattered china on the ground. He was pushed away by the proprietor who had scurried over.
"What be the meaning of this? Best get going now, you hear?"
The boy was already walking backwards, his eyes darting around the room. His eyes snapped in Greyson's direction. Stunned, Greyson's napkin halfway to his mouth, he simply stared back, his breath stuck in his chest.
What the devil?
It wasn't the boy's clothing that was off - he looked like any other London urchin. His clothing was a size too big, dusted from his travels. His skin was dampened by the teacup he had managed to shatter. Strands of his jagged brown hair stuck in tight curls, a bowler hat drawn low over his eyes.
His aquamarine eyes.
Shite, Greyson thought. He was hallucinating the girl's eyes onto a lad, now? Had she well and truly bewitched him?
Greyson shook his head, taking a deep swallow of his drink. It burned down his gullet. He welcomed the pain.
That'll teach me not to get a good night's rest before traveling.
Greyson, having closed his eyes at some point, opened them only to find his eyes trailing the odd creature. Was it this lad who had given him the feeling of being watched?
Narrowing his eyes, he was surprised when the boy cast another glance over his shoulder. This time, Greyson knew he had quite simply gone mad. For he had seen a...dare he say it, blush on the boy's cheeks.
And then the lad scampered off, disappearing out the door of the Inn. He saw a shadow pass the window, the sky already shifting in deep blues and pinks and purples.
By God, he was going mad, wasn't he?
Hefting himself to his feet, Greyson left extra coin on his table, making his way up to his rooms. It would seem he had thoroughly tuckered himself for the day. At least, that was Greyson's plan. Unfortunately for him, as soon as he had passed the doorway, the stairwell rising up to meet him, he heard a shout.
"Thief!" The cry came from outside. Greyson's head snapped up alongside the rest of the occupants of the common room. He stilled, training his eyes to the ever darkening sky.
The shout came again. Various patrons went to the window, gawking, some murmuring behind their hands. None, he noticed, willing to wade into unknown trouble.
Greyson had no such compunction. Breaking into a sprint, it was his sister's cries that echoed in his mind. His name a plea on her lips.
Greyson had been too late, then.
He vowed, "Never again."