The Leopard Prince (Princes #2)

The Leopard Prince (Princes #2) Page 17

“Oh, Tommy, my lad.” Silas took a gulp of the whiskey and winked. “Who says evidence can’t be made?”

“THAT WILL BE ALL. You may have the rest of the night off.” George smiled in what she hoped was a casual manner. As if she always dismissed Tiggle before supper.

Apparently it didn’t work.

“All, my lady?” The maid straightened from putting away a stack of linens. “What do you mean? You’ll be undressing later, surely?”

“Yes, of course.” She felt her face heat. “But I thought I’d manage it myself tonight.”

Tiggle stared.

George nodded confidently. “I’m sure I’ll be able. So you may go.”

“What are you up to, my lady?” Tiggle placed her hands on her hips.

This was the problem with having the same servants for years on end. One didn’t inspire the proper awe.

“I’m having a guest to dinner.” She waved a hand airily. “I just thought you wouldn’t want to wait for me.”

“It’s my job to wait for you,” Tiggle said suspiciously. “Has Lady Violet’s maid had the night off as well?”

“Actually”—George ran a fingertip along her dresser—“it’s a very private dinner. Violet won’t be attending.”

“Won’t be—”

The maid’s exclamation was interrupted by a knock on the door. Darn! She’d hoped to have Tiggle out of the way by now.

George opened the door. “In my sitting room, please,” she told the footmen outside.

“My lady,” Tiggle hissed as George passed her on the way to the connecting door.

George ignored her and opened the door. In the sitting room, the footmen were busy rearranging the furniture and setting up the table they’d had to bring in. A fire was flickering in the grate.

“What…?” Tiggle dogged George into the sitting room but immediately quieted in the presence of the other servants.

“Is this how you want it, my lady?” one of the footmen asked.

“Yes, that will do nicely. Now, be sure and alert Cook when Mr. Pye arrives. We’ll want supper promptly.”

The footmen bowed out, which, unfortunately, freed the lady’s maid from her self-imposed silence.

“You’re having Mr. Pye to dinner?” Tiggle sounded scandalized. “All alone?”

George tilted her chin in the air. “Yes, I am.”

“Oh, my Lord, why didn’t you tell me, my lady?” Tiggle abruptly turned and ran back into the bedroom.

George stared after her.

The maid’s head popped around the door frame, and she beckoned urgently. “Hurry, my lady! There’s not much time.”

Feeling like she’d been goosed, George followed her into the bedroom.

Tiggle was already at the vanity table, rummaging through bottles. She held up a small glass vial as George neared. “This’ll do. Exotic, but not overwhelming.” She snatched the fichu from around her mistress’s neck.

“What are you—” George raised her hands to her suddenly bare décolletage.

The maid batted her hands away. She removed the bottle’s glass stopper and stroked it down George’s neck and between her breasts. The scent of sandalwood and jasmine hovered in the air.

Tiggle recapped the bottle and stepped back to look at her assessingly. “I think the garnet drops instead.”

George obediently searched through her jewelry box.

From behind her Tiggle sighed. “It’s a pity I haven’t time to redo your hair, my lady.”

“It was fine a moment ago.” George squinted into the mirror as she replaced her earrings.

“A moment ago I didn’t know you were meeting a gentleman.”

George straightened and turned.

Tiggle knit her brows as she inspected her.

George ran a hand self-consciously across her green velvet gown. A row of black bows marched down the bodice, echoed at the elbows. “Will I do?”

“Yes.” Tiggle nodded firmly. “Yes, my lady, I think you’ll do.” She walked swiftly to the door.

“Tiggle,” George called.

“My lady?”

“Thank you.”

Tiggle actually blushed. “Good luck, my lady.” She grinned and disappeared.

George strolled back into the sitting room and shut the door to her bedroom. She sat down in one of the armchairs by the fire and immediately jumped up; then she crossed to the mantel and inspected the clock sitting upon it. Five minutes after seven o’clock. Perhaps he didn’t have a timepiece? Or maybe he was just a habitually late man? Or perhaps he didn’t intend to come—

Someone knocked at the door.

George froze and stared at it. “Come in.”

Harry Pye opened the door. He hesitated, watching her with the door still ajar behind him.

“Won’t you come in?”

He walked in but left the door open. “Good evening, my lady.” He was at his most indecipherable.

George started babbling. “I thought we might have a quiet dinner to discuss the poisoning and the attack and what we might want to do—”

Footmen appeared at the door—thank goodness!—and started laying the table. Behind came more servants, bearing covered dishes and wine. There was a flurry of activity. She and Harry watched silently as the servants arranged the meal. Finally, most of the servants departed, leaving only one footman to serve dinner. That correct gentleman held the chairs, first for George and then for Harry. They sat and he began ladling the soup.

The room was deathly silent.

George looked from the footman to Harry. “I think we’ll manage, thank you.”

The footman bowed and left.

And they were alone. George peeked at Harry, who was frowning down at his soup. He didn’t care for consommé?

She broke her roll, a thunderclap in the quiet. “I hope you didn’t catch a chill from the stream this afternoon?”

Harry lifted his spoon. “No, my lady.”

“Because the stream looked extremely cold.”

“I am fine, my lady. Thank you.”

“Good. Well… that’s good.” George chewed and furiously tried to think of something to say. Her mind was a complete blank.

Harry suddenly set his spoon down. “Why did you call me here tonight?”

“I just said—”

“You wanted to talk about the poisoning and the attack, yes, I know.” Harry rose from the table. “But your breasts are all but naked, and you’ve sent the servants away. The other servants. Why do you really want me here?” He stood almost menacingly, his jaw bunched, his hands fisted.

“I…” George’s heart quickened. Her nipples had tightened the moment he said breasts.

His eyes flickered down, and she wondered if he knew.

“Because I’m not what you think I am,” Harry said evenly as he advanced around the table toward her. “I’m not a servant to jump to your bidding and then lie down when you’ve done with me.” His voice was deepening. “I’m not someone you can dismiss like those footmen, like everyone else in this manor. I’m a man with blood in his veins. If you start something with me, don’t expect me to turn into a lapdog, panting at your call.” Harry seized her upper arms and drew her against his hard body. “Don’t expect me to be your servant.”

George blinked. The idea of confusing this man, who fairly crackled with danger, with a lapdog was absurd.

He drew a finger slowly across the edge of her bodice, watching her reaction. “What do you want with me, my lady?”

Her breasts seemed to swell. “I…” She couldn’t think while he touched her; she didn’t know what to say. What did he need to hear? George looked around the room for help but saw only the piles of food and dishes. “I’m not sure, really. I don’t have any experience in this.”

He dipped two fingers below her bodice and brushed her nipple. She shuddered. Oh, my. Harry pinched the nipple, sending sparks all the way to her most private places. George closed her eyes.

She felt his breath caress her cheek. “When you figure it out, my lady, let me know.”

He closed the door quietly behind him.

Chapter Nine

Bennet walked into the Cock and Worm at just after midnight that evening. The tavern was crowded and loud at that hour, the smoke from innumerable pipes hovering in a cloud near the ceiling. Harry sat in a dark corner and watched young Mr. Granville move with the overly cautious gait of a man who was already the worse for drink. Walking into a disreputable place like the Cock and Worm with one’s senses impaired wasn’t a particularly bright thing to do, but that wasn’t Harry’s worry. An aristocrat gambling with his own safety wasn’t his business—now or ever.

Harry took a pull from his mug and switched his gaze to the two local harlots drumming up trade. The younger of the wenches, a blonde, sat on a ruddy-faced man’s lap. Her titties were right under his chin—as if she was worried he was near-sighted. The man’s eyes were glazed, and the harlot made stealthy movements at the front of his trousers. It wouldn’t be long before the two came to an understanding.

The second harlot, a red-haired wench, caught his gaze and tossed her head. She’d already tried her charms with him, and he’d sent her away. Of course, if he flashed a purse now, she’d be smiling soon enough. The more ale he drank, the more he began to rethink turning the redhead down. He’d been randy for days now, and the object of his bone-on, despite her offer, wasn’t likely to help him now, was she?

Harry scowled into his ale. What had she been after, his Lady Georgina, when she invited him to her private rooms? Not what he’d wanted to think, that’s for sure. The lady was a virgin, and the first rule of aristocratic maidens was Guard well thy virginity. Don’t, whatever you do, go handing it out to the hired help. The lady had been looking for the thrill of a stolen kiss or two. He was forbidden fruit to her. Good thing he’d resisted her blandishments. Few men he knew could’ve done so. He nodded and drank to his own wisdom.

But then he remembered how she’d looked earlier that night. Her eyes had been so blue and so unwary, belying the temptation of her low neckline. Her breasts had seemed to glow in the firelight. The thought of her even now made his too-alert prick come to attention. He frowned, disgusted at his own weakness. Actually, none of the men he knew—

Crash!

Harry jerked around.

Young Mr. Granville slid across a table, headfirst, knocking ale-filled glasses to the floor. Each glass detonated with a small, wet explosion upon impact with the floor.

Harry took another swig from his mug. This wasn’t his worry.

The men at the table weren’t pleased. One fellow with hands the size of hams hauled Bennet upright by his shirtfront. Bennet flailed at the other man, catching him a blow to the side of the head.

Not his worry.

Two other men grabbed Bennet’s wrists, jerking them behind him. The man in front buried his fist in Bennet’s belly. Bennet doubled over. He tried to kick, but he was heaving bile from the blow to the stomach. His feet missed his attacker by miles. Behind them, a tall woman threw back her head and laughed drunkenly. She looked familiar, wasn’t she…? The big man drew back his fist again in preparation.

Not his worry. Not his… oh, the hell with it.

Harry stood and drew the knife from his boot in one movement. No one was paying any attention to him and he was on the man about to hit Bennet before anyone noticed him. From this angle, a quick stab to the side followed by a twist of the wrist would kill the man before he even fell. But death wasn’t what Harry was after. He sliced the man’s face open instead. Blood gushed, blinding the man. He bellowed and dropped Bennet. Harry slashed one of the men holding Bennet’s wrists, then waved his blade in front of the second man’s eyes.