In The Devil's Stables (Spirited #1)

Prologue

*A/N: This is a work of fiction. All Rights Reserved. 2016 by LibMikie101*

Suffolk, England

Mid-Afternoon, April 1804

"Oh, bollocks!"

Lady Charlotte, daughter of William and Arabella, the Marquess and the Marchioness of Crowley, glanced over her shoulder, making sure her nanny, Nessie, hadn't happened upon her and heard her curses. Safe for the moment, Charlotte perched on the cream-colored window seat and continued her watch.

She had an unimpeded view of the drive, would be able to see the carriage much sooner than she could hear it. And yet, she still saw no signs of a rambling conveyance.

Her father's, in particular, with the family crest emblazoned on the side - two swords crossed over a shield.

Charlotte sighed, dropping back to settle atop her calves. Her breeches dug into her legs, and her black boots, their soles ridden with loose bits of dirt and stone, dug painfully into her bottom.

She had taken up residence in the drawing room to wait after being cast out from the kitchens. Mrs. Bingsley had a knack for catching Charlotte's hands when they reached for handfuls of pastry. At least downstairs, she had the servants to keep her company. She supposed Nessie was about her somewhere, but she would insist Charlotte continue with her lessons rather than waiting and watching for her parents' carriage to round the bend.

She glanced behind her. The mantelpiece ticked another interminable minute - one more than when she had looked a moment past.

"Damnation," she whispered.

Charlotte glanced behind her before testing the word once more upon her lips. It fascinated her much more than her previous 'bollocks,' she decided.

She always managed to hear the most intriguing language in the stables when the staff was unaware of her presence.

Charlotte settled back, her head thudding lightly on the wall behind her.

It was midday. Mama and Papa should have been home by now. They had attended Lady Wiversham's ball the prior evening, leaving her with promises of a drive in Hyde Park and a game of chess.

Charlotte heard a clatter, lifting up, her knees digging into the plush cushion beneath her. She pressed her cheek to the window, the cool spring weather sending a chill to her skin.

The gardener's back swept past, and Charlotte sighed.

She couldn't wait to play chess for the first time.

Charlotte pictured the gleaming St. George chess set in her mother's sitting room upstairs. Its pieces glimmered a milky ebony and marble white. She had gotten berated often enough since she had first seen in a few months ago. They were delicately crafted so she couldn't touch. But it drew her, a whisper of the delights of adulthood. She liked the weight of each piece in her palm, the soft, scraping sound as the pieces were moved from square to square.

Papa had told her the name of all the pieces, explaining their significance in the game. Charlotte shifted through each piece, imagining their shapes. In her mind, Charlotte tapped each one with the tip of her finger. Here, at least, in the comforts of her own mind, no one could tell her otherwise.

The pawn was the smallest and bore a simple knob on top. The knight had a ferocious-looking horse's head, mid whinnie. Then there was the bishop. He was adorned with a remarkable, tall cap with an indent she wished she could probe with her fingers. She had told Papa it hadn't reminded her of any bishop she knew. Their Bishop Jenkins wore a flat looking cap, one that made his brown hair stick to his reddened cheeks. Her father had laughed uproariously at that, his white teeth gleaming.