Greetings, all! It’s Saturday and time for some Seductive Studs! I’ve decided to stay with The Greek Room this week.

We rejoin Christos, standing before the pale, ochre door of Dunbarton Hall:

Christos attempted to relax, but his heart raced while he waited. Surely someone was at home. He was reaching for the knocker when the door opened to reveal a tall young man in a cutaway coat and black tie who squinted into the sunlight.

Christos smiled what he hoped was a charming smile, “Good—“

“Tradesmen at the rear!” The footman sneered and shut the door.

Taken aback, Christos stared at the entrance. He removed his hat, ran a hand through his blond curls, and knocked again.

As soon as the portal cracked open, Christos spoke, “I am no tradesman! I have come a great distance to see Robert Evans!”

The same young man replied, “Lord Evans is not at home… for you!” Again the door slammed in his face.

Frustration and despair surged in his chest. He had no other options. No home to go back to, no connections, no references—other than the old letter in his pocket. Christos vented that misery and vexation on the knocker as if he were beating it through the very wood.

The door flew open. “Oi, mate! Bugger off! Ye’ haf’ no bidness ‘ere!” Anger contorted the footman’s face, and his accent belied his fancy dress.

Christos shoved his small valise across the threshold and dug in his breast pocket. Meeting the footman face to face, he waved a crumpled envelope at the servant. “I have a letter for Robert Evans! I must speak to him!”

Thanks for reading!

Be sure to check out more Studs & Sirens here.

‘Til next time!

Greetings, all! It’s Saturday and time for some Seductive Studs!

Today, I’m stepping away from Summer of History for a moment to share a clip from a short work in progress, titled The Greek Room. This is its opening:

Dunbarton Hall stood like a stone nipple atop the breast of Northumberland.

Belsay Castle, Belsay, Northumberland

The grey pile was a dog’s breakfast of architectural styles, which did nothing to make it less intimidating as Christos trudged up the long, dusty roadway. He’d walked from the train stop—the small shack along the North Eastern Railway line hardly qualified as a station, unlike the grandly vaulted building he’d left behind in Newcastle-upon-Tyne. After disembarking from the Son of Macedonia, he’d possessed just enough money for a one-way fare to Dunbarton.

The dusty road transitioned to a white, pea gravel circular yard the nearer Christos came to the hall. Terraces of grass and flowers interspersed with finely manicured bushes drew the eye toward the large, pale ochre front door. Christos brushed at the dust on his trousers and boots. It wouldn’t do to look too rough shod.

He’d stopped behind a hedge and changed to his better shirt before approaching the great house. He could only hope that no one looked too closely at his jacket and trousers—the mending was all that seemed to hold them together. He took a deep breath. Months of travel from Greece—made more difficult by the war with the Ottomans—were ending here on this porch. He had no more money. With a quick prayer he lifted the lion-headed knocker and let it fall.

Thanks for reading!

Be sure to check out more Studs here.

‘Til next time!