Princes Trilogy: The Leopard Prince Part 4

"Were you able to see Lady Georgina?" Thomas had taken a bite of the beef and was chewing it as if he held dung in his mouth.

"Oh, aye, I saw the arrogant b.i.t.c.h. Saw her in the library at Woldsly. And Harry Pye, d.a.m.n his green eyes." He reached for a roll.

Thomas stopped chewing. "Harry Pye? The same Harry Pye who used to live here? Not a different man with the same name? Her steward, I mean."

"Aye her steward." Silas's voice rose on the last word to a mincing falsetto. His son flushed again. "It's not like I'm apt to forget those green eyes any time soon."

"I suppose not."

Silas looked hard at his son, his eyes narrowed.

"You'll have him arrested?" Thomas spoke quickly, one shoulder up.

"As to that, I've run into a slight problem." Silas curled his upper lip. "Seems Lady Georgina doesn't want her steward arrested, stupid wench." He took another swig of ale. "Doesn't think the evidence is d.a.m.ning enough. Probably doesn't care one way or the other about dead livestock- my dead livestock-seeing as she's from London."

"The carved figurine didn't convince her?"

"No, it did not." Silas picked a bit of gristle from between his front teeth. "Ridiculous to let a woman have that much land, anyway. What's she want it for? Probably cares more for gloves and the latest dance in London than she does for her estate. The old woman should have left it to a man. Or made her get married so she'd have a husband to run it."

"Perhaps . . ." Thomas hesitated. "Perhaps I could talk to her?"

"You?" Silas flung back his head and laughed until he began to choke. Tears appeared in his eyes, and he had to take a drink.

Thomas was silent on the other side of the table.

Silas wiped his eyes. "It's not as if you have a way with the ladies, now, is it, Tommy, my boy? Not like your brother, Bennet. That lad had his first cream jug while still in the schoolroom."

Thomas's head was bowed. His shoulders twitched up and down.

"Have you ever even bedded a wench?" Silas asked softly. Slyly. "Ever felt soft, fat t.i.tties? Ever smelled the fishy odor of eager t.w.a.t?" He leaned back, balancing his chair on two legs, and watched his son. "Ever plunged your pud into a willing woman and f.u.c.ked her until she screamed?"

Thomas jerked. His fork slid off the table and rattled onto the floor.

Silas sat forward. The front legs of his chair came down with a thump. "I thought not."

Thomas stood so suddenly his chair crashed over. "Bennet isn't here, is he? And not likely to be here anytime soon."

Silas pursed his lips at that.

"I'm your oldest son. This will be my land someday. Let me try to talk to Lady Georgina."

"Why?" Silas c.o.c.ked his head.

"You can go there and take Pye by force," Thomas said. "But it isn't likely to endear her to us. And while she's our neighbor, it behooves us to remain on good terms. He's only her steward. I can't believe she'd start a feud over the man."

"Aye. Well, I don't suppose you can make it any worse." Silas drained his ale and banged down his cup. "I'll give you a couple of days to try and talk sense into the woman."

"Thank you, Father."

Silas ignored his son's grat.i.tude. "And when you fail, I'll break down the doors of Woldsly if I have to and drag Harry Pye out by his neck."

HARRY s.h.i.+VERED AS HE GUIDED the bay mare up the track leading to his cottage. In his rush to question the Granville farmers this morning, he hadn't bothered to take a cloak. Now it was well after sundown, and the fall nights were chilly. Overhead, the leaves in the trees rattled in the wind.

He should've waited and let Lady Georgina say whatever she was going to say this morning. But the realization that someone was actively trying to implicate him in the sheep killings had spurred him from the room. What was happening? There had been vicious rumors for weeks that he was the killer. Gossip that had started almost from the moment the first dead sheep had been found a month ago. But Harry had brushed aside talk. A man couldn't be arrested for talk. Evidence was a different matter.His cottage stood off the main drive to Woldsly Manor, built, G.o.d only knew why, in a little copse. Across the drive was the gatekeeper's cottage, a much bigger building. He could have turned the gatekeeper out and taken possession of the larger house when he had first came to Woldsly. A steward, after all, was higher in status than a mere gatekeeper. But the man had a wife and family, and, the smaller cottage was farther back from the drive and hidden in the trees. It had more privacy. And he was a man who treasured his privacy.

He swung down from the mare and led her to the tiny lean-to against the back of the cottage. Harry lit the lantern hanging inside the door and took off the horse's saddle and bridle. Weariness of body and spirit dragged at his limbs. But he carefully rubbed down the mare, watered her, and gave her an extra scoop of oats. His father had drummed into him at an early age the importance of taking care of one's animals.

With a final pat for the already dozing mare, he picked up the lantern and left the stable. He walked around the cottage on the well-worn path toward the door. As he neared the front door, his step faltered. A light flickered through his cottage window.

Harry put out his lantern. He backed into the underbrush beside the path and hunkered down to think. From the size of the light, it looked to be a single candle. It didn't move, so it probably stood on a table inside. Maybe Mrs. Burns had left the candle burning for him. The gatekeeper's wife sometimes came to clean and leave him a meal. But Mrs. Burns was a thrifty woman, and Harry doubted she would waste a candle-even a tallow candle like the ones he used-on an empty cottage.

Someone waited for him inside.

And wouldn't that be a surprise after arguing with Granville this morning? If they meant to jump him, surely they would've taken care to wait in darkness? After all, he hadn't suspected anything until he'd seen the light. Had his cottage been dark, he'd have gamboled up, as trusting as a newborn lamb. Harry gave a soft snort. So. They- whoever they were-were very a.s.sured, waiting for him in his own home. They figured that even with the light showing so plainly from his windows, he'd be stupid or brash enough to walk right in.

And maybe they were right.

Harry set the lantern down, took the knife from his boot, and rose silently from his crouch. He stole to the cottage wall. His left hand held the knife by his thigh. Quietly he skimmed along the stone wall until he was at the door. He grasped the door handle and pressed the latch slowly. He took a breath and flung open the door.

"Mr. Pye, I had begun to think you would never come home." Lady Georgina knelt by his fireplace, looking quite unperturbed by his sudden entrance. "I'm afraid I'm hopeless at lighting fires, otherwise I would've made some tea." She rose and dusted off her knees.

"My lady." He bent and brushed his left hand over the top of his boot, sheathing the knife. "Naturally I'm honored to have your company, but I'm also surprised. What are you doing in my cottage?" He shut the door behind him and walked to the fireplace, picking up the burning candle on the way.

She stepped aside as he crouched by the hearth. "I fear I detect some sarcasm in your tone."

"Do you?"

"Mmm. And I am at a loss to understand why. After all, it was you who walked away from me this morning."

The lady was peeved.

Harry's lips curved as he lit the already laid fire. "I apologize most humbly, my lady."

"Humph. A less humble man I have yet to meet." From the sound of her voice, she was wandering the room behind him.

What did she see? What did this little cottage look like to her? In his mind's eye, he reviewed the inside of his cottage: a wooden table and chairs, well made but hardly the cus.h.i.+oned luxury of the manor's sitting rooms. A desk where he kept the record books and ledgers of his job. A set of shelves with some coa.r.s.e pottery dishes-two plates, two cups, a bowl, a teapot, forks and spoons, and an iron cooking pot. A door off to one side that was no doubt open, so she could see his narrow bed, the hooks that held his clothes, and the dresser with the earthenware washbasin and pitcher.

He stood and turned.

Lady Georgina was peering into his bedroom.

He sighed silently and walked to the table. On it sat a crock covered with a plate. He lifted the plate and looked inside the pot. Mutton stew left by Mrs. Burns, cold now, but welcome nonetheless.

He went back to the hearth to fill the iron kettle with water and swing it over the fire. "Do you mind if I eat, my lady? I haven't had my supper yet."

She turned and stared at him as though her mind has been elsewhere. "Please. Do go ahead. I wouldn't want you to accuse me of withholding food."

Harry sat at the table and spooned some of the stew onto a plate. Lady Georgina came and looked curiously at his supper and then moved to the fireplace.

He watched her as he ate.

She examined the animal carvings lining his mantel. "Did you make all these?" She gestured to a squirrel with a nut between its paws and glanced back at him.

"Yes."

"That's how Lord Granville knew you'd made the hedgehog. He'd seen your work before."

"Yes."

"But he hadn't seen you, at least not for a very long time." She pivoted fully to look at him.

A lifetime. Harry served himself some more stew. "No."

"So he hadn't seen your figurines for a very long time, either? In fact, not since you were a boy." She frowned, fingering the squirrel. "Because I don't care what Lord Granville says, twelve years old is still just a boy."

"Maybe." The kettle started steaming. Harry got up, took down the brown teapot from his cupboard, and put in four spoonfuls of tea. He grabbed a cloth to lift the kettle from the fire. Lady Georgina moved aside and watched as he poured the boiling water.

"Maybe what?" She knit her brow. "Which question were you really answering?"

Harry set the teapot on the table and looked over his shoulder at her. "Which were you really asking?" He sat down again. "My lady."

She blinked and seemed to consider. Then she replaced the squirrel and crossed to the shelves. She picked up the two cups and a packet of sugar and brought them back to the table. She sat down across from him and poured the tea.

Harry stilled.

Lady Georgina was fixing him his tea, in his own house, at his own table, just like a country woman would, tending to her man after he'd had a hard day of work. It didn't feel at all like this morning in her sitting room. Right now it felt wifely. Which was a daft thought because she was the daughter of an earl. Only she didn't look like a lady at the moment. Not when she was adding sugar to his cup and stirring it in for him. All she looked like was a woman-a very desirable woman.

d.a.m.n. Harry tried to will his c.o.c.k back down, but that part of his body had never listened to reason. He tasted the tea and grimaced. Did other men get c.o.c.kstands over a cup of tea?

"Too much sugar?" She looked worriedly at his cup.

The tea was rather sweet for his taste, but he wasn't about to say that. "It's fine, my lady. Thank you for pouring."

"You're welcome." She took a sip of her own tea. "Now, as to what I'm really asking. How exactly did you know Lord Granville in the past?"

Harry closed his eyes. He was too weary for this. "Does it matter, my lady? You'll be letting me go soon enough, anyway."

"Whatever gave you that idea?" Lady Georgina frowned. Then she caught his look. "You don't think that I believe you murdered those sheep, do you?" Her eyes widened. "You do."

She put her cup back on the table with a sharp click. Some of the tea sloshed over the edge. "I know that I don't always seem very serious, but please acquit me of being a complete nincomp.o.o.p." She scowled at him as she stood, arms akimbo like a red-haired Boadicea. All she needed was a sword and chariot.

"Harry Pye, you no more poisoned those sheep than I did!"

Chapter Four.

As grand gestures went, it rather flopped.

Mr. Pye quirked a single eyebrow upward. "Since it boggles the mind," he said in that awful, dry tone, "that you, my lady, would ever poison livestock, I must be innocent.""Humph." Gathering her dignity about her, George marched to the fireplace and pretended interest in the figurines again. "You haven't yet answered my question. Don't think I didn't notice."

Normally this would be the point where she'd say something flippant and silly, but somehow she just couldn't with him. It was hard to put away the mask, but she didn't want to play the ninny with him. She wanted him to think better of her.

He looked so tired; the lines around his mouth had deepened and his hair was windblown. What had he been doing all afternoon to make him so exhausted? She hadn't missed the way he'd entered the cottage, suddenly and in a crouch, his green eyes defiant. He'd reminded her of a cornered feral cat. But then he'd straightened and shoved something in his boot and was once again her phlegmatic steward. She might have imagined the violence she'd seen in his eyes, but she didn't think so.

Harry Pye sighed and pushed away his plate. "My father's name was John Pye. He was Silas Granville's gamekeeper when I was a boy. We lived on Granville land, and I grew up there."

"Really?" George turned to him. "How did you go from being a gamekeeper's son to a land steward?"

He stiffened. "You have my references, my lady. I a.s.sure you-"

"No, no." She shook her head impatiently. "I wasn't maligning your credentials. I'm just curious. You must admit it's a bit of a leap. How did you do it?"

"Hard work, my lady." His shoulders were still bunched.

George raised her eyebrows and waited.

"I got work as a gamekeeper on a big estate when I was sixteen. The land steward there discovered I could read and write and do sums. He took me on as sort of an apprentice. When a position on a smaller, neighboring estate became open, he recommended me." He shrugged. "From there I worked my way up."

She tapped her fingers against the mantelpiece. There had to be more to the story than that. Few men of Mr. Pye's age managed estates as large as hers, and how had he gotten an education, anyway? But that matter could wait until later. She had more pressing questions at the moment. She picked up a rabbit and rubbed its smooth back.

"What happened when you were twelve?"

"My father had a falling out with Granville," Mr. Pye said.

"A falling out?" George replaced the rabbit and chose an otter. Dozens of the little wood carvings crowded the mantelpiece, each in exquisite detail. Most were of wild animals, although she spied a shepherd's dog. They fascinated her. What kind of a man would carve such things? "Lord Granville said your father tried to kill him. That sounds like much more than a falling out."

"Da struck him. Merely that." He spoke slowly, as if choosing his words with care. "I sincerely doubt he meant to kill Granville."

"Why?" She placed the otter next to the rabbit and made a little circle with a turtle and a shrew. "Why did he attack his employer and lord?"

Silence.

George waited, but he didn't answer. She touched a stag, standing on three legs, the fourth lifted as if to flee. "And you? Did you mean to kill Lord Granville at the age of twelve?"

The silence stretched again, but finally Harry Pye spoke. "Yes."

She let her breath out slowly. A commoner, child or not, could be hung for trying to kill a peer. "What did Lord Granville do?"

"He had my father and me horsewhipped."

The words fell into the stillness like pebbles into a pond. Emotionless. Simple. They belied the violence a horsewhipping would do to a young boy's body. To his soul.

George closed her eyes. Oh, dear Lord. Don't think of it. It's in the past. Deal with the present. "So you do have a motive for killing the sheep on Lord Granville's land." She opened her eyes and focused on a badger.