The Leopard Prince (Princes #2)(52)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

George grit her teeth.

“Cecil said he was going to the theater tomorrow night and wanted to know if he could escort you,” Oscar explained.

“Actually, I—” George was saved from making an excuse by the entrance of her butler. She knit her brows. “Yes, Holmes?”

“I beg your pardon, my lady, but a messenger has just arrived from Lady Violet.” Holmes proffered a silver plate on which lay a rather muddy letter.

George took it. “Thank you.”

The butler bowed and exited.

Had Wentworth pursued Violet north? They’d thought it best to leave Violet at Woldsly in the assumption that she was safest there away from society, but perhaps they’d been wrong.

“If you don’t mind?” George didn’t wait for her guests’ permission but used a butter knife to break the seal on the letter. Violet’s handwriting sprawled frantically across the page, obliterated here and there by inkblots.

My Dear Sister… Harry Pye beaten and arrested… in Granville’s custody… denied access… please come at once.

Beaten.

George’s hand shook. Oh, dear Lord, Harry. A sob caught in her throat. She tried to remember Violet’s fondness for melodrama. Perhaps she’d overstated or otherwise exaggerated. But, no, Violet didn’t lie. If Lord Granville had Harry in his hands, he might already be dead.

“Georgie.” She looked up to find Oscar kneeling directly in front of her. “What is it?”

Mutely, she turned the letter so he could read it.

He frowned. “But there was no concrete evidence of his culpability, was there?”

George shook her head and drew a ragged breath. “Lord Granville has a grudge against Harry. He doesn’t need evidence.” She closed her eyes. “I should have never left Yorkshire.”

“There’s no way you could have foreseen this.”

She rose and started for the door.

“Where are you going?” Oscar caught her elbow.

George shook him off. “Where do you think? To him.”

“Wait, I—”

She turned on her brother savagely. “I cannot wait. He may already be dead.”

Oscar held up his hands as if surrendering. “I know, I know, Georgie. I meant I’ll go with you. See what I can do.” He turned to Cecil. “Can you ride and tell Tony what’s happened?”

Cecil nodded.

“Here.” Oscar pried the letter from George’s hand. “Give him this. He’ll need to come when he can.”

“Of course, old chap.” Cecil looked curious but took the letter.

“Thank you.” Tears began to run down George’s face.

“It’s all right.” Cecil started to say more, then shook his head and left.

“Well, I can’t say that I approve of all this, whatever it is.” Lady Beatrice had been quiet through the scene, but she rose now. “I do not like being kept in the dark. Not at all. But I will wait just this once to find out what you are all rushing about for.”

“Of course, Aunt.” George was already half out the door, not really listening.

“Georgina.” Lady Beatrice laid a palm on her niece’s tear-stained face, halting her. “Remember, dear, we cannot stay the hand of God, but we can be strong.” She looked suddenly old. “Sometimes it is the only thing we can do.”

“OLD MISTRESS POLLARD WAS MURDERED, plain and simple.” Silas sat back in his leather armchair and looked at his younger son with satisfaction.

Bennet paced the library like a young lion. In contrast, his brother cowered in a too-small corner chair, his knees drawn nearly to his chin. Why Thomas was in the library at all, Silas couldn’t fathom, but he didn’t really care either way. All his attention was on his younger son.

In the week since his men had brought in Harry Pye, Bennet had railed and raged against his father. But however much he tried, he couldn’t get away from that one fact: A woman had been murdered. An old woman, true, and a poor one at that. One that nobody had much cared about when alive. Nevertheless, she was human and so, no matter how decrepit, several steps up from a dead sheep.

At least in the popular estimation.

In fact, Silas had begun to wonder if he’d made a mistake in his haste to catch Pye. Local sentiment was running very high. No one liked a murderer on the loose. Had he simply left Pye to his own devices, someone might have taken matters into their own hands and lynched the bastard. He might already be dead by now. But in the long run it made very little difference. Dead now or dead in a week, either way, Pye would soon be very, very dead. And then his son would no longer be arguing with him.

“She may have been murdered, but it wasn’t Harry Pye who did it.” Bennet stood in front of his father’s desk, arms crossed, eyes blazing.

Silas felt impatience rise in him. Everyone else believed the land steward guilty. Why couldn’t his own son?

He sat forward and tapped on his desktop with a forefinger as if he could drill through the mahogany. “Hemlock killed her, same as the sheep. His carving was found by her corpse. The second carving, remember, discovered with these crimes.” Silas thrust his hands forward, palms upward. “What more do you want?”

“I know you hate Harry Pye, Father, but why would he leave his own carvings by the bodies? Why incriminate himself?”

“Mayhap the man is mad,” Thomas said quietly from the corner. Silas frowned at him, but Thomas was too intent on his brother to notice. “Pye’s mother was a slut, after all; perhaps he inherited her bad blood.”

Bennet looked pained. “Tom—”

“Don’t call me that!” Thomas said shrilly. “I’m your elder. I’m the heir. Give me the respect I deserve. You’re only a—”

“Shut up!” Silas roared.

Thomas shrank at the bellow. “But, Father—”

“No more!” Silas glared until his elder son flushed blotchily; then he sat back in the chair and turned his attention back to Bennet. “What would you have me do?”

Bennet shot an apologetic glance at Thomas, which the other ignored, before answering. “I don’t know.”

Ah, the first outward show of uncertainty. It was like balm to his soul. “I am the magistrate for this county. I must uphold the law as I see fit.”

“At least let me see him.”

“No.” Silas shook his head. “He’s a dangerous criminal. It would not be responsible of me to let you near him.”