Hoofbeats

Contents Title Page Copyright More by Val Saintcrowe Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-one Chapter Twenty-two Chapter Twenty-three Chapter Twenty-four Chapter Twenty-five Chapter Twenty-six Chapter Twenty-seven Chapter Twenty-eight HOOFBEATS a monster romance Val Saintcrowe HOOFBEATS © copyright 2023 by Val Saintcrowe http://vjchambers.com Punk Rawk Books More romantic fantasy by Val Saintcrowe The Realm of the Living Flame The Clash and the Heat trilogy The Beast of the Barrens The Ryzmn Job duology The Realm of Vostria and Emmessia The Rise of the Death Fae Series Fear, Fae, and Foes trilogy (forthcoming) The Nightmare Court trilogy The Red Echoes Duet Gaslamp Monster Romances Fireseed Hoofbeats — Join my email list and get very bad men delivered to your inbox the minute I publish them. Join here. CHAPTER ONE FOR MONTHS, ALL anyone who was anyone could talk about was the new house being built on Tralgam Square, which took up practically an entire city block. It was indeed quite the tidbit of gossip, for I heard about it, and no one talked to me, at least not anymore. I saw the house, of course. I could not help but be curious about it. My maid Janet and I would press our faces against the glass of the windows of my family’s carriage every time we went past it, noting the progress as the weeks ticked on and on, watching as it went from framing to walls to the roof going on. During all that time, all that anyone knew about the house was that it had been commissioned by a certain gentleman named Granville, and that he had spared positively no expense in having it built. Little was known about Mr. Granville. Only that he had made his fortune in the import of teas and spices, that he owned a great number of ships that went to the far east for such things, and that he was not, so far as anyone knew, married. During dinner, the house and Mr. Granville became a subject of conversation that my brother and I could converse about, which was a welcome change, because my brother and I found little to say to each other normally. The truth was, no matter how it was that my brother thought to excuse himself, I blamed him for my plight. I saw no one else who was quite responsible for it, after all. He, being the sort that he was, blamed me. Years ago, when he first spoke to me about my being ruined, he bandied about all sorts of insults for me, using words that I had hitherto only barely heard, for they were not to be spoken in front of ladies, not daughters of earls as I was. Of course, these days, I was hardly considered a lady anymore anyway. It didn’t matter what he called me, even if it was most offensive and horrid. Then again, he didn’t say these words or insults so much anymore, it was true. No, anymore, we did not speak overmuch. So, Mr. Granville, his truly colossal house, all of that, it was welcome. It brought some livelihood to our dinners again, as we speculated on who he might be and what he might be like. “He has, it’s said, a membership at Brakestills,” said my brother idly. Brakestills was my brother’s gentlemen’s club, where he spent a great deal of his time. “Oh, truly?” I said. “Well, it seems they’ll let anyone in these days.” My brother chuckled. “My thoughts exactly. I am quite scandalized by it. However, I suppose he has paid for it through the nose. I think he has made an endowment, in fact. Enough to fix the Brakestills roof.” “Well, then,” I said. We had repaired our roof recently, and it was for that reason I had not been able to afford new clothing and was instead wearing patched dresses—not that it mattered. No one ever saw me except Janet and my brother and the other servants. “I suppose they must do what they must. Roofs are necessary.” “Yes, but no one will ever speak to him,” said my brother. “Certainly not,” I said. Of course, we had no intention of ever associating with a man like Mr. Granville. Mr. Granville was not titled and he was not our sort of people. He was an upstart. He had new money he’d gotten from trade. He was a curiosity, but he would never be our equal. So, there was no real talk of ever welcoming him into our society or being welcomed into his. Then one night, my brother said, “I suppose that if his money is good enough for Brakestills, it may also be good enough for us.” “For us?” I said. “I don’t know what you mean. How would we have any of his money?” “I am thinking of proposing a business arrangement, of course,” said my brother. “I could discuss all of it with him at the club. I wouldn’t need to go to his home or anything.” “Well, you wouldn’t need to,” I said. “But one does wonder what it’s like in there.” “One does,” agreed my brother. “Perhaps, if it was necessary, I might venture inside. I doubt it would be necessary, though. A man like Granville, some upstart idiot, would be easily tricked into parting with a great sum of money, I think. Don’t you?” My brother and I had long been titled and practically penniless. My brother had sold what properties he could to fund our lifestyle, but this house in town and one estate in the country were entailed and could not be jettisoned. We did get some income from rents on that country estate, and it was enough to feed us and keep our servants and that sort of thing. It