The Leopard Prince (Princes #2)

The Leopard Prince (Princes #2) Page 8

“No, my lady.” He sauntered back to the table, the firelight illuminating one side of his face and throwing the other half into darkness. His lips curved. Did he think her funny?

“Where did you go this morning?” she asked.

“I went to question the farmers who found the dead sheep and my carving.” He stopped only a foot away from her.

She could feel the warmth of his chest not quite touching hers. Was he staring at her mouth?

He was. “I wondered if one of them had left the hedgehog. But they were men I didn’t know, and they seemed honest enough.”

“I see.” Her throat was dry. She swallowed. He was her steward, for goodness sake. What she was feeling wasn’t at all proper. “Well.” George folded the towel and put it away on the shelf. “We shall just have to do some more research tomorrow.”

“We, my lady?”

“Yes. I shall accompany you.”

“Just this morning Lord Granville threatened you.” Harry Pye wasn’t looking at her mouth anymore. In fact, he was frowning into her eyes.

George felt a twinge of disappointment. “You’ll need my help.”

“I’ve no need of your help, my lady. You shouldn’t be gadding about the countryside while…” He trailed off as a thought struck him. “How did you come to my cottage?”

Oops. “I walked?”

“You… It’s over a mile from here to Woldsly!” Mr. Pye stopped and breathed heavily in that way some men do when a female says something particularly foolish.

“Walking is good exercise,” George explained kindly. “Besides, I was on my own land.”

“Nevertheless, would you please promise me not to go strolling about on your own, my lady?” His lips tightened. “Until this is over with?”

“Very well, I promise to not go out alone.” George smiled. “And in return, you can promise to take me on your investigations.”

Harry Pye’s eyes narrowed.

George drew herself up straight. “After all, I am your employer, Mr. Pye.”

“Fine, my lady. I’ll take you with me.”

Not the most gracious acquiescence, but it would do.

“Good. We can start in the morning.” George swung her cloak around her shoulders. “About nine, I think? We’ll take my gig.”

“As you wish, my lady.” Mr. Pye advanced ahead of her to the cottage door. “I’ll walk you back to Woldsly.”

“No need. I asked that the carriage be brought round at nine. It should be here by now.”

And indeed, when Mr. Pye swung wide the door, a footman was waiting discreetly by the path. Her steward eyed the man. He must have approved, for he nodded. “Good night, my lady.”

“Until tomorrow morning.” George drew the hood up over her hair. “Good night.”

She walked to the footman and then glanced over her shoulder. Harry Pye stood in his doorway, silhouetted by the firelight behind him.

She couldn’t read his expression.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING up so early?” Violet stared at her sister, already dressed and hurrying down the stairs at—she stepped backward into her room to check the clock—eight in the morning.

“Oh, hullo, dear.” George did a little half-whirl on the stairs, peering up at her. “I’m just, uh, going for a drive.”

“Going for a drive,” Violet repeated. “By yourself? At eight in the morning?”

George tilted her chin, but her cheeks were turning pink. “Mr. Pye will accompany me. He wishes to show me some things around the estate. Tenants and walls and crops and such, I suppose. Terribly boring, but necessary.”

“Mr. Pye! But, George, you can’t go out alone with him.”

“Why not? He is my land steward, after all. It’s his job to keep me informed about estate matters.”

“But—”

“I really must go, dear. The man is apt to take off without me if I’m late.” And with that, George all but ran down the stairs.

Violet followed more slowly, her brow knit in thought. What was George about? She couldn’t still trust the land steward, could she? Not after the accusations she’d heard, not after Lord Granville had stormed the manor yesterday? Perhaps her sister was trying to find out more about Mr. Pye on her own. But in that case, why had she blushed?

Violet nodded to the footmen as she entered the morning room where breakfast was served. She had the gold and pale blue room to herself—Euphie never rose before nine in the morning, even in the country. She went to the sideboard and helped herself to a bun and a slice of gammon, and then sat down at the pretty gilt table. Only then did she notice the letter by her plate. The handwriting was distinctively slanted backward.

“When did this arrive?” She took a too-quick sip of tea and burned her mouth.

“This morning, my lady,” one of the footmen murmured.

It was a silly question, and she wouldn’t have asked it, but she’d been stalling before opening the letter. She picked it up and turned it over to pry up the seal with a butter knife. She took a deep breath before unfolding the paper and then had trouble releasing it. It was important she not show her emotions before the servants, but it was difficult. Her worst fears had been realized. She’d had two months of respite, but now that was over.

He’d found her.

ONE OF THE PROBLEMS WITH WOMEN—and there are many—is they think nothing of messing about in a man’s business. Harry Pye remembered Da’s words when he saw Lady Georgina’s carriage the next morning at eight-thirty.

She wasn’t taking any chances, his lady. She’d driven the old gig to the part of Woldsly drive that intersected the cutoff to his cottage. There was no way he could escape the estate without her seeing him. And she was a half hour earlier than their agreed-upon meeting time of nine o’clock. It was almost as if she’d feared he would try to leave without her. And since he’d planned exactly that, her appearance was all the more annoying.

“Good morning.” Lady Georgina waved happily.

She was wearing some sort of red-and-white-patterned frock that should have jarred with her ginger hair but didn’t. On her head was a wide-brimmed hat tilted rakishly down in front and up in back where her hair was massed. Red ribbons on the crown of the hat fluttered in the breeze. She looked dainty and aristocratic, like she was out for a picnic in the country.

“I’ve had Cook pack a luncheon,” she called as he neared, confirming his worst fears.

Harry stopped himself in time from casting his eyes heavenward. God help me. “Good morning, my lady.”

It was another dreary, gray day. No doubt they would be rained on before the morning was out.

“Would you like to drive?” She scooted across the seat to make room for him.

“If you don’t mind, my lady.” He climbed in, making the gig rock on its oversized wheels.

“Oh, no, I don’t mind at all.” He could feel her gaze as he gathered the reins. “I can drive, naturally; it’s how I arrived here this morning, after all. But I find it’s much nicer to watch the scenery without worrying about the horses and the road and all that.”

“Indeed.”

Lady Georgina sat forward, her cheeks flushed with the wind. Her lips were slightly parted like a child looking forward to a treat. He felt a smile form on his own lips.

“Where will we be going today?” she asked.

He brought his eyes back to the road. “I want to visit another of the farmers whose sheep were killed. I need to find out what exactly killed the animals.”

“Wasn’t it a poisonous weed?”

“Yes,” he replied. “But no one I’ve talked to seems to know what kind, and it could be several. Wolfsbane is poisonous, though rare in these parts. Some folk grow belladonna and foxglove in their gardens—both can kill sheep and people as well. And there are common plants, such as tansy, that grow wild in pastures and will kill sheep if they eat enough.”

“I had no idea there are so many poisons growing in the countryside. It quite makes one shiver. What did the Medicis use?”

“The Medicis?”

Lady Georgina wriggled her little rump on the carriage seat. “You know, those deliciously horrible Italians with the poison rings that went about killing anyone who looked at them askance. What d’you suppose they used?”

“I don’t know, my lady.” The way her mind worked.

“Oh.” She sounded disappointed. “What about arsenic? That’s very poisonous, isn’t it?”

“It’s poisonous, but arsenic isn’t a plant.”

“No? Then what is it?”

He had no idea. “A sort of seashell that is ground into a powder, my lady.”

There was a short pause while she thought that one over.

Harry held his breath.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her squint at him. “You’re making that up.”

“My lady?”

“That bit about arsenic being a sort of seashell.” She lowered her voice on the last words to mimic him.

“I assure you”—Harry kept his tone bland—“it’s a pinkish seashell found only in the Adriatic Sea. The local villagers harvest the shells with long rakes and sieves. There is a yearly festival to celebrate the catch.” He fought to prevent his lips from twitching. “The Annual Adriatic Arsenic Assail.”

Silence—and, he was fairly certain—stunned silence at that. Harry felt a surge of pride. It wasn’t just any man who could make Lady Georgina lose her power of speech.

Not that it lasted long.

“I shall have to watch you, Mr. Pye.”

“My lady?”

“Because you are evil.” But her words shook as if she barely held in the laughter.

He smiled. He hadn’t felt so light in a very, very long time. He slowed the horse as they came to the stream that separated her estate from Granville’s land. He scanned the horizon. Theirs was the only vehicle on the road.

“Surely Lord Granville wouldn’t be so rash as to attack us here.”

He glanced at her, brows raised.

She frowned impatiently. “You’ve been watching the hills since we neared the stream.”

Ah. She’d been aware. He reminded himself not to underestimate her, even when she played the aristocratic ninny. “Granville would be insane to try an attack.” Which didn’t mean he wouldn’t.

Reapers harvested barley to their right. Usually reapers sang as they worked, but these labored in silence.

“Lord Granville has his workers out on a misty day,” Lady Georgina said.

He pressed his lips together to forestall a comment on Granville’s agricultural practices.

A sudden thought occurred to her. “I haven’t noticed anyone in my fields since I’ve arrived at Woldsly. Are you worried they might get the ague?”

Harry stared at her. She didn’t know. “The grain is still too damp to store. Only a fool would order the reapers out on a morning like this.”

“But”—she knitted her brows—“don’t you need to harvest it before frost?”

“Yes. But if the grain is wet, it’s worse than useless to harvest it. It would merely spoil in the storage bins.” He shook his head. “Those workers are wasting their strength on grain that will rot, anyway.”

“I see.” She seemed to think about that for a minute. “What will you do with the Woldsly harvest, then?”

“There’s nothing to do, my lady, except pray for a break in the rain.”

“But if the harvest is ruined…”

He straightened a bit in the seat. “Your revenue will be considerably lessened from the estate this year, I’m afraid, my lady. If the weather clears, we might still get most of the crop in, maybe all of it. But every day that goes by lessens that chance. The tenants on your land need those crops to feed their families as well as pay you your share. The farmers won’t have much left over—”