"We have unfinished business to discuss."
Greyson ran a hand over his mouth, a day's worth of stubble prickling the tips of his fingers.
"Do we, indeed?" Greyson asked, nodding to Crowley as he walked towards his desk. That's when he noticed something most curious indeed. His ink pot was two inches to the left of where he usually placed it.
And was it his imagination or was that a purple ink print on the corner of his desk as well?
What the devil had the gel been doing with his writing tools?
Equally important, would the ink stain come out or ingrain itself within the wood surface? His housekeeper would have his hide, he knew.
Greyson glanced from the corner of his eye to where his little caterpillar was currently cocooned. The last thing he needed was Charlie sneezing or God forbid, overcome with that sudden and unpredictable urge to use her waspish tongue to Greyson's detriment.
He laughed deep in his throat. He should be more concerned with what Crowley would think of Greyson keeping a servant in his furniture.
By God, what a muddle!
Spreading his navy tailcoat behind him, Greyson settled into the chair behind his desk. His eyes fell once more upon his implements, and Greyson cursed his attention to detail as he inched the ink pot those final two inches into its original spot.
What exactly had Charlie needed with an ink pot? If she was in hiding, like he had believed, who could she be corresponding with?
Greyson snorted softly. With Charlie, anything were possible. Hell, she might be writing a ransom note of all things. Next thing Greyson knew, his once quiet country estate would be surrounded with a bevvy of constables, all of London knocking upon his door.
Hell, half were already residing within his home and abusing his goodwill. Greyson mentally calculated his guests, all of them unannounced, he might add: his mother, his sister, his childhood friend. The Marquess of Crowley.
Hell, it was a bloody house party!
And that wasn't even counting his cross-dressing Charlotte who had a propensity for violence - as evidenced by her commending herself on 'felling him like a tree' if Greyson remembered correctly - a secondary life as a lad with a wicked tongue and a vivid imagination.
Greyson bit his tongue knowing that was simply the icing on his proverbial cake of shite.
She had filched his bed linens, somehow gotten the approval - and mothering behavior, for God's sake - of his usually gruff stable master, and been so damned...responsive with him in nothing but a shirtwaist, so bold in the stables as if her disguise couldn't undo the passion that Greyson had pulled from her.
Greyson ran a hand through the heavy strands of his hair, knowing his patience with her foolhardy disguise was running thin.
The strand of his patience was as long as what was left of his godforsaken pride.
If his little caterpillar was going to leave him with any, that was.
Crowley cleared his throat, and Greyson's eyes shot up. He had completely forgotten Crowley was even in the room, and he looked down noticing that at some point, Greyson had picked up his favorite quill. What had been his favorite, he corrected, for with his unruly thoughts he had somehow snapped the tool in half.
"Are you alright, Claymore?"
Greyson raised a brow, wondering if he should deign to answer a question from a complete ignoramus.
He had just broken a quill between his knuckles!
Not only that, but had Crowley completely blackened out what he was dismounting in the shambles that was left of what had been the earl of Claymore's prestigious stables?
Greyson's brow furrowed as his eyes narrowed on Crowley. The man seemed unfazed by the scene he had ridden into. He wondered...
They hadn't left on good terms back at Crowley's ball in London. In fact, the man's sugary, sweet speech reeked of warmed horseshite - as if Greyson would allow anyone to control his investments. Despite how Crowley couched his offer, it would leave Crowley without doing an inch of the work while filching off of Greyson's profits.
Unless of course, Greyson thought with a snarl, his horses failed to produce adequate foals. Or one fell into the wrong hands. Crowley played hard, and there was talk of a backer that pulled his strings. Some long ago debt that Crowley had yet to work off.
No way in hell was Greyson ever becoming involved in such a thing. He had given Crowley the cut direct, especially as the man had offered the services of his niece, for God's sake!
But a man like Crowley, one used to obtaining his wishes, would he be so quick to turn away the insult? A desperate man...
Greyson couldn't overlook the marquess's impeccable timing.
Would Crowley be so bold?
Greyson's lip curled, and his instincts - those that had yet to fail him - sounded for the first time since the night of Crowley's ball. Greyson never had believed in coincidence.
A splinter worked its way into the pad of Greyson's thumb and he glanced down, seeing that he had been stroking the broken pieces of quill within his fingers, passing the utensil from knuckle to knuckle. Greyson set the shattered remains of the quill deliberately aside, a brittle smile upon his face.
He was determined to find out.
"To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"
Crowley, taking the words as encouragement, a kindness that Greyson most assuredly did not feel, returned Greyson's grimace with a smile of his own. His teeth glinted in his swarthy face, and it was then Greyson noticed the circles beneath the man's eyes. The tightness of his skin across his cheekbones.
Greyson's eyes fell to Crowley's hands and his frown deepened. One of Crowley's hands was wrapped in bandages, the strips of cloth loose and riddled with a layer of dirt.
His instincts clamored all the louder as Crowley walked forward, doing his best to appear charming. He held his hands out to his sides, his long-legged strides elegant and unhurried against Greyson's plush red carpeting. His boots fell softly on the brown and pink and gold aubusson carpet.
Crowley's expression was as friendly as Greyson imagined it could be. It was as if they were merely two businessmen sharing a confidence or perhaps Greyson offering his friend a brief respite against a long journey.
It was ruined when Crowley opened his mouth.
"I have come back with a counteroffer, Claymore."
Greyson raised a brow, repeating Thorne's words and using his innocent tone as his own. "Oh?"
At such an opportune time?
The marquess must have taken his nonchalant question as an invitation for Crowley strode to one of the two chairs seated before Greyson's desk. His weight sank into the high-backed chair. "We left on poor circumstances, and I don't believe you understood exactly what I am offering."
Greyson barely stopped the snort of disbelief from tumbling from his lips. He had understood perfectly. Unfortunately for Crowley, Greyson was one of the few lords left who had a lick of common sense left to recommend him.
What were the chances that his father's pin would show up in Greyson's stables a decade later? A mere day ago? And that this very pin would become the main evidence in a state of arson.
This man had been with his father that last evening. He remembered now, his mother having told him a few years back. Benjamin had been at the same table, playing the same game of chance with Crowley, as Benjamin sought to extend the hand of friendship to his deceased friend's brother.
And out of the blue, Crowley shows up now?
Greyson froze, thinking of something he hadn't quite pieced together. This niece of Crowley's - this ward's hand that he had offered - had been the previous earl's daughter. The previous marquess, Lord William, and his marchioness, Lady Arabella's, daughter. And Greyson hadn't taken the time to find out her name. To offer her help.
It sickened him. What must his father think that Greyson hadn't reached out like Benjamin would have. Shame stole through Greyson, and he corrected his earlier assessment.
Not only did he need to find out Crowley's game in all the current events, Greyson had to find this ward as well.
By God, Crowley had offered his deceased brother's child to him. Pawned her off like a piece to be played.
Jaw clenched, Greyson released his breath slowly, making a distinct effort to appear unaffected when he wanted nothing more than to reach across the desk and pummel the man. If for no other reason than Greyson wanted to.
Most desperately.
"As you can see upon your arrival," Greyson began, seeking to focus on the end game rather than what his fists so longed to do, "I have other troubles to consider at this time. Why would you wish to still be in business with me, considering the fire?"
There, Greyson thought. There was a hint of panic in Crowley's gaze there, buried beneath another emotion he couldn't decipher.
Leaning back in his chair, Greyson made a point of crossing one booted heel over his knee, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the arm of his chair.
Thump, thump, thump.
Thump, thump, thump.
Crowley swallowed, the sound echoing in the relative silence of his study. Greyson felt victory closing in for Crowley was practically vibrating in his chair, his eyes scanning over the dark panelled walls of Greyson's study, his gaze tracking over each of the four walls of bookshelves that covered the darkened interior.
"I had noticed and didn't want to appear as if you were one to be pitied." Crowley's voice broke through his study, solid and clear as his gaze fell to Greyson's. He licked his lips."I am deeply sorry for the loss of them. Was anyone hurt?"
Greyson tilted his head, a lock of hair falling over his eyes. "A few with minor bumps and bruises. But no. No lasting harm to my tenants or staff."
If Greyson wasn't mistaken Crowley looked almost relieved, his shoulders falling before he met Greyson's gaze full on. "I'm glad to hear it. Regardless of your misfortune -"
Greyson bristled at that and Crowley must have noticed for he went on the offensive, holding his hands out to Greyson. The white bandaged hand gleamed in the low light of his study, and Greyson wondered what had happened.
A burn, perhaps?
"I...I apologize. That wasn't me berating you," Crowley continued. He walked in the direction of Greyson and he had to hold back a sound of protest. He didn't want the marquess to peer too closely in this direction.
By God, by the end of this visit Greyson was going to end up with a heart condition.
"But perhaps I can be of help. A loan of money, say," Crowley said, walking around the chest and drawing his finger over the spine of books on his shelf. Crowley's fingers swept through the dust as he slowly traced each one. "An investment in your property and rebuilding efforts, if you will." He stopped then, his head turning towards Greyson and the earl was struck momentarily by something.
The way Crowley's head was tilted, how his eyes shifted briefly to Greyson before fiddling with something else on his shelves. A diversion tactic, perhaps. A way for him to appear as if nothing was out of place.
It reminded him of someone, but Greyson couldn't quite put his finger on who.
Especially with his dark hair...
Greyson straightened in his seat, his legs coming uncrossed as he planted his feet firmly into the plush carpeting. "I haven't changed my mind, Henry."
Whether from the use of his given name or the tone of Greyson's voice, he couldn't be sure, but he saw Crowley's stance tighten, his tailcoat straining against the lean muscles of his back and arms.
"And honestly," Greyson said, coming to a stand, "I will not or ever partner with a man of your ilk."
Crowley turned fully towards Greyson then, his grey suit tightening across his shoulders as Crowley tensed further. "My ilk?"
"Your ilk. Those who fleece others of their rightful property and monies," Greyson said, coming around his desk as his fists clenched at his sides. "Those who prey upon those they view as weaker, as incompetent, just to make an extra bloody pound."
Greyson was across the room before he knew it, and Crowley was backed into the bookshelves. The man's face was blank and Greyson found that far more irksome than anything else.
This was something Benjamin had objected to as well. This blatant disregard and disrespect for a person - whether a lofty, conceited lord, or the handiest and most loyal of workers. Greyson remembered absently that his father had made quite the spectacle, risked his reputation and that of his adversary, revealing a bad business venture.
Few would do so. Hell, few would care.
Greyson had every intention of doing the same thing, whether his father had chosen to care more for the people of London, for his horses and his workers, than he had most days for his own family.
So Greyson uncorked his most damning ammunition yet. He wanted to see if Crowley could feel. If he would bleed.
"And especially those who would seek to use one's niece as a bartering tool in a business deal."
A gasp sounded from within the chest to Greyson's right, and he cursed bringing them both this close to Charlie. He hadn't forgotten entirely of her presence within his own anger.
Crowley must have heard for his eyes shifted around the room.
Damnation!
He didn't have time to coddle the woman, to find out what had caused the sound.
Greyson stepped back, drawing Crowley's gaze. "Must have been the staff cleaning the next room over. Sweeping the chimneys, I believe."
Crowley cast one last glance about the room before accepting Greyson's excuse. Crowley shook out his shoulders, a tic beginning in his clenched jaw as he swept his hands down his tailcoat, erasing imaginary wrinkles in his attire. Crowley's gaze came up, as expressionless as it had been before.
But there was a blankness that caused the hairs on the back of Greyson's neck to stand on end. Hell, the man looked as if he were one step away from the gallows. Resigned with it.
"I can see now that I have wasted my time in coming here."
He sidestepped Greyson, walking around him as he crossed to the other side of Greyson's study. Greyson peered over his shoulder, wondering if Crowley was responsible in some way. What all his pieces meant when bundled together.
Confusion flooded Greyson. Was this it, then? He had no more to say for himself? No offers for his first born child?
Crowley walked stiffly, but without the confident, self-assured swagger of the man at the ball. In its place was a man who had received a blazing condemnation of his person and was walking from Greyson's study having said nothing to defend himself.
That wasn't a mark of confident man.
Were Greyson's accusations unjustified?
Bloody hell, was he becoming untethered himself?
A pang of something struck Greyson. He chalked it up to the lack of sleep or the warring emotion he was feeling. Whatever it was, Greyson found himself calling, "Is there something I can assist with you?"
Damned, if his father's protective instincts weren't afflicting him at this very moment.
Crowley was at the door by then, his hand on the knob. He twisted towards Greyson, a bitter laugh sending a chill down Greyson's spine. "No, there is nothing you can assist me with."
Crowley hesitated, running a hand over his mouth. He hesitated before his spine jerked upright.
A scar gleamed on his throat and Greyson narrowed his eyes upon it. It was a one or two inch gouge across his neck as if something had recently drawn blood.
"Actually..." Crowley's said, turning to face Greyson. "My niece -"
Greyson laughed in disbelief. "I beg your pardon?"
"She disappeared a week ago."
Greyson made a sound deep in his throat. "Why do you care now? Has her hand been offered to another under your thumb?"
"Despite what you may think or inferred upon our last conversation, I do care for my niece -"
Greyson protested, a harsh sound in the back of his throat.
"I do. I wouldn't have offered her hand to just anyone mind you, and it wasn't conclusive with you accepting the business deal or not." Greyson was unconvinced, but Crowley cut him off, and in the next moment Greyson completely forgot about everything else.
"Believe what you wish, but she never arrived in Northumberland where I believed her to be.
A muffled curse came from inside the room, and Greyson decided the lady had quite taken it from his mouth.
Holy hell, it couldn't be...
Northumberland? The same bloody town his Charlie had been travelling to...Or so she had said.
Greyson bit his cheek, trying his best to appear nonchalant as strode to his desk. He leaned back against the front of its polished surface, crossing his arms over his chest. "What is in Northumberland?"
"A...relation..."
"Was she traveling alone?"
Crowley glanced over his shoulder quickly before he turned back to Greyson. "She had her horse with her, of course -"
Greyson's scowl blackened. It was imperative that Greyson knew the lady's name, for if it were Charlie, it meant this man had known she was journeying by herself. But did Crowley know of her disguise? Was Charlie running away from him? Had she found out about her uncle's bartering with her very livelihood?
"What color?"
Crowley glanced at Greyson in confusion. "Black, actually. Fine draught horse bred with an Arabian. That was why I mention it. I was hoping with your contacts that mayhap someone ran across her or recognized the horse. It was the foal of Charlotte's father's stallion, truth be told. I'm sure your father, Benjamin, knew of it -"
Greyson's heart thumped in his chest, the blood pumping so loudly in his ears that he had thoroughly blocked out Crowley's ramblings. "Her name is Charlotte?"
Please, God, no...
Crowley nodded, and that was when Greyson truly did feel sick to his stomach. The lady he had in his stables - who was currently hiding in his chest - was this man's niece! A rough laugh scraped his throat. By God, hadn't he just been wishing to know this niece, to scurry her away from her villainous uncle? What were the chances that she was one and the same.
Another bloody coincidence...
"The lady at your ball in the blue gown. That lady Charlotte?"
Crowley's brows went up, his brown eyes wide in his face. "You met her?"
An unmistakable thump this time rattled through the room.
Yes, little caterpillar, it was time to come out.
The rattle had Crowley almost jumping from his skin, his eyes sweeping the room as if the very devil himself had come tumbling through the roof! The quick action had Crowley's boot twisting on the Aubusson rug beneath his feet. Crowley wobbled before he regained his balance, a piece of paper fluttered from his breast coat pocket and became lodged under Crowley's boot, forgotten.
"Is...is someone here?"
Another thought struck Greyson then.
Hell, what if Charlie - Charlotte, he corrected - was working with her uncle? Perhaps she was sent by Crowley to somehow betray him?
Had it all been a farce?
But then why would her uncle threaten to sell his niece?
The questions stifled Greyson. "Why? Are you expecting someone to be?"
Crowley seemed genuinely shaken up, sweat dotting his brow and his boots shifting restlessly. Greyson's brow furrowed at the panicked look in Crowley's eyes.
What was the marquess playing at? Was this his final performing act - his last desperate attempt to change Greyson's mind?
"No, no," Crowley muttered, clearing his throat. "I...I apologize, my lord, for the intrusion. I'll be on my way." When Crowley continued to stand there, Greyson raised both brows.
Crowley bit his lip and seeming to come to a decision, straightened his back. "I would still be most obliged if you could keep an eye out for her, just in case. Your ears open for any gossip of her."
"Did you hire a Runner, yet?"
Crowley nodded. "I did, but it isn't safe out there. I think you of all people would understand that."
Greyson fingers clenched the edge of his desk behind him. "Are you worried something will become of her?"
Crowley chuckled darkly as his eyes peered over Greyson's shoulder, his eyes trained out the window at the gleam of sunlight. A hand buried itself into Crowley's thick, brown locks and Greyson was startled to realize that he had been seeing traces of Charlie in Crowley.
The resemblance was faint. Merely the way Charlie had a habit of looking elsewhere when she was plotting or telling a part truth. In the way they had of jutting their chins as if challenging the world of London to deal them a harsh blow.
An expected one.
"We all have demons after us, Claymore," Crowley's voice broke in, his gaze still distant. "And sooner or later, they catch up to us. We can either bow to it or -"
Crowley licked his dry lips, something in his expression putting Greyson on edge.
"I beg you to forgive the ramblings of man, my lord," Crowley said, and Greyson found the man's gaze focused on him. He bowed stiffly, once more the Crowley of the ballroom.
Crowley turned the handle of the door, freeing the room of the tension that had burrowed into both of them.
"What happened to your hand, if you don't mind the intrusion?"
Crowley had been halfway out the door when Greyson's question brought him to a halt. He gave Greyson one last glance, a sad smile twisting his lips. "I didn't bow to my demon."
The marquess vanished from view and Greyson was left standing in his study.
First things first, he decided, wasting no time as he closed the door to his study and locked it. The snick reverberated in the room.
Greyson leaned into the door, his forearms coming up to shield his head which had bowed forward against the cool wood. Taking a deep breath, Greyson turned around and faced the chest.
"Out, Charlotte."
There was a moment of silence before a curse sounded, muffled from the mahogany case.
The chest of doors burst open and Charlotte - niece to the Marquess of Crowley, and his disguised lad with motives unknown - came stumbling out.