Chapter 38

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Later that evening

Charlotte came to him.

Not Charlie.

Charlotte.

Greyson's bedchamber door creaked, and he had opened his eyes to find Charlotte in his rooms. He blinked, wondering if he had imagined her there. In his dream, Charlotte took a deep breath before she bunched the fabric of her nightgown in her hands. She licked her lips, her gaze soft, unsure. It swept from her body, tumbling behind her and baring her body to his gaze.

She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

Her skin was pale surrounded by the flickering fire behind her. It cast her into an intriguing mix of shadows and light. She walked towards him slowly, and Greyson found his eyes falling to each part of her body. The shape of her collarbone. The deep curve of her hips. The sweep of her long legs.

By the time Charlotte had stopped before him, Greyson was reaching for her.

Charlotte had grasped his face, stopping his mouth from diving for a taste of her. Her thumb rasped over his day old stubble, the sound loud in the room. "All I can give you in return, Greyson," she murmured, her eyes imploring as if she begged him to understand through the haze of sleep, "is me."

That was more than enough for him.

By God...

"Charlotte."

She breathed out a sigh. "I love how you say my name."

He chuckled against her lips. "As do I."

Everything else became a haze. He remembered paying particular notice to the small divot in her left shoulder. The flesh of her belly. The curve of her calf.

It was awhile later, Greyson half asleep, when he heard Charlotte's whispered, "I love you so much, Greyson."

He mumbled her name, a smile on his lips.

"I love you too, my Charlotte."

Greyson pulled Charlotte's body over him, tucking her head beneath his chin. His eyes closed, and right before he sank into the oblivion of sleep, Greyson thought he had felt a tear drop land on his chest.

The next morning

Greyson woke up the next day, groggy and disoriented. Sunlight split through the curtains of his bedchamber, and his hand shielded his eyes. A flash of the evening before glinted from the corner of his mind, and Greyson had to wonder if he imagined last evening.

Had he hallucinated that Charlotte had entered his rooms of her own accord? Had she, in truth, been flesh and blood and vitality beneath him?

Greyson glanced about his chambers. Surely God couldn't be so cruel as to give him such a divine dream only to strip it away as much as the morning sunlight stole his vision.

His blue bed linens were wrinkled and in clumps about his feather mattress. The fabric hung half off the platform his bed was raised upon. The scent of lilacs teased his nostrils, however, and it was then Greyson let a brief smile form on his lips. He couldn't help but lean over to the empty side of his bed, the sheets cool to the touch. The lingering floral notes of her sprung through him, lightening his mood and filling him with a lazy satisfaction.

The most damning evidence of all, however, was what lay in the middle of his bedchamber. Charlotte's discarded white nightgown decorated the carpeting, the ruffled, frilly material so distinctly feminine and so unlike his Charlie, that it sent a surge of confusion to him at the same time a growing urge to see her. To hold her to him.

Greyson stretched slowly, his arms reaching above his head. He cursed the tenderness in his side as he sat up in bed. Although, all things considered, the pain was a minor inconvenience as Greyson allowed last night to play out along his closed eyelids.

What had brought about Charlotte's abrupt presence in his chambers?

The first item on Greyson's agenda was to find her.

A knock on his door brought Greyson out of his musings. "Enter."

"My lord."

His butler, Reeves, halted in his bedchamber doorway, bowing slightly. His hair gleamed in the sunlight streaming through his windows, picking up the tints of red in his hair.

"What is it, Reeves?" Greyson asked, making his way to his garderobe.

"Henry, the Marquess of Crowley, is calling."

Greyson froze halfway across his rooms as his instincts clamored and chimed. Something told Greyson that whatever the reason for Crowley's visit, it wouldn't be a good one.

***

Greyson loathed this study with a passion.

Especially when the Marquess of Crowley was currently being pressed against the walls of it in as many days. Greyson bared his teeth at the man, wondering if Crowley had suddenly grown a conscience where his niece was concerned.

It was, after all, Crowley who had found himself in a drunken stupor, allowing a man like this Mr. M- to hold an advantage. It was he, ultimately, that had began Mr. M-'s campaign against his niece. And that was taking into account that their assumptions yesterday afternoon had been correct.

Greyson peered around Crowley's head. Cracks in the plaster streaked from the spot Crowley's head had gouged into it. Swell, Greyson thought irritably. Now, he would have to bloody redecorate.

"What do you mean, where is your niece?" Greyson seethed, focusing on the man before him. While the marquess was attired in the height of fashion, his hair slick with pomade and his body, leanly muscled, there was an air of desperation to him. A scent that smelled of stale beer and sweat. "What makes you think I know a bloody thing about anything?"

Which was true, Greyson thought morosely. There were too many unanswered questions, and he wanted to know, damn it.

Despite their assumptions last afternoon regarding Crowley's part in all this, they remained just that. Assumptions.

Who was to say for sure that Charlotte's uncle was being blackmailed into acting as he had? Who was to say that Crowley actually hadn't orchestrated Simpton into compromising his niece?

Given all of that, Greyson had to wonder if this weasel really care for Charlotte at all. What was Crowley's motive for being here? How had he found out his niece was here in the first place?

Who was to say that even now, Crowley's dogged concern and anger on behalf of his niece, wasn't his final and most convincing act?

That didn't hold a candle to the problem of Mr. M-. If Crowley was still working for Mr. M- then couldn't Crowley only be compounding all of their issues? Leading the man straight to his doors?

Something told Greyson a man like Mr. M- did not take betrayal well.

Crowley broke into Greyson's reverie, his voice composed though the man looked rather green about the gills.

"I have it on good authority that you were seen leaving an Inn recently, not far from my London town home, and not long after your attendance at my ball," Crowley said, his chin coming up, "with a young lad with a blunt cut of brown curls."

Greyson kept his face decidedly blank as he waited.

"The proprietor was entertaining the masses with a juicy tidbit of gossip that had happened at his establishment recently."

Bloody hell, Greyson grumbled silently. Was everyone in England equipped with a loose tongue?

"I stopped in for a brief respite," Crowley continued, oblivious to Greyson's foul mood, "on my way back from my last visit here. Apparently, it was quite a show that I missed. A wee lad saving your life against two thieves. One lady even claimed there had been a sword involved!"

Greyson could practically hear Thorne's amused snicker in his ear. His scowl blackened, and Crowley stumbled to a halt.

"And?" Greyson encouraged, his fists clenched at his sides. Would it be terribly rude, he wondered, if he cast the man out by the seat of his trousers?

"Well, needless to say it got me curious, especially when it was said the boy had a horse remarkably similar to my Charlotte's."

"She isn't your bloody anything," Greyson said, one fist coming to the side of Crowley's head.

The man looked from Greyson's hand back to his eyes, his own gaze narrowed on Greyson. "I swear, if you have done anything untoward to my niece..."

Greyson choked a laugh. "Honestly?" He stared at Crowley incredulously, wondering if the man even heard himself when he spoke. "You have no room to question my motives when your idiocy allowed a piece of shite like Simpton to get his hands on her."

That was when Greyson saw it. That elusive flicker that Greyson had thought he had seen in Crowley's eyes. It looked a lot like panic as the brown orbs of his eyes dilated and his lips clenched into a flat line. Crowley's nostrils flared and his chin gave a slight wobble.

Greyson didn't know if he should applaud the man for his acting skills or worry the man suffered from a condition of the brain.

"Who's to say I even have seen this niece of yours?" Greyson countered, stepping back and crossing his arms over his chest. "I never told you I had when you stopped by days ago."

"Neither, I remember," Crowley said, brown eyes meeting Greyson's gray ones, "did you say you hadn't."

Greyson narrowed his eyes, frustrated with the circles their conversation had taken.

"It all seemed...rather strange, is all. A spirited lad, riding alone, so close to my townhome on the night of her disappearance. It adds up, you could say."

Greyson sighed, wanting nothing more than to get everything settled. He walked over to his bell pull. If he had to listen to this sniveling lunatic, by God, Charlotte should have to hear it with him.

A servant filled the doorway a moment later, and Greyson turned asking for Charlotte to be brought down. The servant bowed, briskly leaving to do his bidding.

It was oddly refreshing, he realized.

Greyson returned his attention to Crowley once more. "What do you wish with her?"

"She has been here, then?" Crowley asked. "Under your...protection."

He said the last word slowly, his eyes narrowed as if he gave a flying fig for his niece.

Truth? Greyson wondered, tilting his head. Or lie?

"Your niece is under my protection," Greyson confirmed. He left it unsaid that she would be under his protection for the immediate and distant future as well. Sometime between her whispered endearments, the vulnerable way she had offered herself to him, the truth shining in her eyes, he had realized that he couldn't live without her.

The intimacy Charlotte had shared so openly with him only confirmed his intentions. The lady was his. And he, hers.

Greyson was going to ask Charlotte to marry him.

As soon as they got rid of the trash that was, Greyson thought. His lip curled as he scolded her uncle in his head. The man had had a weakness. One that had put Charlotte in danger.

"What has she told you about that night of the ball?"

Crowley spoke softly into the silence, and Greyson's jaw clenched. "Enough."

Crowley nodded. "What you don't know, perhaps, is that I got into a bit of a..." he choked on a bitter laugh, "a rather big muddle, truth be told."

Crowley walked to the window, his arms clasped behind his back as he stared at the rolling green lawns of Greyson's estate. Well, Greyson thought grimly, what was left of his stables could be seen along the outer edges of his property.

"I gambled away the family fortunes the night my brother died. Every last farthing."

Crowley's words slipped from his lips, his shoulders tense. Greyson sighed, walking to his desk and unfolding the paper Crowley had left behind. The marquess glanced over his shoulder as Greyson past behind him. The man's eyes fell to the paper Greyson clutched in his hands.

His brown eyes widened as he stalked to Greyson. Crowley took the parchment from him.

"Where did you get this?" Crowley asked, his eyes roving across the paper. "How?"

"It seems you dropped it on your last visit," Greyson said, leaning against his desk. "Is it true?"

Crowley's eyes came up. "Is what true?"

Greyson nodded towards the letter. "The contents in that correspondence. Are you seeking evidence to get out from under this Mr. M-?"

Crowley chuckled darkly, his eyes falling to his bandaged hand. A wood splint shown barely above the bandages. "There is no getting out from beneath Mr. M-."

His voice was a low sneer as he turned, running a hand through his thick mass of brown hair.

The dark chestnut locks were the same color as Charlotte's, and once more, Greyson was astounded by it. How had he not seen the resemblance between them before that day of the marquess' visit?

Not for the first time, Greyson wondered what would have happened if he had been properly introduced to Charlotte that evening they had met. If he had known who she was, whose niece she was.

Greyson ran a hand over his face.

He could have talked to Charlotte about her uncle at the ball. Perhaps, Greyson would have found out the significant odds playing against Charlotte at the time. Offered a solution, formulated a plan of action, so she wouldn't be in this complicated jumble now.

But what could have been done, Greyson asked himself, with propriety breathing down their necks? The only solution would have been marrying her himself and, at the time, Greyson had been dead set against giving Crowley a lick of his time or attention. Of dignifying the man's offer for his niece's hand in marriage as a bargaining chip.

Though, Greyson wondered now, perhaps Crowley had determined another possible alternative for Charlotte's predicament. A way to obtain her safety.

It had been a rough journey for them both, but Greyson couldn't help but admire the woman behind the disguise. She challenged him, her tongue slinging barbs as they battled with words. She complimented him, drawing Greyson out of his self-imposed seclusion and making him interact with her. Making him half crazed with the need to best her at her own game.

She excited him.

She cared for him.

Last night blazed to the forefront, and Greyson smiled.

Hell, Charlotte loved him.

Greyson frowned, casting a glance at the empty doorway. Where was that servant with Charlotte?

"His name is Moreland."

The name jolted through Greyson like a bullet, and his eyes snapped to Crowley.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The man who has vowels for every stitch of clothing and monies that belong to me and, by relation, Charlotte as well. The man who has held those same vowels over me along with the safety of my life, my brother's fortunes, my brother's daughter. The same man after your ruination." Crowley exhaled loudly, cursing beneath his breath. "Robert Moreland."

Greyson staggered back, a hand capturing his fall against the gleaming tabletop of his desk. His breath gusted from him. "Robert Moreland?"

Crowley's brown brow quirked. "You know him?"

Greyson licked his suddenly dry lips, knowing with a stark certainty that they had been remarkably lucky this far if Robert Moreland was behind it all. "I have heard of him. He disappeared off the map some odd years back, but I thought I heard some gossip bandied about that he had been seen about London. I thought I must have been mistaken...."

Greyson met Crowley's eyes.

"He is said to have not recovered well from an accident..."

Crowley snorted. "A beating more like."

"A beating?" Greyson's head spun as he tried to keep up with each new revelation.

Crowley hesitated briefly. "He has a scar just here." Crowley's finger drew from the corner of his left eye to the corner of his lips. "What do you know of him?"

Greyson thought back to the rumors. He wasn't one for listening to incessant prattle, but this one concerned the business of horses so he had paid heed to it. The atrocity of those rumors, that just such a man was not only after him, but Charlotte as well, sent a chill down his spine.

"The man was said to rig races," Greyson began." He went so far as to maim other competitor's horses. Getting his associates to take risk in poor investments where he made a profit."

Greyson's throat tightened as he said, "Some questioned his methods. The stock of his own and others dying suddenly. Atrocious whip marks on flanks of his willful livestock."

The knowledge that such a man would injure innocent livestock was outside of Greyson's comprehension.

"He disappeared from society rather quickly from what I recall."

Greyson worked through the math in his head, realizing with horror exactly how long it had been since he had heard Moreland's name.

"After my father's death." Pain struck his chest and if the desk wasn't behind him, Greyson wondered if he would have sunk to the floor.

By God...

"He keeps mementos."

Greyson's head churned with each new detail until he thought he would be sick. His eyes clashed with Crowley's. "Mementos?"

"Yes," he said.

"My father's pin?"

Crowley nodded. "Sometimes. Although not always."

"What do you mean?"

Crowley swallowed, looking at the toes of his boots. "Most are more permanent..."

"Permanent? Like death?"

Crowley's eyes came slowly to Greyson's and it was then that Greyson wondered if perhaps every unholy incident that had happened since the death of his father hadn't been an accident at all.

"My sister?" Greyson asked, knowing that his answer was shining within the man's eyes.

Greyson snapped. His hand went around Crowley's throat. "You have known all this time? You allowed yourself to be manipulated by Moreland, putting my family and yours at risk, and for what purpose?"

Greyson was seething, red film dipping over his vision.

The marquess squirmed in his grip, his hand coming to Greyson's fist. "I know Charlotte hates me. I...I know you do as well, and I don't...blame you." Crowley gasped out the words, his breath coming in pants. "But I didn't know anything until years...later when he...would gloat. I had to bide...my time. Build evidence and then...I could be free."

He looked into Greyson's eyes. "Charlotte would be free."

The words broke through Greyson's rage and he cursed, dropping Crowley to the ground. He twisted on his heel, burrowing his face between his arms. "The other mysterious deaths, you mean."

Crowley appeared confused until Greyson looked at him, his head nodding to the correspondence still gripped in Crowley's hands. "Yes. The other gentlemen responsible for his disfigurement."

Greyson straightened. "The scar?"

Crowley nodded. "Your father ousted Moreland and his business went belly up -"

His father had ousted Moreland...

"Christ!" The epithet spilled from Greyson. That was why Moreland had killed his father?

"Moreland wasn't allowed in the gentleman's circles anymore," Crowley continued, his face tinged with red from his impassioned speech. "No one would do business with a man like that."

"Why not call the constable? Tell him of this-"

Crowley laughed. "There was definite evidence that could be led back to him. But reputation and all..."

The man didn't need to finish his sentence.

"He would have become ostracized."

Crowley nodded. "Just so. It was a few weeks after that my brother died and from what I can figure, I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Moreland had set a plan to deal with your father, and my...my foolishness gave him the opportunity to fleece from others. To keep his business

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