The Misfit Marquess Read Free Page A

the man would appear normal enough—except for his eyes.
    The man's eyes were penetratingly clear; they were colorless ... but, no, that wasn't true. In bright summer's light they were seen to be a very pale blue. However, in any other light they were the palest of greys, making the pupil stand out— some said like a black well that swallowed all light. In candlelight, all hint of softer color was gone from the irises, and one felt as if one stared at a kind of silver sheen, a hint of color that made one think of steel just below a layer of water. They were ghostly eyes—there was no better way to describe them. And there was no denying that when Lord Greyleigh leveled his gaze upon a person, it made that person want to look away in discomfort, as if the man held up a looking glass to one's very soul. Others less kind said it was like looking into a bottomless well, one that led straight to Hades, and who could blame them for turning away from such a view?
    Yet, despite the townspeople's inclination otherwise, it was not Lord Greyleigh's appearance that took the steel from Talbot Wallace's spine at the thought of asking Greyleigh to pay expenses. It was that the last few times Talbot had approached their village's grandest resident, Lord Greyleigh had icily denied his simple request. There had been something like frosty rage just underlying the calm tone Lord Greyleigh was usually so adept at maintaining, some boiling pot of emotion barely held in check that Talbot was loathe to disturb further. That rage had been out of all proportion to Talbot's request that Greyleigh cease employing itinerants for completing his pet tasks about the village and his own property.
    The request had been hardly unreasonable, given that two murders had occurred this year, and both of them had been suspected—if not proven—to have been executed by one of the wanderers whom Lord Greyleigh employed. A hiatus from the constant influx of strangers to their community, that was all the council had wanted—but Greyleigh had coldly replied he would hire whom he liked, and when, and the devil take the council.
    No one even dared to say aloud what all of them half feared—that the violence that had come into their little village was not from an outsider at all, but from within their own ranks. No one dared to voice the opinion that Lord Greyleigh, he of the white-blond mane of hair and the ghostly eyes, might have inherited a terrible sickness from his mama. Certainly there was no proof of such a thing—only fear and old rumors and an increasingly stern visage that Greyleigh displayed to the world. That is, when he bothered to be social at all.
    And now there was this terrible affair of a fire, and all these bodies to be buried, and records to be found if they hadn't burnt up.
    Greyleigh would certainly not lend one penny to rebuild the asylum, that was a certainty. He had long since made it clear that he wished the place closed and abandoned. It was well known that he had detested the structure ever since the tender age of eight or so, when he had visited his own poor deranged mama there. He would be glad, no doubt, to see the few remaining scorched walls torn down and never replaced, even though his mama was dead and buried these two months past.
    The asylum burning was a shame, say what you would, for not even a quarter of the patients had been in the "difficult-to-manage" wing. Most of them had been mild enough, certainly harmless even if they needed to be confined to keep them from wandering away.
    Truth is, the community would feel the loss of income the asylum had engendered, for there had been jobs to be had there, as warder, as keepers, as stable lads, and groundskeepers. Also, the asylum had provided custom, for the inmates had needed to be fed and clothed, however humbly. A lucky few had family who had called upon them occasionally, and those good people had brought coin to the local inns and taverns and craftspeople. Yes, the loss of