A top hat was placed upon the scant hair clinging to Mr. Griggs's skull. “I am merely acting as solicitor and cannot linger. The Baroness Iliffe is your tenant, sir...”
Dark brows drew tight, Mr. Harrow's response terse. “Yet the house is rented in your name, sir.”
“Her ladyship is an extremely private woman.” The skeletal man offered a warning. “Your reputation as a discreet gentleman of business and the fact this house is... difficult to let... are a good fit to her needs. She does not come to the country for socializing and has no interest in a reception from her neighbors. It is her desire her title remain unknown and she be left alone.”
“And, what of the Baron Iliffe?”
A toneless answer was offered. “Dead, three years past.”
A grieving widow confining herself to the countryside, the very idea was repugnant... though not as infuriating as the fact nobility thought to dupe him. “And when will this grand lady arrive to take possession of the house?”
After a condescending glance over the squalor of the room, it was apparent in Solicitor Griggs's estimation that the house stood ill-suited for imminent arrival. “Her ladyship does things in her own time.”
As Harrow made to argue, the solicitor left, offering little more than a stiff bow. Atop a sorrel mare the old man rode out over darkening moors, his stretching shadow moving like a boney finger towards the township of Harding.
Chapter 2
I t was not unusual for Gregory Harrow to drop into the Red Griffin. At the sight of his approaching horse, the innkeeper's lad rushed out to grab the bridle, the boy taking pains to keep his eyes downcast in the presence of the dismounting gentleman.
When he haunted the inn’s doorstep, Harrow came to gamble, to demand the payment of debts, and on occasion, to take one of the girls in the barn for a copper's worth of fun. Such behavior was standard fare, but that was not why the innkeeper's son remained skittish in the brute's presence—it was the memory of watching Mr. Harrow coldly maim a challenger beyond recognition.
He'd beaten his own cousin. His cousin had died. All over one damning word no soul dared to speak in Harrow's presence since.
Pulling the gloves from his hands, Harrow scanned the torch lit yard. There was one he was looking for, a sack of bones that might actually prove useful. When Gregory found the crouched village scamp gnawing something under the shelter of the gate, he shouted, “Boy!”
Calf-eyes in a too thin face snapped up from a heel of burned bread. The beggar froze, visibly swallowing, clutching hard to his meal as he shrank back.
Chin to his chest, Harrow grinned at the ragged castoff. “Have you seen a woman with red hair? A stranger on a black horse?”
“N-n-nooo, sir,” the youth tripped over the words.
“And when you pilfered that bread—?”
Standing, the boy defended himself, emboldened enough that he didn't stutter. “I bought this bread. Ask the innkeeper if you donna believe me.”
“With stolen coin...” A snort and Harrow pressed, “Did you hear what the kitchen flits gossiped about when you purchased your bread?”
Defiance snuffed out, Hugh muttered, “No. They t-to-took three coin for the loaf. Made me eat out here.”
“Three coin for one loaf of burnt bread?” A snide sneer came to Harrow's lips, dark eyes darting towards the open door of the inn. “For that price you should have your feet up next to the fire.” Wicked, he ordered, “Get your bones inside then.”
Shaking his head, Hugh pulled his lower lip into his mouth, recalling the split lip the innkeeper had given him last time he'd come too close in search of warmth.
False amusement drained from the towering gentleman. “Do as I say, boy.”
It was not an act of kindness. Harrow had no interest in the boy's welfare, and the youth well-knew it. He only wanted to use him to bait the innkeeper for sport, or laugh while one of the others thumped him.
Quick as a flash, the beggar turned, the precious heel of bread held tightly to his chest as he scrambled off.
Goading fools had always been good for a chuckle. Grinning, Harrow pushed through the door of the Red Griffin and waited to be noticed.
Laborers sat with their kind and the gentlemen with theirs. Between them was the buffer of landowners and the more prosperous farmers. Society knew their place, but as drink flowed the boundaries would blur, especially once the hour grew late and serious gambling began. There would be talk of the inn’s guests, rumors Harrow might glean about Solicitor Griggs—who must be snoring upstairs, as he was not at the gaming tables or drinking by the fire. If Harrow was lucky, there might even be a scarlet-haired Imp moving through the crowd trying to pocket coins the scrawny orphan outside lacked the stones to take.
The inn’s best seat was given up once the man warming it saw who approached. Harrow lowered himself into the worn leather chair near the fire. Soon enough a tankard was put in his hand. As he scanned the sorry crowd, several neighbors nodded a polite hello, a few scampering away before a debt might be called upon. Time ticked on, but no flash of shabby grey or twist of blood-red hair caught the light.
The Imp was not there.
But something almost as entertaining was. Indolent, Harrow watched one of the few men foolish enough to still speak ill of him brag mightily over the sum he'd made off his crop that very morning.