Greyson wasn't fooled.

Halting in the entryway to his study, Greyson's eyes tracked over the room within, the curtains drawn back to let in meager strands of sunlight as they split through the dust motes.

He knew Charlie was in here.

Hiding somewhere in his study.

Greyson mentally chastised himself, wondering if the lady knew her disguise had been compromised from the first because of her enticing scent.

The sweet, floral fragrance seemed to be all over his things.

In each nook and cranny of his rooms.

On his skin.

Greyson could feel his blood thrumming in his veins as his instincts awoke sleepily, stretching while it patiently waited for the opportune moment to reveal her.

Why the devil had she been in here to begin with? Greyson wondered absently.

And was she aware that entering his chambers was the most foolhardy thing the she could do? For now that he had had his first taste of her, Greyson was constantly replaying their blissful joining on the back of his lids. A play acted out over and over again until his skin burned, his lips tingled and he could feel the contours of her thighs on the calluses of his palms.

And he couldn't ask the bloody termagant about the why of it, devil take it!

Greyson turned on his heel to find his butler, Reeves, behind him.

"Send him in," Greyson called gruffly, closing the door with a thud.

Greyson's eyes took in the room as he stepped towards his desk. That was when he saw it. His chest on the far right side of his study - a family heirloom that had resided in this room for much longer than Greyson had been alive - had a piece of white linen sticking out from between the doors.

Hell, was she hidden inside the bloody thing?

He didn't have a moment to ponder further for it seemed his unwelcome guest had arrived. The familiar figure of Lord Henry, Marquess Crowley, filled the doorway dressed no less immaculately than he had been at his London ball. His gray suit of superfine lined his lean muscles. His hair was artfully arranged with the distinct scent of lemon pomade drifting to Greyson's nose.

But there was something in the way Crowley stood, erect with his chin tilted defiantely in the air, that paused Greyson. For while his body was still, his eyes weren't. They flitted around the room, landing on each piece of furniture as if he didn't quite know what he was doing here or how he had landed in that particular spot.

That made two of them.

Hell, but Greyson would give almost anything to be back in his bedchamber now in nothing but his bedsheets as he dealt with his infuriating childhood friend. The one who had - like a complete and total peeper - been watching Greyson sleep.

But Thorne had news to share.

It seemed all of London was filled with talk of him.

"I am beginning to fear, old chap," Thorne had began, having no shame in staring at Greyson as Greyson shifted uncomfortably, "that you would come quite undone without me."

His friend made a show of sprawling negligently, his rear sinking further and further into Greyson's relocated chair.

Greyson had narrowed his eyes in Thorne's direction, his hips still wrapped in his bedsheet, one hand fisting the material about his hips like his own personal girdle. His temper - already at a low with the last few day's activities - snapped. Greyson spoke through gritted teeth. "What the devil is that supposed to mean?"

Thorne grinned, making quite the spectacle as his feet were drawn up, landing on the ottoman with a thump. Speckles of dirt made a flagrant display from the bottom of his shoe as it scattered in all directions against his pristine cream carpeting.

"We'll get to the state of your...affairs," Thorne said with a grin, causing Greyson's eyes to narrow wondering what the hell he had missed, "later. But for now, I heard the most intriguing gossip recently."

Greyson growled low in his throat, but his friend was never one to be waylaid. Especially at the expense of his own amusement.

"I see you hired on a new stable hand."

Greyson hadn't expected that.

He watched Thorne wearily, shifting on his bare feet. He really must get dressed, he had thought, disgruntled. Something was telling Greyson that his friend was leading the conversation into a topic he would not like, but as with any situation in which Thorne was involved, Greyson found himself helplessly carried along with the tide.

"Your stable hand. He is new, isn't he?" Thorne repeated, a canary smile tilting his lips.

Greyson nodded reluctantly, casting a glance over his shoulder as if she were in the room with them. "Charlie."

"Charlie, then. Did you know he was giving orders to that gruff stable master of yours." Thorne chuckled softly, his eyes shifting to the right as if he could see through the walls and out into the confines of Greyson's stables. "Your boy-"

"He isn't mine," Greyson said, but his words went ignored.

"- was quite put out to have his capability questioned by Williams, I daresay. By the by, did he come with good recommendations, old chap? He seemed to have little regard for you."

Greyson's back went up at that. "The devil, you say! The little bugger is lucky I took h..him in after all that happened!"

Thorne's brow rose. "Oh?"

"Oh," Greyson stated. He straightened to his full height, glowering down at Thorne. "The boy was traveling about alone and at night. The most foolish thing I have ever seen." At some point, Greyson had began pacing. He ran his free hand through his hair, knowing he must look quite ridiculous in his current attire with his head all ashambles. "And of course the lad was in the middle of being robbed, for God's sake, because of said foolishness and this was after the lad had run from the Inn common room as if his breeches were afire!"

Greyson had stopped next to his four poster bed, gripping the wooden post and imagining it was those blasted thieves again. 

He blew out a rough breath praying for patience.

By God, but patience was like lifeblood to him now!

"Interestingly enough," Thorne had broken in, his innocent tone making Greyson tense, "that's not the story being bandied about London."

"What?" Greyson released the post, facing Thorne as indignantly as one could with a cloth around one's genitals.

"Nothing, nothing," Thorne chimed, placing his arms behind his head and closing his eyes. He knew it would infuriate Greyson.

And yet, Greyson still found himself asking the blasted question anyway. "What do you mean?"

An uncomfortable silence reigned then and Greyson, fed up with whatever word game Thorne was playing at, turned towards his dressing room. He needed to be fully clothed to deal with his friend.

"I find myself curious, then," Thorne said when Greyson had almost been upon his dressing room and bringing Greyson to a stop. Thorne's foot shook slightly as dirt fell unheeded to his once pristine furniture. "The story in London is that you were the one beset upon by...ruffians, was it?"

"What have you heard?" Greyson murmured. "And why the devil do you keep doing that?"

"Doing what?" Thorne brought his hand up, picking at his nails as if life's secrets could be found beneath them.

"Emphasizing certain words for no apparent reason."

Thorne grinned then, letting his hand drop to the armrest. "Because your stable hand, in your own stables and throughout the gossip mill in town, has said those very words as he disparaged your ability to handle your own affairs."

Thorne, no doubt waiting for Greyson to have asked the appropriate question, chuckled in amusement.

Greyson's jaw clenched.

Hell, he should have known!

Charlie's story. Her brandishing knives and saving his life! Her tall tale had made its circles throughout the aristocracy and Greyson, having been too preoccupied with Charlie's scent, and Charlie's curves and Charlie's motives, hadn't taken into account the spreading of tales like a disease throughout the parlor rooms and ladies modiste appointments across the country!

Damnation!

"Did the...ruffians give you that as well?" Thorne had asked then, bringing Greyson's attention away from his musings. Thorne's hand motioned to his own forehead, and Greyson was surprised to find he had forgotten all about it - the bruised skin when Charlie had swung a metallic object at his head! With all the excitement of the last few days, it had scabbed over just as the bump on the back of his head had receded into nothing more than a nuisance.

Now, however, both wounds began to throb incessantly.

Damned if Greyson would admit to the lad getting one over on him. The lady had quite thoroughly made a mockery of his pride thrice over.

So he did the mature thing.

He lied.

"Er...yes, the thieves got in a good shot or two before I scared them off."

Close to the truth, Greyson told himself. And plausible enough to pass Thorne's scrutiny.

Or it should have been.

"Is that so?" Thorne's brow rose high on his forehead. The sun stole through the heavy curtains at that moment, striking Thorne's blonde hair and casting a halo about his head.

A drastic misrepresentation of his person, Greyson knew.

"That's interesting," his friend had continued, holding his chin between his forefinger and thumb, his fingers brushing against the whiskers there. "I heard from a footman who heard from his cousin who has a son that is employed at that very Inn..."

Greyson's scowl blackened further, and Thorne chuckled, delighting in whatever else the gossips of London had seen to confide.

"And the way his son tells it, it seems your spirited new stable hand came upon you hovering in the corner of a stall while the thieves held a musket to your head -"

"That's complete and utter horse shite. He was the one -"

"Though in your defense, another retelling of the predicament led to you being bashed over the head with a walking cane," Thorne snorted a laugh before regaining a solemn expression - a deuced horrid one, "and others say give it a flash of daring. Apparently it was a sword swooping down towards your neck -"

"Where the devil would a thief stash a godforsaken sword?" Greyson shouted, incredulous.

Thorne's grin had become a thing of its own by this point, and Greyson groaned. He took off towards his dressing chamber ignoring Thorne's loud guffaws at his retreating back. "But there's more to the story! Don't you wish to hear it?"

Greyson growled low in his throat, pulling on a pair of tan breeches while cursing the damned busybodies of London. As he struck an arm through one of his shirt sleeves he wondered why everyone was so surprised that he had chosen to barricade himself in the country.

He heard the rip of fabric and looked down to see that his angry movements had cleanly shredded the sleeve of his shirt. It flopped down his arm looking like a decapitated ghost.

Thorne, having no care for his life, obviously, began again, his lilting voice carrying from the other room. "I'm just supremely happy that this lad happened upon you in the nick of time, dear Greyson. I heard he came running between you and the thieves before he yelled like a banshee and pummelled them both with his wee fists."

Greyson rolled his eyes, balling up his ruined shirt and taking care as he placed another over his bare chest. He didn't bother buttoning it as he came back into his bedchamber. Greyson crossed his arms over his chest. "Are you finished?"

"But then the best part, Greyson! He brandished a knife at your foes -"

This at least stuck with Charlie's originally story, Greyson thought, irritably. By God, there would be hell to pay if Charlie were to hear of this newly revised edition of her own story. To think! She save him from a sword! That the thief miraculously pulled from his pocket!

"But perhaps it was merely that," Thorne said. "I much prefer the version I heard from your mother and sister this morning at breakfast."

The unexpected shot had Greyson's head pulling up. Oh, hell...

Thorne grinned, his green eyes glinting with flecks of amber and brown. "I see I have the right of it. It was I -" Thorne said, pulling himself up from his sprawl and digging his elbows into the armchair "who gave you that delightful scar."

"Oh, for Christ's sake!"

Thorne had been waiting for that precise reaction, his head throwing back as deep chuckles filled the room. What was it about his friend always finding Greyson in a pickle? And it always revolved around his little caterpillar.

"So which is it, old chap," he stopped his laughter to ask, his teeth glinting against his golden skin. "Did I best you in the ring? Was it the thieves who one-upped you? Or, as I suspect -" Thorne said, a wide grin stretching his cheeks, "have you happened to lose the last shred of your masculinity by the lad catching you unawares?"

Another burst of laughter came from Thorne, and Greyson had mumbled uncharitably beneath his breath.

"Hell, Thorne, if this is what you have come for, then you can consider your mission accomplished," Greyson had said, stalking towards Thorne before his hand swiped out, knocking Thorne's dirtied boots from his ottoman.

"And keep your bloody boots off my bloody furniture."

Thorne had raised his palms out to his sides, a gesture of goodwill that Greyson distinctly ignored. He had wondered what Charlie was doing now while Thorne was giving him hell.

Part of him had wanted to unmask her entirely at that moment. Head to the stables, drag the lady into the room that had haunted him for two nights before he took her over his knee and throttled her backside!

The other part...

By God, the other part of him had demanded retribution in another manner entirely. He would use a hand to push against her stomach, her lips parting in a quiet gasp as he barricaded her body atop that deuced bed.

After all, he had thought, a hint of possessiveness and that ever-present need to protect making him half crazed.

The lady was in his keeping. Residing in his stables.

Plaguing his thoughts.

He wanted to see her come undone as he had been, slowly and irrevocably. Wanted to prove that he could care for her. Take care of her.

What would it look like? Greyson wondered, absently. Hell, what would it taste like to bring her to orgasm? To have the soft curves of her body arch, her body lifting his weight from her as she cried out his name?

"What happened here?"

Greyson was torn from his musings, shifting on uncomfortably as reality intruded once more. Greyson eyed his friend, the change in topic stealing his breath, but in an entirely different way. Responsibility weighed on his shoulders.

"The stables, you mean?"

Thorne's expression had sobered - a marked difference from his usual good-humored gentleman act that even Greyson was taken aback by it. He never remembered how far Thorne was into pretending as if he had not a care in the world that when he did turn stone cold sober, it was a shock to Greyson's system.

But he knew that if he had any hope in determining who was behind the damage to his carriage, the damage to his stables, then he needed Thorne. An analytical mind was shrouded by Thorne's uncaring grin, able to piece together bits scattered much quicker than Greyson ever could.

Greyson headed towards the stand on the right side of his bed, the bundle of items hidden away there the previous night.

He was stopped halfway there when a knock sounded on his bedchamber door and his next unexpected caller arrived.

Why the devil would the Marquess of Crowley call upon him?

Hadn't Greyson made it perfectly clear that they would not reach an agreement?

Greyson sighed, wanting this whole business done with, as he cast one last glance in the direction of his stowaway. He only hoped Charlie didn't do anything to call attention to herself.

"We have unfinished business to discuss, Claymore."

And, Greyson would come to realize, they most certainly did.

**Author's Note: I'll probably cut this out of the final book, but for some comedic relief and because I adore and have so much fun writing Lord Thorne (also, the anticipation is building, ya'll!). Next installment out tomorrow evening! Stay tuned ;)

And special dedication to mjh6330 for being such a great help correcting my typos and missteps. Greatly appreciated :))

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