In The Devil's Stables (Spirited #1)

Chapter 30

"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.