The Leopard Prince
Violet leaned forward impatiently. “Before I wrote you, they found ten dead sheep on a Granville tenant farmer’s field just over the stream dividing the estates. There were muddy footprints leading from the corpses to the bank of the stream—footprints that continued on the far side of the stream on your land.”
“Hmm.” George selected another tart. “That doesn’t sound too damning. I mean, what’s to keep someone from Lord Granville’s land tramping into the stream and back again to make it look like he’s coming from Woldsly?”
“Geor-rge.” Violet sat down next to her sister. “No one on the Granville estate has a reason to poison the sheep. But someone from Woldsly does.”
“Oh? Who?” George lifted the tart to her mouth.
“Harry Pye.”
George froze with the tart still hovering near her lips. Violet smiled triumphantly. At last she’d gotten her sister’s full attention.
George carefully set the tart back on her plate. “What possible motive could my steward have for killing Lord Granville’s sheep?”
“Revenge.” Violet nodded at George’s incredulous look. “Mr. Pye bears a grudge for something that Lord Granville did in the past.”
“What?”
Violet slumped on the settee. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “No one will tell me.”
George started to laugh.
Violet crossed her arms. “But it must have been something terrible, mustn’t it?” she asked over George’s chortles. “For him to come back years later and enact his diabolical revenge?”
“Oh, sweetheart,” George gasped. “The servants or whoever has been telling you these tales are bamming you. Can you really imagine Mr. Pye skulking around trying to feed sheep poisonous weeds?” She went off again into gales of laughter.
Violet poked the remaining lemon tart sulkily. Truly, the principal problem with older siblings was that they never took one seriously.
“I’M SORRY I WASN’T WITH YOU, my lady, when you had the accident,” Tiggle puffed behind George the next morning. The lady’s maid was fastening an interminable row of hooks on the sapphire sack dress George had chosen to wear.
“I don’t know what you’d have done, except end up in the ditch with us,” George addressed Tiggle over her shoulder. “Besides, I’m sure you enjoyed the visit with your parents.”
George smiled. Tiggle had deserved an extra day off to spend with her family. And since her father was the proprietor of the Lincoln inn they’d stopped at on the way to Woldsly, it had seemed an opportune time to travel on and leave Tiggle to catch up in a day. But because of the accident, Tiggle hadn’t arrived that much later than they had. Which was good, because George would’ve made a mare’s nest out of dressing her own hair. Tiggle had the hands of an artist when it came to taming George’s messy locks.
“It’s just that I don’t like to think of you alone with that Mr. Pye, my lady.” Tiggle’s voice was muffled.
“Whyever not? He was a perfect gentleman.”
“I should hope so!” Tiggle sounded outraged. “Still. He’s a bit of a cold fish, isn’t he?” She gave a final tug and stepped back. “There. That’s done.”
“Thank you.” George smoothed the front of her gown.
Tiggle had served her since before George had come out, so many years ago now. She had laced and unlaced what must be a thousand gowns and had lamented with George over the frizziness of her orangey-red hair. Tiggle’s own hair was a smooth golden blond, the preferred color of all those fairy tales. Her eyes were blue, and her lips the requisite ruby red. Indeed, she was a very lovely woman. Were her life a fairy tale, George should be the goose girl and Tiggle the fairy princess.
She walked to her vanity table. “Why do you think Mr. Pye is a cold fish?” She opened her jewel box and began rummaging for the pearl drops.
“He never smiles, does he?” In the mirror, she could see Tiggle gathering her nightclothes. “And the way he watches a body. Makes me feel like I’m a cow he’s sizing up, trying to reckon if I will calf well another season or if he should send me to the slaughterhouse.” She held out the dress George had worn during the accident and examined it critically. “Still, there’re plenty of lasses hereabouts who find him fetching.”
“Oh?” George’s voice came out a squeak. She stuck out her tongue to herself in the mirror.
Tiggle didn’t look up as she frowned over a hole she’d found near the gown’s hem. “Aye. The maids in the kitchen talk about his fine eyes and pretty bum.”
“Tiggle!” George dropped her pearl earring. It rolled across the vanity’s lacquered surface and came to a stop in a pile of ribbons.
“Oh!” Tiggle’s hand flew to her mouth. “I’m sorry, my lady. I don’t know what came over me to say that.”
George couldn’t help but giggle. “Is that what they talk about in the kitchen? Gentlemen’s bottoms?”
“Maybe I should visit the kitchen more often.” George leaned forward to peer into the mirror as she put on an earring. “Several people, including Lady Violet, say they’ve heard rumors about Mr. Pye.” She stepped back and turned her head from side to side to study the earrings. “Have you heard anything?”
George took a breath and let it out slowly. “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”
THAT AFTERNOON, HARRY HUNCHED OVER his saddle in the relentless drizzle. He’d expected to be summoned to the manor almost from the moment they’d driven onto the Woldsly estate. Surprisingly, it had taken a full day and night for Lady Georgina to send for him. He nudged his mare into a trot up the long, winding drive to Woldsly Manor. Perhaps it was because she was a lady.
When he’d first learned that the owner of the multiple estates he would be managing was a woman, he’d been taken aback. A woman didn’t usually own land by herself. Normally, if she did have an estate, there was a man—a son or husband or brother—in the background, the real power in how the lands were run. But although Lady Georgina had three brothers, it was the lady herself who was in control. And what was more, she’d come by the lands through inheritance, not marriage. Lady Georgina had never wed. An aunt had left everything to her and apparently stipulated in the will that Lady Georgina would have the reins of her holdings and their income.
Harry snorted. Plainly the old woman hadn’t had much use for men. Gravel crunched beneath the bay mare’s hooves as he entered the vast courtyard before Woldsly Manor. He crossed to the stable yard, swung down from his horse, and tossed the reins to a boy.
They dropped to the cobblestones.
The mare stepped back nervously, the reins trailing. Harry stilled and raised his gaze to meet the eyes of the stripling boy. The lad stared at him, chin up, shoulders back. He looked like a young St. Stephan readying himself for the arrows. When had his reputation gotten this bad?
“Pick them up,” Harry said softly.
The boy wavered. The arrows were looking sharper than he’d expected.
“Now,” Harry whispered. He turned on his heel, not bothering to see if the lad followed his order, and strode to the manor, leaping the steps two at a time to the front doors.
“Inform Lady Georgina Maitland that I am here,” he said to Greaves. He thrust his tricorn into the hands of a footman and entered the library without waiting to be shown in.
Tall windows draped in moss-green velvet lined the far side of the room. Had the day been sunny, the windows would have bathed the library in light. But it wasn’t sunny. The sun hadn’t shone in this patch of Yorkshire for weeks.
Harry walked over and stared out the window. Rolling fields and pastures stretched as far as the eye could see, a patchwork quilt in green and brown. The drystone walls dividing the fields had stood for centuries before he was born and would stand for centuries after his bones had crumbled to dust. It was a beautiful landscape to his mind, one that made his heart tighten every time he saw it, but something was wrong. The fields should have been full of reapers and wagons, harvesting the hay and wheat. But the grain was too wet to harvest. If the rain didn’t let up soon… He shook his head. The wheat would either rot in the field or they’d have to reap it damp. In which case it would rot in the barns.
He clenched his fist on the window frame. Did she even care what his dismissal would mean to this land?
Behind him, the door opened. “Mr. Pye, I think you must be one of those odious early risers.”
He relaxed his fingers and turned around.
Harry bowed. “I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you, my lady.”
“As well you should be.” Lady Georgina sat on a black and green settee, leaning back casually, her blue skirts spread around her. “Greaves has a knack of making one feel like a babbling infant in leading strings.” She shuddered. “I can’t think how horrible it must be working as a footman under him. Aren’t you going to sit?”
“If you wish, my lady.” He chose an armchair. What was she about?
“I do wish.” Behind her, the door opened again, and two maids entered bearing laden trays. “Not only that, but I’m afraid I’m going to insist upon you taking tea as well.”
The maids arranged the teapot, cups, plates, and all the other confusing stuff of an aristocratic tea on a low table between them and left.
Lady Georgina lifted the silver teapot and poured. “Now, you will have to bear with me and try not to glower so menacingly.” She waved aside his attempted apology. “Do you take sugar and cream?”
He nodded.
“Good. Plenty of both, then, for I’m sure you have a secret sweet tooth. And two slices of shortbread. You’ll just have to shoulder it like a soldier.” She offered the plate to him.
He met her eyes, oddly challenging. He hesitated a moment before taking the plate. For a fraction of a second, his fingers brushed hers, so soft and warm, and then he sat back. The shortbread was tender and flaky. He ate the first piece in two bites.
“There.” She sighed and sank into the cushions with her own plate. “Now I know how Hannibal felt after having conquered the Alps.”
He felt his mouth twitch as he watched her over the rim of his cup. The Alps would have sat up and begged had Lady Georgina marched toward them with an army of elephants. Her ginger hair was a halo around her face. She might’ve looked angelic if her eyes hadn’t been so mischievous. She bit into a slice of shortbread, and it fell apart. She picked up a crumb from her plate and sucked it off her finger in a very unladylike way.
His balls tightened. No. Not for this woman.
He set down his teacup carefully. “Why did you wish to speak to me, my lady?”
“Well, this is rather awkward.” She put her own cup down. “I’m afraid people have been telling tales about you.” She held up one hand and began ticking off her fingers. “One of the footmen, the bootblack boy, four—no five—of the maids, my sister, Tiggle, and even Greaves. Would you believe it? I was a bit surprised. I never thought he’d unbend enough to gossip.” She looked at him.