***Welcome to the world of historical fiction, @wandering_always. This dedication is for you! Thank you for offering the BIGGEST compliment! :) ***

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Greyson rang his bell for the fourth time in as many minutes.

Bloody hell! Where was everyone?

He had been a veritable bear for days and still Charlie had not come to see him since she left in so quick a fashion two days ago. 

It irked him to no end. He replayed that morning, wondering if he had imagined it all. The way her eyes had softened when she looked at him, the tears that had filled her eyes as she scolded him for worrying her so.

The way she had gasped as he drew her essence into himself, sucking the taste of her from his thumb. Or the way Charlie's eyes had drifted to his lips, leaning closer, planting her tiny fist next to his hip as her eyes pleaded for Greyson to take them. To take her.

Greyson shifted, scowling when he hardened beneath the sheet. It had become his constant companion, dash it all. Greyson only hoped the chit was going through the same damnably frustrating arousal that he was.

For in his quest for attention, Greyson had only managed to sabotage himself - on his own sickbed, no less.  He had grouched at the staff, needling them with questions of the whereabouts of his bloody minx. When his ringing of his bell had produced no response yesterday morning, his sister, Georgianna, had taken delight in informing the earl that he had been so much of an ogre that his own staff refused to serve him. 

Hell, he thought, incredulous, he paid them to wait on him no matter his mood.

It had left him with Georgianna who was many things, but a helpful nursemaid she was most decidedly not. It had only taken an hour or two before even she had cursed him, leaving his rooms in a high dudgeon. "I can see why Charlie hasn't come in here to see you," she had mumbled, her curls half tumbling from its topknot with how often she had pulled at her hair in frustration. "It's the lair of a wildebeest!"

Greyson sighed, realizing he had been. But damned if it was helping that his calls were going ignored.

Glaring at the door, he waited for the unlucky victim of his ire.

Nothing.

By God, he vowed, someone was going to attend him. Greyson reminded himself that he had gotten out of bed just yesterday, the pain finally beginning to receded. It hardly mattered when everyone had turned against him.

Ding, Ding.

Ding, ding.

Dingdingdingdingdingdingdingdingdingding.

"For Christ's sakes," Thorne said, stalking into the room. He walked up to Greyson, grabbing the brass bell from his hand before it was thrown to the floor. Greyson watched, shocked, as his best friend raised his foot and crunched the object beneath his boot.

"What the devil did you do that for?"

Thorne turned to Greyson so abruptly, Greyson found himself swallowing back any further argument. Thorne's face was red in anger, his lips pressed into a tight line. "Get off your lazy arse and find her yourself, you damned oaf!"

With that, Thorne twisted around and was gone, the door banging shut behind him.

Well, Greyson thought, that was a slight overreaction.

Greyson fell back onto his pillow, his anger deflating. In truth, it was much more than lying in bed, invalid and bored out of his mind, he added, that was contributing to his foul mood. His mother's conversation of two days prior filled Greyson's mind.

He couldn't quite believe what his mother had kept from him.

When his mother had asked what was going on, Greyson had decided to be deliberately obtuse. Knowing his mother, Marianne would want to know what was happening between him and Charlie, and he found he wasn't quite ready to talk to anyone. He wanted to keep her close to his chest, to bring her when he was alone and could understand the tenderness only she seemed to bring from him.

So, Greyson rid his mind of Charlie in favor of a more pressing matter. "The attacker. It's not the first unlikely happenstance of the last week. I have had some other...incidents that lead me to believe that they are all connected. That someone seeks to ruin me completely."

His mother had cursed beneath her breath, reaching for the damp washcloth and ringing the excess water before brushing it along his forehead.

Greyson's eyes had closed at the feel of it. 

"The fire, I believe, was started on purpose."

Silence had been his answer, so unexpected, that Greyson's eyes had popped open. His mother had sat back in her chair, her gaze distant. She had twisted the damp rag in her hands, the cloth dampening her dress from a soft lilac to a deep plum. 

Greyson had breathed deeply, cursing the pain in his side as he had shifted, trying to find a comfortable position.

"We found evidence of it - Williams and I." He had watched his mother's face as he said, "The pin from father's lapel. It was found alongside a handkerchief and a piece of flint. It was marked by sparks." He had shaken his head in confusion. "The bloo-" Greyson broke off, catching his mother's eyes, "the blasted thing was used to start that fire."

His mother had bit her lower lip, a loose curl a shade darker than Greyson's own fanning against the column of her neck. 

"Do you know what this might mean? For father's pin to show up out of the blue in an arson attempt on the stables?"

"It means your father's death might not have been an accident. Just like the fire." Her eyes had been grave as they met Greyson's. She had looked away first, leaning over to drop the rag into the basin of water at his bedside. 

Greyson had blinked once. Twice.

Surely, she had not said what he thought she had?

Greyson had bolted from his prone position in the next moment, mouth agape. "I beg your pardon?"

She had shrugged, her gaze falling onto her hands that were picking at invisible specks within the volumes of her skirt. "I had my own...suspicions about your father's death. Some evidence that never quite added up."

Incredulous, Greyson's mouth had opened and closed absently. He must have looked like a dimwitted goose, but there was no help for it. Had his mother said with a quiet certainty that she believed his father's death had been no accident? 

Greyson had expected his mother to scoff at his assumptions. To rid him of that nagging voice in his head that had whispered something bigger was afoot since he found the hankerchief and flint.

His father's lapel pin.

Instead, he had been left, dumbfounded, astounded by what all this meant. "What evidence?"

Lady Marianne had met Greyson's gaze. "Your father had...some troubles with other business associates a year or so before he passed. I would overhear him in his study talking to his solicitor. He never let on, of course, your father being so much like you."

Her eyes had watered, sniffling as she looked down at her hands. "He had made an enemy, or so I heard. Someone was making threats on and off, always seeking to steal away Benjamin's potential horse buyers. Casting aspersions on our own reputation." His mother clucked beneath her breath. "As if there was anyone more honorable than your father."

"Benjamin had let on that this man was hurting the horses under his care. Rigging races. Secreting money from his investors."

"Why the devil haven't you told me about this?"

"It was after your father had already...passed on," his mother choked over the words, bringing her gaze up to Greyson's. He was shocked at the tears that hovered in the corners of her eyes. "That I had remembered what I overheard. But I didn't know who the person was or even if your father's death was connected. And then I found the letters." Lady Marianne's fist had come up to her mouth and she bit down on the gloved knuckle before she straightened, clearing her throat. "So many letters...such vitriol."

"Did you ask this solicitor about it?"

Marianne had merely laughed. "The man had died not a week after your father, Greyson. And by then, the accident had been declared just that. An accident." His mother had shrugged, her eyes falling tot he window on the other side of Greyson. "There was no evidence of any foul play at hand. Just simple greed. He was set upon by ruffians, they had said, the contents of his purse stolen and the carriage stripped. Your father must have resisted, they determined. Poor luck and bad timing."

"Why didn't you bring this information to the Runners? Ask for an investigation into it?" Greyson had asked, his fists clenching in his sheets. He had cursed his injury then, wanting nothing more than to see this set to rights. To figure out the bastard behind it.

Lady Marianne had laughed again, bitter tears tracking from her eyes. She had swiped them away hastily. "I did. They didn't believe me. I was simply a distraught wife playing amateur detective and seeing things that weren't there. A panicked woman with naught but her nerves."

"Balderdash!" Greyson had scoffed, "You have never had a single, bloody nerve in all your life."

His mother had smiled softly before it fell from her lips. "Besides, nothing became of it. There were no leads to suggest the man had done anything. I had paid so many calls to your father's associates hoping for some clue..." Another curl had tumbled into her face, and she drew it back behind her ear.

"What about these letters?"

Marianne had sighed, her back landing in the chair. " Anonymous notes by a nonsensical wife? I was laughed from the room before I had even spoken. Besides, they weren't signed with anything that could lead back to him."

The truth of it had filled Greyson with rage?

What had happened that evening of his father's death? Who was this mysterious enemy of his father? Could it be linked to what was happening now?

And why now? Why after all this time?

Greyson's temples had begun to throb, and he had shaken off the troubling thoughts, not wanting to let on to his mother how upset these news foundings had made him.

His mother had become lost in her own thoughts, and that was when Greyson had noticed the wrinkles, the tightness of skin about her eyes and cheekbones and lips. The lines of a hardened woman who had lost her husband too early. Had had to raise a boy by herself.

A young daughter.

"Is that why you left London as well?" Greyson had asked. "To live in the country?"

His gaze had implored her to tell the truth, and yet, part of him despised knowing that it had been so. That he had been too young, too naive, too...concerned with his own grief, that he had quite forgotten about anyone else's.

"I became a bit of a...pariah, I suppose, but Lud," his mother had said, a grin sweeping across her features and making her looking breathtakingly young, "what notoriety I have had!"

Greyson had huffed a laugh, running a hand through his hair. "Why didn't you tell me?"

His mother's brows had pinched together, her hand now playing with the white ruffles of her sleeve. "Tell you what?"

"What you believed about Father? Why didn't you come to me?"

She had clucked her tongue. "You were barely a lad of eleven, Greyson."

"It's my duty of man of the house to know these things!"

"And it is my duty as your mother to protect you from them."

The door creaked open and his mother's head peered in as if he had conjured her from his thoughts. "Have you come to brave the wildebeest?"

A smile broke over his mother's features as she entered, a silver platter loaded with bread, cheese, and if he wasn't mistaken, a bloody scone. His mouth watered as she set the tray next to his bedside. Greyson fought the urge to attack the food like a half-starved mongrel.

She crossed her arms standing next to Greyson. "I think I'll take my chances. After all, I have had infinite practice. You and your father are much more alike than you think."

Greyson scoffed. "Father was much more serious than I.

Greyson frowned as his mother laughed.

"I don't see how that's humorous, Mother."

"You wouldn't, I suppose," she said.

She stared at him a moment, working her lower lip between her teeth. Lady Marianne perched herself on the chair a few feet from him, her back straight as if she had come to a decision. "What's the story behind your Charlie?"

Greyson groaned, his head landing on the pillow. "You would ask such an impertinent question."

"Bosh!" His mother said, smacking his arm lightly. "I am your mother. It's my job to ask impertinent questions."

He sighed, wondering at the words to describe the lady.

"Charlie is...different."

His mother laughed. "I noticed."

"She's had a rough time of it."

His mother reached over to grasp Greyson's hand. She cradled it between her own. "I figured she had, what with that atrocious disguise of hers."

Greyson laughed. "It was at that. She has too much of a temper to pull it off for long."

"You should have seen her at your bedside, Greyson." Lady Marianne said, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "She gave that pompous doctor of your father's a delicious set down! Told the man exactly where he could shove his advice."

Greyson grinned, recalling Charlie's relation of the same story. The way her lips had pursed and her eyes had darkened. The stiff set to her shoulders and the red tinge upon her cheeks.

He swallowed then, remembering equally the way she had gasped when he had sucked the taste of her into his mouth. How her breaths had puffed against his lips.

"Her uncle sought to have her compromised," Greyson found himself saying.

His mother gasped. "The devil you say!"

Greyson nodded. "At least that's as much as I've been able to piece together. She has been decidedly tight-lipped about it all. But I ran into her at an inn not far from her town home in London. She was set upon by thieves. Had bitten the one, tackled the other and lobbed an object at my head thinking it was the men after her again."

"I like her already."

Greyson scowled, but when his mother only shrugged, an amused smile on her lips, he rolled his eyes, cursing the clever women in his life. "She thought for the longest time she had me fooled."

He ran a hand down his face. "All I want to do is protect her, and she confounds me every chance she gets."

"Of course she does."

Greyson's hands fell from his face. "I beg your pardon? I offered her a guest room, and the bloody woman wouldn't take it. She had almost gotten herself killed!"

"And she came through it just fine, I'll have you know. Why, I heard she attacked the man with a pitchfork."

He stared at his mother, thinking he must surely have heard her wrong. "A what?"

"Mmhm, a pitchfork," his mother said, leaning forward. "Need I remind you that the only person truly injured in the scenario was you, dear boy?"

Greyson scowled. "Are you honestly saying it was my fault I was stabbed?"

His mother stood, planting her hands on her hips. "It's nobody's fault except the lowlife who attacked her to begin with. I hope she stuck him on the spit but good!"

Greyson shook his head, mute and dumbfounded. He thought of the long ago balcony where Charlie and that friend of hers had planned what to do with an unconscious body. Were all women this bloodthirsty, and he simply didn't know it?

"I hate to say this, Greyson, but you can't save everyone." His mother's words brought his attention back to her. "You just can't. And sometimes, a person needs to know he or she can save him or herself alone."

"But, Charlie -"

"Charlotte," his mother corrected, "is not your sister. And neither one of them asked for an atrocious incident to happen to them. But what you haven't taken into account is that we are stronger than you think."

"Charlie is barely one and twenty," Greyson argued. "The poor girl -"

"I will let you in on a little secret," his mother interrupted. "She's not a girl. She's a woman. And a woman knows her own damned mind."

Greyson was left flabbergasted, his mouth agape as he wondered what had come over his usually genteel and poised mother.

"Because while you are in here feeling morose and sorry for yourself, where is Charlie?" Greyson's brow furrowed at that.

Hell, where was Charlie?

"If you're willing to let the past rule your life then I didn't raise you right and you don't deserve her. Not to mention you'll make your own dear mother look poorly. Is that what you want?"

Greyson narrowed his eyes feeling boxed neatly into his mother's conversation. He wasn't out of his mind enough to say "no," now was he?

His mother scooted forward, her hands shifting the covers about him as someone knocked on the door.

Greyson lifted himself onto his elbows wondering if it were Charlie.

Greyson's brows went up when it was one of his servants. His brows blackened into a scowl in the next moment for in the servant's grip was his punishment.

His mother laughed at him, taking the cup with the concoction of death from the servant before placing it next to his food.

"It helps with the healing, Greyson. Don't you feel much better than you did only yesterday?"

Greyson refused to give her the satisfaction of an affirmative answer.

They were trying to poison him for his ill-temper. He just knew it.

"Besides," his mother said, grinning, "a delusional and invalid man needs his due sustenance."

The conversation he had had with Charlie not two days ago replayed in his head, and he looked at his mother in horror.

"Were you eavesdropping that day?"

Greyson ran through his conversation with Charlie, trying to find anything that had been rather revealing or particularly intimate.

His mother simply met his gaze, not a whit of shame within her eyes as she crossed her arms over her chest. "I was waiting for the right opportunity to intrude."

"So you decided that it was the perfect time when...when..." Greyson stuttered to a stop, looking at his mother aghast.

One brow went up, "Yes?"

A wash of color stole over Greyson's cheeks and his mother's peal of laughter met his ears as she turned towards the door.

God save him from the women in his life, he grumbled.

But Greyson couldn't help but wonder much later - after he had set aside his empty platter, after he had drunk the rest of that unsightly mix of herbs and poison, after he had begun to slip away into a restful slumber - what had Charlie been up to?

**A/N**

I redid this chapter (Again! Last time. Promise!)

So I urge everyone to reread :)

 Let me know what you all think! Enough conflict? Things feel like they are coming together??

Thank you for all the lovely votes and comments! Please feel free to let me know what you think :) It's through you guys that I can fix and revise and understand what's working and what could use some more work!

Charlie and Greyson are hovering at #3 in Historical Fiction so thank you, thank you, thank you! As always :D

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