“Lord Granville?” Lady Georgina murmured.
“Aye. The devil hisself.” The woman sucked in her upper lip. “Annie threw over Baker. She was Granville’s whore for as long as he wanted her, which wasn’t long. Came back here with her belly big and stayed just long enough to whelp. Then she took off again. Last I heard she was spreading her legs for a cup of gin.” She looked suddenly wistful. “A lass don’t last long as a gin slut, do she?”
“No,” Harry said quietly.
Lady Georgina looked stunned, and he was sorry he hadn’t been able to talk her into staying behind at Woldsly Manor. He’d dragged her into a cesspit.
“Thank you for telling us about Annie, Mrs. Pollard,” Harry spoke gently to the old woman. Despite her hardened manner, it must have pained her to talk about ancient hurts. “I’ve only one more question, and then we’ll bother you no more. Do you know what happened to Mr. Baker?”
“Oh, him.” Mrs. Pollard waved a hand as if flicking away a fly. “Baker took up with another lass. I’ve heard he even married her, though it can’t be right in the church, him already married to Annie. Not that Annie cares. Not anymore.” She closed the door.
Harry frowned, then decided he’d questioned the old woman enough. “Come, my lady.” He took Lady Georgina’s elbow and escorted her back up the path. As he was helping her into the gig, he glanced back.
The boy leaned on the corner of the cottage, head down, one bare foot on top of the other. He’d probably heard every word his grandmother had said about his mother. There weren’t enough hours in the day to solve all the problems of this world. Da had said that often enough when Harry had been growing up.
“Wait a moment, my lady.” Harry strode the short distance to the boy.
He looked up warily as Harry approached but didn’t move otherwise.
Harry looked down at him. “If she dies, or you find yourself without, come to me. My name is Harry Pye. Repeat it.”
“Harry Pye,” the boy whispered.
“Good. Here, see if she’ll get you some clothes.”
He placed a shilling in the boy’s hand and returned to the gig without waiting for thanks. It had been a sentimental gesture and one that was probably useless. The old woman was as likely to use the shilling for gin as to buy the boy new clothes. He climbed in the gig, ignoring Lady Georgina’s smile, and took up the reins. When he glanced again at the boy, he was staring at the coin in his hand. They pulled away.
“What an awful story.” Her smile had died.
“Yes.” Harry looked sideways at her. “I’m sorry you heard it.” He urged the horse into a trot. Best to be off Granville land as soon as possible.
“I don’t think anyone in that family could be poisoning the sheep. The woman is too old and afraid, the boy too young, and it sounds like Annie’s husband has got on with his life. Unless Annie came back?”
He shook his head. “If she’s been at the gin stalls all this time, she’s no threat to anyone.”
Sheep grazed on either side of the road, a peaceful scene, in spite of the lowering clouds and rising wind. Harry watched the surrounding area narrowly. After yesterday, he was wary of an attack.
“Have you another farmer to visit today?” Lady Georgina held her hat to her head with one hand.
“No, my lady. I—” They topped a rise, and Harry caught sight of what lay on the other side. Abruptly he pulled on the reins. “Goddamn.”
The gig rolled to a stop. Harry stared at three lumps of wool lying just inside the dry stone wall bordering the road.
“Are they dead?” Lady Georgina whispered.
“Yes.” Harry tied off the reins, set the brake, and leaped from the gig.
They weren’t the first to make the discovery. A sleek chestnut was tethered to the wall, shaking its head nervously. The owner, a man, had his back toward them, bent over one of the prone sheep. The man straightened, revealing his height. His hair was brown. The cut of his coat, flapping in the wind, was that of a gentleman. Just his luck Thomas would find the poisoned sheep first.
The man turned, and Harry’s thoughts scattered. For a moment he couldn’t think at all.
The man’s shoulders were broader than Thomas’s, his hair a shade lighter, curling around his ears. His face was broad and handsome, laugh lines framed his sensual lips, and his eyes had heavy lids. It couldn’t be.
The man approached and vaulted the stone wall easily. As he got nearer, his green eyes glowed like phosphorus. Harry felt Lady Georgina come alongside him. He realized absently that he’d forgotten to help her from the gig.
“Harry,” he heard her say, “you never told me you had a brother.”
Chapter Eight
It had always been her downfall: failing to think sufficiently before speaking. This was brought home to George rather emphatically when both men swung to look at her in shock. How was she to know it was some sort of dark secret? She’d never seen eyes as green as Harry’s, and yet here they were, the same green eyes, staring at her from another man’s face. True, the other man was taller, and his features were of a different cast. But who, looking at their eyes, could draw any other conclusion than that they were brothers? She really couldn’t be blamed.
“Harry?” The stranger started forward. “Harry?”
“This is Bennet Granville, my lady.” Harry had recovered quicker than the other man and was now expressionless. “Granville, Lady Georgina Maitland.”
“My lady.” Mr. Granville bowed correctly. “It’s an honor to meet you.”
She curtsied and muttered the proper words by rote.
“And Harry.” For a moment, emotion flashed behind Mr. Granville’s emerald eyes; then he controlled himself. “It’s… been a while.”
George nearly snorted. In another year or so, he’d be as adept as Harry at hiding his thoughts. “How long, exactly?”
“What?” Mr. Granville seemed startled.
“Eighteen years.” Harry turned and glanced at the sheep, obviously avoiding the subject. “Poisoned?”
Mr. Granville blinked, but caught on quickly enough. “I’m afraid so. Would you like to take a look?” He turned and scrambled back over the wall.
Oh, for goodness sake! George rolled her eyes heaven-ward. Apparently both men were going to ignore her faux pas and the fact that they hadn’t seen each other for eighteen years.
“My lady?” Harry was holding out his hand, presumably to help her over the wall.
“Yes, all right. I’m coming.”
He looked at her oddly. When she placed her hand in his, instead of merely grasping it, he pulled her closer and then lifted her to sit on the wall. George suppressed a squeal. His thumbs were just under her breasts, and her nipples were suddenly sensitive. He gave her a warning look.
What was he about? She felt herself flush.
He vaulted the wall and walked to Mr. Granville. George, left to her own devices, swung her legs over and jumped down on the pasture side of the wall. The men were looking at a pile of wilted weeds.
“These aren’t very old.” Harry toed a sodden stem. “Probably placed here during the night. Hemlock again.”
“Again?” Mr. Granville, squatting next to the plants, looked up at him.
“Yes. It’s been going on for weeks now. Weren’t you told?”
“I’ve just arrived from London. I haven’t even been to Granville House yet. Who is doing this?”
“Your father thinks it’s me.”
“You? Why would he—?” Mr. Granville cut himself off, then laughed softly. “He’s finally paying for his sins.”
“Do you think?”
What was going on? George looked from one man to the other, trying to decipher the undercurrents.
Mr. Granville nodded. “I’ll talk to him. See if I can get his mind off you and onto whoever’s really doing this.”
“Will he listen to you?” Harry’s lips twisted cynically.
“Maybe.” The two men exchanged a look. Despite their differing h
eights and features, their expressions were strikingly similar. They radiated grimness.
“Do try to get your father to listen, Mr. Granville,” George said. “He’s already threatened to arrest Harry.”
Harry scowled at George, but Mr. Granville grinned charmingly. “I shall do my best, my lady, for Harry.”
George realized she had been calling Mr. Pye, quite improperly, by his given name. Oh, pish. She tilted her nose into the air and felt a raindrop hit it.
Mr. Granville bowed again. “It’s a pleasure to have met you, Lady Georgina. I hope that we can meet again under more amenable circumstances.”
Harry moved closer to George’s side, placing a hand at the small of her back. She had the feeling he was scowling at Mr. Granville now.
She smiled all the brighter at her neighbor. “Indeed.”
“It’s good to see you, Harry,” Mr. Granville said.
Harry merely nodded.
The young man hesitated, then turned swiftly and leapt the wall. He mounted and wheeled his horse in a half circle to wave good-bye before cantering away.
“Show-off,” Harry muttered.
George blew out a breath and turned on him. “Is that all you’ve got to say after seeing your brother for the first time in eighteen years?”
He arched his eyebrows at her, silent.
She threw up her arms in disgust and stomped over to the stone wall, then stood dithering when she couldn’t find a toehold for her shoe. Strong hands grabbed her from behind, again just under her breasts. This time she did shriek.
Harry lifted her up and held her against his chest. “He’s not my brother,” he growled in her ear, sending all sorts of interesting thrills down her neck and elsewhere. Who knew the nerves in one’s neck were connected to—
He set her rather firmly on the wall.
She scrambled over it and marched to the gig. “Then what is his relationship to you?”
Instead of handing her into the carriage, Harry grasped her about the middle again. She might become accustomed to this.
“He was a boyhood playmate, my lady.” He placed her on the seat.
George mourned the loss of his hands.
“You played with Thomas and Bennet Granville when you were little?” She craned her neck to follow him as he circled the gig.
More drops of rain began to fall.
“Yes.” He climbed in and took up the reins. “I grew up on the estate, remember. Thomas is about my age and Bennet a few years younger.” He guided the horse onto the lane and set him to a trot.
“Yet you had not seen them since you left the Granville estate?”
“I was—am—the gamekeeper’s son.” A muscle bunched in his jaw. “There was no reason we should see each other.”
“Oh.” She mulled over that. “Were you great friends? I mean, did you like Bennet and Thomas?”
The rain increased. George hugged her cloak about her and hoped her frock wouldn’t be ruined.
Harry looked at her as if she’d asked something extremely silly. “We were boys growing up together. It didn’t much matter if we liked each other.” He watched the horse for a bit, then said almost grudgingly, “I daresay I got on better with Bennet even though Thomas was closer to my age. Thomas always seemed such a milksop. He didn’t like fishing or exploring or other things boys like to do for fear of getting his clothes dirty.”
“Is that why you don’t trust Thomas now?”
“Because he was a milksop when he was a boy? No, my lady. Give me more credit than that. He was always trying to get his father’s favor as a lad. I doubt he’s changed much, just because he’s a man now. And since Granville hates me…” He let his sentence trail away and shrugged.
His father’s favor. A firstborn son usually had that without question. How strange that Thomas Granville did not. But she was more curious about something else. “So you spent a lot of time in Bennet’s company when you two were boys?”
Rain was dripping off the brim of Harry’s tricorn. “We played and I sat in on his lessons if the tutor was in a good mood that day—and if Granville wasn’t around.”
She frowned. “If Lord Granville wasn’t around?”
He nodded grimly. “The man hated me, even then. Said I had too much pride for a gamekeeper’s son. But the tutor disliked his employer as well. I think he got some small revenge in teaching me.”
“That’s where you learned to read and write.”
Harry nodded. “Bennet was better at letters than I, even though he was younger, but I best him at numbers. So, yes, I spent quite a bit of time with him.”
“What happened?”
He looked at her. “His father whipped my father when I was twelve and he ten.”
George thought about what it would be like if she’d lost someone close to her when she was twelve. Someone she saw every day. Someone she fought and played with. Someone she took it for granted would always be there. It would be like having a limb cut off.
How far would one go to correct such a wrong?
She shivered and looked up. They were at the river that divided the Granville land from her own. Harry slowed the horse to a walk as it splashed into the ford. The rain was coming down hard now, making the muddy water jump. George looked downstream where the water deepened and swirled in a whirlpool. A shape floated there.
“Harry.” She touched his arm and pointed.
He swore.
The horse waded from the stream, and he pulled the gig over, tying the reins off quickly. He helped her down from the gig before walking to the bank ahead of her. George’s shoes sank into the mud as she followed. When she reached him, Harry was very still. Then she saw why. The body of a sheep twisted slowly in the water; the rain pelting the fleece gave it a strange, lifelike movement.
She shuddered. “Why doesn’t it float away?”
“It’s tethered.” Harry nodded grimly to a branch hanging over the water.
She saw that a rope was tied around the branch and disappeared into the water. Presumably, the other end attached to some part of the sheep. “But why would anyone do such a thing?” She felt a frisson run down her spine. “It’s mad.”
“Maybe to foul the stream.” He sat and began to pull off his boots.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going to cut it loose.” He unbuttoned his coat. “It’ll fetch up on a bank farther downstream and a farmer will pull it out. At least it won’t spoil the whole stream.”
By now he was in shirtsleeves, soaked through by the rain. He pulled his knife out of his boot and slid down the bank into the stream. The water came to midthigh, but as he waded slowly out, the water quickly rose to chest level. The rain had made the normally placid stream boil.
“Do be careful,” George called. If he lost his footing, he might be swept downstream. Did he know how to swim?
He didn’t acknowledge her call and kept wading. When he reached the rope, he grabbed it where it stretched above the water and started to saw. The strands unraveled rapidly, and suddenly the sheep spun away downstream. Harry turned and began to wade back, the water whirling angrily about him. He slipped and his head disappeared beneath the water without a sound.
Oh, God. George’s heart leaped painfully in her chest. She started for the bank without knowing what she could do. But then he was upright again, his soaked hair plastered to his cheeks. He emerged and wrung out the front of his shirt, transparent now from the water. George could see his nipples and the swirl of dark hair where the shirt stuck against his chest.
“Someday I’d like to see a man nude,” she said.
Harry froze.
Slowly he straightened from pulling on his boots. His green eyes met hers, and she could have sworn a fire burned there. “Is that an order, my lady?” he asked, his voice so deep it was almost a dark purr.
“I—” Oh, goodness gracious, yes! A part of George desperately wanted to see Harry Pye take off that shirt. To see what his shoulders and belly looked like naked.
To find out if there really were curls of hair on his chest. And after that, if he removed his breeches… She really couldn’t help it. Her eyes dropped to that part of a man’s anatomy that a lady never, ever, under any circumstances let her gaze wander to. The water had done an exquisite job of molding Harry’s breeches to his lower limbs.
George drew a breath. Opened her mouth.
And Harry cursed and turned away. A cart and pony were coming up the lane.
Well, damn.
“YOU CAN’T REALLY THINK Harry Pye is poisoning your sheep.” Bennet’s words were phrased as a question but said as a statement.
Not two minutes back and the lad was already setting himself against him. But then the boy had always taken Pye’s part. Silas snorted. “I don’t think. I know Pye is doing the killing.”
Bennet frowned and poured himself a tumbler of whiskey. He held the decanter up in question.
Silas shook his head and leaned back in the leather-covered chair behind his study desk. The room was his favorite, all male in its feel. Mounted antlers circled the study, just below the ceiling. A deep, black fireplace took up the entire wall at the room’s far end. Over it was a classical painting: The Rape of the Sabine Women. Swarthy men tearing the clothes from fair-skinned, screaming wenches. He sometimes got prick-proud just looking at the thing.
“But poison?” Bennet threw himself into a chair and started tapping his fingers on the arm.
His younger son aggravated him; but even now, Silas could not help feeling proud of him. This one should have been his heir. Thomas would never have the balls to confront his father. Silas had known it the moment he’d first seen Bennet, bawling and red-faced, in his mother’s arms. He’d looked into the infant’s face and a voice inside him had whispered, this one—this one out of all his other get—would be the son he, Silas, would be proud of. So he’d taken the babe from that whore’s arms and brought him home. His wife had pouted and wept, but Silas had soon let her know he wouldn’t change his mind and she’d had to relent. Some might still remember that Bennet wasn’t legally born, that he’d come from the loins of the gatekeeper’s wife, but they wouldn’t dare speak that knowledge aloud.