“Yes.”
“But he hadn’t seen you, at least not for a very long time.” She pivoted fully to look at him.
A lifetime. Harry served himself some more stew. “No.”
“So he hadn’t seen your figurines for a very long time, either? In fact, not since you were a boy.” She frowned, fingering the squirrel. “Because I don’t care what Lord Granville says, twelve years old is still just a boy.”
“Maybe.” The kettle started steaming. Harry got up, took down the brown teapot from his cupboard, and put in four spoonfuls of tea. He grabbed a cloth to lift the kettle from the fire. Lady Georgina moved aside and watched as he poured the boiling water.
“Maybe what?” She knit her brow. “Which question were you really answering?”
Harry set the teapot on the table and looked over his shoulder at her. “Which were you really asking?” He sat down again. “My lady.”
She blinked and seemed to consider. Then she replaced the squirrel and crossed to the shelves. She picked up the two cups and a packet of sugar and brought them back to the table. She sat down across from him and poured the tea.
Harry stilled.
Lady Georgina was fixing him his tea, in his own house, at his own table, just like a country woman would, tending to her man after he’d had a hard day of work. It didn’t feel at all like this morning in her sitting room. Right now it felt wifely. Which was a daft thought because she was the daughter of an earl. Only she didn’t look like a lady at the moment. Not when she was adding sugar to his cup and stirring it in for him. All she looked like was a woman—a very desirable woman.
Damn. Harry tried to will his cock back down, but that part of his body had never listened to reason. He tasted the tea and grimaced. Did other men get cockstands over a cup of tea?
“Too much sugar?” She looked worriedly at his cup.
The tea was rather sweet for his taste, but he wasn’t about to say that. “It’s fine, my lady. Thank you for pouring.”
“You’re welcome.” She took a sip of her own tea. “Now, as to what I’m really asking. How exactly did you know Lord Granville in the past?”
Harry closed his eyes. He was too weary for this. “Does it matter, my lady? You’ll be letting me go soon enough, anyway.”
“Whatever gave you that idea?” Lady Georgina frowned. Then she caught his look. “You don’t think that I believe you murdered those sheep, do you?” Her eyes widened. “You do.”
She put her cup back on the table with a sharp click. Some of the tea sloshed over the edge. “I know that I don’t always seem very serious, but please acquit me of being a complete nincompoop.” She scowled at him as she stood, arms akimbo like a red-haired Boadicea. All she needed was a sword and chariot.
“Harry Pye, you no more poisoned those sheep than I did!”
Chapter Four
As grand gestures went, it rather flopped.
Mr. Pye quirked a single eyebrow upward. “Since it boggles the mind,” he said in that awful, dry tone, “that you, my lady, would ever poison livestock, I must be innocent.”
“Humph.” Gathering her dignity about her, George marched to the fireplace and pretended interest in the figurines again. “You haven’t yet answered my question. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”
Normally this would be the point where she’d say something flippant and silly, but somehow she just couldn’t with him. It was hard to put away the mask, but she didn’t want to play the ninny with him. She wanted him to think better of her.
He looked so tired; the lines around his mouth had deepened and his hair was windblown. What had he been doing all afternoon to make him so exhausted? She hadn’t missed the way he’d entered the cottage, suddenly and in a crouch, his green eyes defiant. He’d reminded her of a cornered feral cat. But then he’d straightened and shoved something in his boot and was once again her phlegmatic steward. She might have imagined the violence she’d seen in his eyes, but she didn’t think so.
Harry Pye sighed and pushed away his plate. “My father’s name was John Pye. He was Silas Granville’s gamekeeper when I was a boy. We lived on Granville land, and I grew up there.”
“Really?” George turned to him. “How did you go from being a gamekeeper’s son to a land steward?”
He stiffened. “You have my references, my lady. I assure you—”
“No, no.” She shook her head impatiently. “I wasn’t maligning your credentials. I’m just curious. You must admit it’s a bit of a leap. How did you do it?”
“Hard work, my lady.” His shoulders were still bunched.
George raised her eyebrows and waited.
“I got work as a gamekeeper on a big estate when I was sixteen. The land steward there discovered I could read and write and do sums. He took me on as sort of an apprentice. When a position on a smaller, neighboring estate became open, he recommended me.” He shrugged. “From there I worked my way up.”
She tapped her fingers against the mantelpiece. There had to be more to the story than that. Few men of Mr. Pye’s age managed estates as large as hers, and how had he gotten an education, anyway? But that matter could wait until later. She had more pressing questions at the moment. She picked up a rabbit and rubbed its smooth back.
“What happened when you were twelve?”
“My father had a falling out with Granville,” Mr. Pye said.
“A falling out?” George replaced the rabbit and chose an otter. Dozens of the little wood carvings crowded the mantelpiece, each in exquisite detail. Most were of wild animals, although she spied a shepherd’s dog. They fascinated her. What kind of a man would carve such things? “Lord Granville said your father tried to kill him. That sounds like much more than a falling out.”
“Da struck him. Merely that.” He spoke slowly, as if choosing his words with care. “I sincerely doubt he meant to kill Granville.”
“Why?” She placed the otter next to the rabbit and made a little circle with a turtle and a shrew. “Why did he attack his employer and lord?”
Silence.
George waited, but he didn’t answer. She touched a stag, standing on three legs, the fourth lifted as if to flee. “And you? Did you mean to kill Lord Granville at the age of twelve?”
The silence stretched again, but finally Harry Pye spoke. “Yes.”
She let her breath out slowly. A commoner, child or not, could be hung for trying to kill a peer. “What did Lord Granville do?”
“He had my father and me horsewhipped.”
The words fell into the stillness like pebbles into a pond. Emotionless. Simple. They belied the violence a horsewhipping would do to a young boy’s body. To his soul.
George closed her eyes. Oh, dear Lord. Don’t think of it. It’s in the past. Deal with the present. “So you do have a motive for killing the sheep on Lord Granville’s land.” She opened her eyes and focused on a badger.
“Yes, my lady, I do.”
“And is this story common knowledge in the district? Do others know you’ve such enmity for my neighbor?” She placed the badger in alliance with the stag. The little creature’s head was lifted, teeth bared. It made a formidable foe.
“I didn’t hide my past and who I was when I returned as the Woldsly steward.” Mr. Pye rose and took the teapot to the door. He opened it and tossed the dregs into the bushes. “There are some who remember what happened eighteen years ago. It was a scandal at the time.” The dry tone was back.
“Why did you return to this neighborhood?” she asked. Was he looking for revenge in some way? “It does seem a bit of a coincidence that you should be working on the estate neighboring the one you grew up on.”
He hesitated with the teapot dangling from one hand. “No coincidence, my lady.” He walked deliberately to the cupboard, his back to her. “I pursued this position as soon as it opened. As you said, I grew up here. It’s my home.”
“It had nothing to do with Lord Granville?”
“Well”—Mr. Pye looked at her
over his shoulder, a devilish gleam in his green eyes—“it didn’t hurt that Granville would be irked to see me here.”
George felt her lips lift. “Does everyone know about your carvings?” She waved a hand at the menagerie.
He’d brought out a dishpan and soap, but he paused to glance at the animals lining the mantelpiece.
“Probably not. I’d only made a few carvings when I was a boy here.” He shrugged and began washing the tea things. “Da was known for his whittling. He taught me.”
She took a cloth from the shelf, picked up a teacup Mr. Pye had rinsed, and began drying it. He glanced sideways at her, and she thought she detected surprise. Good.
“Then whoever put the hedgehog by the dead sheep either knew you before or had been in this cottage since your residence.”
He shook his head. “The only visitors I’ve had are Mr. Burns and his wife. I pay her a bit to tidy for me and make me a meal once in a while.” He pointed his chin at the empty crock that had held his dinner.
George felt a rush of satisfaction. He’d not brought a woman here. But then she frowned. “Perhaps you confided in a woman you’ve been walking out with?”
She winced. Not the most subtle of inquiries. Good Lord, he must think her a widgeon. Blindly, she put out her hand for another teacup and collided with Harry Pye’s hand, warm and slippery with soap. She looked up and met his emerald eyes.
“I haven’t walked out with a lass. Not since entering your employ, my lady.” He picked up the crock to wash it.
“Ah. Well. Good. That narrows it down a bit.” Could she sound any more a ninny if she tried? “Then do you know who could have stolen the hedgehog? I presume it was taken from above your fireplace?”
He rinsed the crock and picked up the basin. Carrying it to the door, he threw out the washing water. He caught the open door. “Anyone could have taken it, my lady.” He pointed to the door handle.
There was no lock.
“Oh,” George muttered. “That doesn’t narrow it down.”
“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.
“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?”