Charlie was avoiding Greyson.
After the third morning, it had become patently obvious. The closest she had come to enter his domain had been the morning after he had awakened. Charlie had halted outside his door, her hand poised to knock, but Charlie found she couldn't quite complete the action. She would remember the way he had looked upon her, the tenderness as he had cupped her chin.
The pinch of relief that had filled her breast as well as the tears that had filled her eyes. Her heart had thundered in her chest, and she desired nothing more than to pull Greyson to her, to cradle his head beneath her chin.
Charlie had frozen, the unfamiliar emotions bringing a bout of panic. What was Charlie to make of these emotions? How was she to feel in control of her future if she was so...taken with him?
Did that make her weak?
A laughingstock, perhaps, that a woman who had been burned one time too many would put her wellbeing, place her trust so willingly, into the hands of man?
Courage had abandoned her, and Charlie found that she was no more than a statue - still and stiff and pale.
It had become fodder about the estate later on in the day when, despite the many attempts of the earl to find her whereabouts, Charlie had found something far more pressing to attend to. Her walk about the grounds would take hours. A bath would be essential and then speaking with Lady Georgianna in the library. Finding herself a book. Plaiting the remnants of her hair which she was pleased to see had grown slightly to cover the dips and curves of her collarbone.
She wasn't able to escape Thorne, however, who always seemed to find her about the estate, determined to relate news regarding Greyson's recovery.
The second morning Charlie had barely seated herself to break her fast when Thorne had taken a place across from Charlie. His hazel eyes glinted with laughter as he regarded her over his plate of coddled eggs and sausage.
"It's as if he is an untrained pup swiping about with his paws at those unlucky enough to step into his path."
According to the viscount, Greyson had made enemies of his entire staff in merely two days. They were too frightened of the earl and his constant criticisms.
The fire wasn't built high enough.
The fire was barely present and he had taken a chill.
If the sheets were any stiffer he would find himself starched into the linens.
It seemed the most dastardly of his acts, however, was in turning Miss Martha against him. The cook had threatened to serve him nothing but grits if Greyson sent one more bowl of soup back to the kitchens for being "too cold" or the biscuits for being "a touch too hot." Or his roasted partridge appearing as if it were "still alive and clucking about on his plate."
Thorne had wiped away tears of mirth relating the story, glancing at Charlie from the corner of his eye. "Perhaps I should say he more resembles a yowling babe whose favorite toy was taken from him."
She hadn't liked the comparison.
That afternoon, however, Thorne's mirth had been entirely absent.
Thorne had stalked past her down the hallway, his gait slightly off kilter as he limped to his rooms. "Let's see him ring that bloody thing now."
His plunking footsteps had continued, until he opened his door, his blonde head disappearing and the door slamming behind him.
It was the third morning now, and Charlie didn't attempt to try. Her thoughts were running in circles, her equilibrium leaving her straddling the line of Bedlam.
Charlie decided to head to her spot early, her slippered heels veering towards the kitchens. She opened the door, finding her loot spread on the wood tabletop. Charlie grasped two, bundling the items in linen.
"Ach," Miss Martha's voice clucked behind her and Charlie jumped, drawing the tarts behind her guiltily. Although, it was hardly necessary, she thought. Charlie was positive the cook was aware of where she was headed and to meet who. "Yer as bad as 'at Lord Thorne with yer treats, ye are. Get on, now, before the master done realize I'm feedin' 'is castaway."
Charlie grinned, saluting the cook with her bundled treats, and twisting on her heel, she greeted the morning sunshine.
It was the only time Charlie felt as if she could breathe.
Well, it would have been if she hadn't begun dressing in the tight confines of women's garb. The corset dug into her bones, making her frequent indulges rather...ill-conceived of her.
Charlie sighed as she rounded the corner of Greyson's manor, the stables greeting her. It was early enough that the only sounds were of the stable hands working with the horses, their guffaws and chatter ringing through the chill morning air.
Soon, various personages would begin to arrive. Since the earl had been injured, the outpouring of kindness had astounded Charlie. Tenants from his lands began to arrive, working through the day as they began the reconstruction of the earl's stables. It had come along tremendously, and Charlie smiled, seeing the piles of wood that had taken up residence in the stableyard. They had cleared the fallen debris and gathered the boards that were in good enough condition to be added to the new timber.
The earl was going to be quite surprised, indeed, by the amount of legwork that had gone into each day while he had been upon his sickbed.
Charlie had made a habit of coming out early each morning and this one was no different, despite the wayward direction of her thoughts. Settling into her usual spot along the boards, the same one on that fateful night when she had failed to heed the attacker within her midst - when that bastard had almost taken the earl from her.
Charlie did what she always did when she came out here.
She unwrapped her treats, the scent of warmed butter and fruit juice prickling her nose. Taking one for herself, she placed it on the folds of her day gown, keeping the other wrapped tight. She stretched, settling the treat just so on the ground, positioned to where its wrapping could be seen in the stable's opening.
Charlie waited.
Breaking off a piece of her own tart, red juice trickled down her fingers as she brought the morsel to her lips. Cherry, she thought, smiling as she chewed.
Mmm...delicious.
Lying her head back, she tilted her chin to the sun and found her thoughts drifting back to what needled her endlessly.
The night of the attack.
The answer to who was after her - after the earl - resided within that night.
She could feel it.
But what the devil had she missed?
It was why she had begun to come out here in the first place.
The attacker had known she was a woman. The man had made a reference to her gender, she recalled that much.
Who knew of her plan?
It was only Sophie and Nessie, though she supposed someone might have seen her and she simply didn't notice. While she hadn't left her home until after the festitivites, who was to say someone wasn't lingering about?
So, that would mean it was someone either very familiar with her household or one of the numerous people she had come across from her journey with the earl.
She couldn't think of a soul besides the proprietor of the inn. But no one had seemed particularly fazed by her.
Had they?
Maybe someone associated with her uncle? Could he have predicted her actions?
But if that were true, Charlie knew he had ample opportunity to unmask her at Greyson's estate.
Charlie sighed. Damned inconvenient, this train of thought.
She was positive, however, that it wasn't her uncle. He had seemed genuinely upset that night of the ball. Apologetic, perhaps. Shocked, even, by the happenings.
Perhaps an enemy of her uncle's?
Charlie brought the tart to her mouth for another bite when she felt him. His body propped next to hers, his hands picking up his dessert as he landed happily by Charlie's side.
"Gor, but yer a right chuck, Miss Charlie!"
Charlie grinned, staring at Jimmy's bright red shock of hair beside her. His body sprawled loosely, his boots kicked up one over the other.
"Fer a lady, that is."
Charlie's smiled faded and she narrowed her eyes at the boy. Quite a modifier, that.
"See if I sneak you any further treats, you little scamp."
Jimmy grinned cheekily at her, his freckles dancing across his nose and cheekbones. His blue eyes sparkled and a gap shown between his two front teeth.
He had come across Charlie the first morning she had begun the ritual - tarts and companionship - making her lack of courage more bearable. She watched as the boy shoved the tart fully into his mouth in one bite. Her eyebrows shot up on her forehead.
And Charlie thought she was the one with an unhealthy adoration for fruit tarts.
He licked the remaining juice from his fingers as he turned to her, a frown on his freckled face.
"Can I ask ye a question, Miss Charlie?"
Charlie shrugged, welcoming the light conversation with the boy. She wondered absently if her mother and her would have shared such times. Perhaps not sitting on the ground, of course, but perhaps in the kitchens of their country manor.
"Do ye luv 'is lordship?"
Charlie had been in the middle of finishing off her tart when she choked on it, the breading becoming lodged in her throat. She coughed, her hand coming up to her chest as she tried to breath through it. Jimmy's hand pounded her back, his strength taking her aback as she finally swallowed, unblocking her throat.
"Heavens," she said, breathing harshly. "What did you just say?"
A grin spread across his cherub cheeks. A thoroughly shameless expression. Charlie didn't know if she wanted to smile back at the mischievous lad or box his ears.
"Do ye luv 'is lordship?"
"Why the devil would you ask that?" Her tone ended on a shriek that had the boy cringing.
"Ye don't talk like any ladies I know," he said, absently licking juice from his fingers.
She scolded softly, giving him the napkin to wipe his hands seeing that dirt was caked beneath his nails and in the lines of his palms. It gave Charlie ample time to compose her thoughts.
The very idea was absurd.
It was improbable.
It was impossible!
It was...it was...
Lud, but Charlie was frightened that it just might be.
It struck her suddenly like an anvil. Whatever had blocked her conscious, had frozen the very thought, broke through the barrier, unveiling Charlie for who she was.
For what she was.
With a startling clarity, the utter truth of it burned in her chest and it lodged thick as smoke in the back of her throat. He was aggravating. And frustrating. Grumpy and ill-tempered. He very much liked the word "bloody."
But he also had a sly wit and a charm that he had buried somewhere in the midst of his father's death and his sister's failing health and reputation. Charlie wanted to uncover it. She wanted to understand what made Greyson who he was. At the same time, she wanted to show herself too.
To confide her worries, her doubts.
To show her happiness, her hope.
Her very truths.
Was that love? Charlie wondered. This feeling as if one day without another was as debilitating as the wind knocked from her. The unceasing belief that no matter how much she breathed, no matter how far she ran, or how far she buried her feelings, a part of her was infinitely meshed with him, never to be fully pulled apart?
Not simply a matter of skin and teeth and eyes. But a matter of pulse and tears and blood?
Charlie's head swam, and she pulled herself from her thoughts.
Shielding her eyes, Charlie paid undo attention to her skirts as she brushed the crumbs of tart off her person.
Charlie asked with a nonchalance she didn't feel, "Why would you say that?"
The boy shrugged. "After it t'were known ye were a girl, I was thinkin'."
Charlie barked a laugh, her eyes coming to the boy's. "Oh?"
"Aye. At the time, I didn't think much of it, Miss Charlie, bein' as ye was a boy an' all..."
Wondering where the boy was going with his speech, Charlie waited.
"E just looked at ye a certain way, is all," Jimmy said, with a shrug. "An' now that I know ye were a girl, it makes more sense."
She furrowed her brow."How did the earl look at me, then?"
"Like Williams does at Miss Martha," he said succinctly, looking at his hands sadly that were now devoid of all traces of his tart, "right 'efore they 'ide somewheres to swive."
This time, Charlie choked on her own saliva. Jimmy scooted onto his knees, thudding her back as she fell forward, catching herself on her palms. "I beg your pardon?"
The boy rolled his eyes, throwing a hand through his shock of red hair. "I may only be eleven, Miss Charlie, but I 'ave two good workin' eyes, I do."
Charlie's face flushed and she stood, shaking the loose bits of dirt from her gown. "Williams and Miss..." Charlie shook her head, holding up a hand. She didn't wish to know more.
Had he? Did he?
"I think that's enough talk for today, Jimmy," Charlie said, feeling as if her skin itched and her body hummed. She looked at the boy, "Shouldn't you be getting back to work before Williams notices?"
Jimmy huffed, coming to his feet and crossing his arms over his chest. He looked much older when he did so. "No need to get a fit 'o the vapors, Miss Charlie."
Charlie watched the boy stalk away, mumbling to himself about "proper misses."
Sighing, she retrieved the piece of linen from the eaten tarts knowing Miss Martha - Miss Martha, she thought, incredulous - would have her hide if it wasn't returned. That was when she saw it.
A bit of tanned paper was halfway between a loose board and a rock, not inches from where her person had been seated. She squatted onto her haunches, reaching for the piece of parchment. It crinkled in her palm.
Charlie was in the midst of opening it when she happened to catch a bright flash. Tucking the paper into her bodice, she peered through narrowed eyes as she stood from her crouch. Charlie walked into the shade of the stables.
It was in the far corner buried under straw and dirt, but the sun had chosen to shine through a crack, lighting a metallic object.
She kicked the debris from it, leaning in to better see it.
Charlie gasped.
The knife.
The knife that, in the scrabble to save the earl and in the scuffle of rebuilding and daily chores, lay forgotten. The same one the attacker had left behind. In the earl's stomach.
Anger warred with triumph within her.
How the bloody hell had they forgotten about it?
How had she?
She unrolled her napkin and picking the knife up, Charlie wrapped the tool securely in her cloth. It was the clue she had been looking for.
Waiting for.
Charlie smiled grimly. Her attacker - Greyson's attacker - whoever he was, would pay.
Someone had almost taken him away from her. And Charlie was determined that this time, it was she who was going to protect him.
But deep down, in a part Charlie wasn't ready to acknowledge, she realized that this wasn't only an act of retribution on her part.
It just might be her act of love.
***
Moreland heard him enter the room.
Staring dispassionately at the destruction around him, Moreland let the man stew in his own failings. His own doubt of whether he would live to see the morrow.
Moreland's anger had been a breathing entity and it hadn't abated until now. Days later.
The lady had been far more clever than Moreland had given her credit for. He also hadn't calculated the determination of the earl and his protection of her.
The result had Moreland suffering the humiliation of emotion.
His oak desk had been the first object to feel his ire, his boot shattering it into slivers of boards. His eyes glared at one such sliver that protruded from the wall before him. He had gouged it into the plaster, the wall cracking into a spiderweb pattern that billowed outwards.
Eyes shifting, he took in the window on his left that held no glass. Instead, broken shards glinted from the setting sun, glittering like tiny diamonds that taunted.
His fists clenched and he focused through the ache in his splintered knuckles, dried blood cracking in his skin.
It seemed his tasks had become twofold this evening.
For he had received word that Henry was preoccupied. Scrambling to find his niece.
The man hoped for more. He must, for even if he took an audience with the earl, Moreland had yet to receive word from Henry.
Moreland grinned.
Hope was many a man's downfall. That seductive whisper that asked, couldn't we conquer our foes? Couldn't we make up for past mistakes?
Couldn't we prevail?
It was a weakness Moreland did not have.
He was watching.
Always watching.
Looming like a specter in the shadows until he forgot his own name. Until he didn't remember his own face.
And in the end, what did it matter?
He breathed vengeance.
He lived for revenge.
He lusted for justice.
Seven names over a dozen years. All of his adversaries.
Squashed.
Obliterated.
Coming face-to-face with the remnants of his shredded face as he became their judge and juror.
Moreland would have to personally see to it.
He thought the bumbling fool, his pride pricked from Lady Charlotte on that fateful night and his hatred for Henry after it all, would make Moreland's revenge all the sweeter. After all, he was nothing more than an oozing sore, poisoning himself until he was nothing more than greed and lust and ridicule.
But his want for the lady would keep Henry in line.
And now, it would make Claymore's death more agonizing. More slow. More soul-wrenching.
As it had been for Moreland to see his own life, his face, his reputation, beaten savagely and discarded. The lordlings had thought him dead. Left him there.
Moreland had given each his own advice. Never leave without seeing the body turned to ash.
It didn't matter that Benjamin had merely been the catalyst for the act against him. Who needed bloody honor when it was evil that won the day?
After the final scene, all its players would be swept from the board.
And he would prevail as king of them all.
"Has it been delivered?" Moreland finally spoke, and he heard the man behind him jump at the sudden sound.
"Yes, she received it."
Moreland nodded, turning to face the lord. He wasn't looking like a dandified member of the aristocracy now, Moreland decided. Bloodied bandages were wrapped around his stomach from where the she-devil had skewered him with a pitchfork.
His perusal continued to the man's left shoulder which was dislocated, his right hand holding the appendage to his stomach. His lip was split, and the hand marks around his throat told of his previous struggles.
One thing they had in common.
They were both aroused by pain.
"You and I will both have our retribution soon."
The lord smiled. "And Lady Charlotte?"
"As I promised before. You can do with her as you wish."
The man's nostrils flared, a grin flashing against his previously tanned skin. His one good hand pushed back his once immaculately styled black hair. His blue eyes glowed with a light that showed the man's open sore - puss and blood and bone - exposed.
"Will that be all then?" the lord asked, already miles away plotting the revenge that wouldn't last long.
Moreland turned towards the shattered window. His rented cottage was miles from Claymore's estate, but he imagined he could see it to perfection. It was ingrained into the backs of his eyes.
"That will be all, Simpton."