In The Devil's Stables (Spirited #1)

Chapter 11

Lord Greyson couldn't believe his luck.

As the Inn came into view that afternoon, he sighed, shifting on his horse. He had been riding since early morning, having found his carriage with a broken axle.

Broken.

What didn't make sense to Greyson was the fact that the carriage had resided in Thorne's stables all evening. It had been in perfect working condition on his journey north. Greyson had looked upon the damage himself, and only one cause for the damage had suited.

Foul play.

The axle hadn't broken by itself. The wood had been splintered in the middle, almost sawed clean through. Enough that if his carriage had rounded a curve too fast or if his horses had been urged into a trot, the carriage would have gone careening, overturning with his person inside.

By God, even now Greyson could have been on the side of the road, bleeding.

Foul play.

The notion was bitter on his tongue. He had confronted everyone in the stables through the early morning hours. The staff had sworn that no one suspicious had been seen coming or going from the stables. Greyson had spoken with each stable hand and servant, looked into their eyes, and seen only truth.

But how else would an axle break in such a way? And even more harrowing, who would wish harm upon him?

Greyson pulled on the reigns, his stallion, Maximus, giving a shake of his head at the abrupt action. He patted the horse's neck, whispering an apology as he descended, his booted feet casting plumes of dust into the air. A stable hand came running, taking the reins and leading his mount to the stables.

It was why Greyson had insisted on leaving at dawn's light. If someone actually wanted him out of commission, he needed to be home, in his own stables. Not to mention the fact that Mr. Benedict Havershim was coming to view his stallion, Perseus. The man wouldn't buy from Greyson's stock with the rumor going around of an enemy. Or even if the ton thought he similarly didn't take care enough of his belongings.

Nothing was worse for business than a reputation of incompetence.

His father was rolling in his grave at the perceived slight already.

Greyson was sure of it.

He sighed, thinking of the stallion that needed to be readied. Mr. Havershim was looking for a racehorse of elegant breeding with the right musculature and temperament.

All of which Perseus had.

Well, all but perhaps the last one, Greyson thought. The horse was still half wild. No one had been able to get close enough. But he would, Greyson vowed. He would make sure of it.

Unfortunately, Greyson knew he wouldn't reach Claymore lands until the morrow. He had ridden as long as he dared, the fingers of dusk caressing the sky with purples and blues. Only fools rode alone and at night. It was asking to be robbed or worse.

Entering the Inn, he welcomed the warmed interior. It's proprietor, spying Greyson instantly, clambored over, his eyes taking in each article of Greyson's clothing. Like a buyer looking over a horse on the block, he imagined.

Proof that all of society was as civilized as those without its circle.

"My lord, I hope you have not been waiting long." Greyson shook his head in the negative, bringing an overbright smile to the proprietor, one Mr. Simon Mulberry. "Good. Good. Do you need to let a room for the night?"

It was a moment's wait for everything to be settled. Greyson was led to the common room. He inhaled the fresh scents of baking bread and roasted pheasant. The spices of garlic and cinnamon in the air. He groaned aloud at the pleasing aromas earning him a curious look by Mr. Mulberry.