The Leopard Prince (2 page)

If she were a different woman, if this were a different place, if he were a different man . . . Harry cut short the whisper in his mind and drew back his hand. He stretched out next to Lady Georgina, careful not to touch her. He stared at the ceiling and drove out all thought, all feeling. Then he closed his eyes, even though he knew it would be a long while before he slept.

“Good morning, my lady.” Mr. Pye’s voice was smooth and dark, like hot chocolate. “If you’ll excuse me.”

He rose. The robe he clutched slid off one shoulder, revealing tanned skin before he righted it. Walking silently, he slipped out the door.

George scrunched her nose. Did nothing faze the man?

It suddenly occurred to her what he must be doing outside. Her bladder sent up an alarm. Hastily she struggled upright and pulled on her rumpled, still-damp dress, catching as many of the fastenings as she could. She couldn’t reach all the hooks, and it must be gaping around her waist, but at least the garment wouldn’t fall off. George put on her cloak to hide her back and then followed Mr. Pye outside. Black clouds hovered in the sky, threatening rain. Harry Pye was nowhere in sight. Looking around, she chose a dilapidated shed behind which to relieve herself and tramped around it.

When she came back from the shed, Mr. Pye was standing in front of the cottage buttoning his coat. He had retied his queue, but his clothes were wrinkled and his hair not as neat as usual. Thinking about what she must look like herself, George felt an uncharitable smirk of amusement. Even Harry Pye couldn’t spend the night on the floor of a hut and not show the effects the next morning.

“When you are ready, my lady,” he said, “I suggest we return to the highway. The coachman may be waiting for us there.”

“Oh, I hope so.”

They retraced their steps of the night before. In light and downhill, George was surprised to find it not such a great distance. Soon they topped the last hill and could see the road. It was empty, save for the carriage wreckage, even more pitiful in the light of day.

She heaved a sigh. “Well. I guess we’ll just have to start walking, Mr. Pye.”

“Yes, my lady.”

They trudged up the road in silence. A nasty, damp mist hovered off the ground, smelling faintly of rot. It seeped beneath her gown and crept up her legs. George shuddered. She dearly wished for a cup of hot tea and perhaps a scone with honey and butter dripping off the sides. She almost moaned at the thought and then realized there was a rumbling coming from behind them.

Mr. Pye raised his arm to hail a farmer’s wagon rounding the curve. “Hi! Stop! You there, we need a ride.”

The farmer pulled his horse to a standstill. He tipped the brim of his hat back and stared. “Mr. Harry Pye, isn’t it?”

Mr. Pye stiffened. “Yes, that’s right. From the Woldsly estate.”

The farmer spat into the road, narrowly missing Mr. Pye’s boots.

“Lady Georgina Maitland needs a ride to Woldsly.” Harry Pye’s face did not change, but his voice had grown as chill as death. “It was her carriage you saw back there.”

The farmer switched his gaze to George as if noticing her for the first time. “Aye, ma’am, I hope you weren’t hurt in the wreck?”

“No.” She smiled winningly. “But we do need a ride, if you don’t mind.”

“Glad to help. There be room in the back.” The farmer aimed a dirty thumb over his shoulder at the wagon bed.

She thanked him and walked around the wagon. She hesitated as she eyed the height of the boards. They came to her collarbone.

Mr. Pye halted beside her. “With your permission.” He hardly waited for her nod before grasping her about the waist and lifting her in.

“Thank you,” George said breathlessly.

She watched as he placed his palms flat on the bed and vaulted in with catlike ease. The wagon jolted forward just as he cleared the boards, and he was thrown against the side.

“Are you all right?” She held out a hand.

Mr. Pye disregarded it and sat up. “Fine.” He glanced at her. “My lady.”

He said no more. George settled back and watched the countryside roll by. Gray-green fields with low stone walls emerged and then were hidden again by the eerie mist. After last night, she should’ve been glad for the ride, bumpy though it might be. But something about the farmer’s hostility to Mr. Pye bothered her. It seemed personal.

They cleared a rise, and George idly watched a flock of sheep grazing on a nearby hillside. They stood like little statues, perhaps frozen by the mist. Only their heads moved as they cropped the gorse. A few were lying down. She frowned. The ones on the ground were very still. She leaned forward to see better and heard Harry Pye curse softly beside her.

The wagon jerked to a halt.

“What’s the matter with those sheep?” George asked Mr. Pye.

But it was the farmer who answered, his voice grim. “They’re dead.”

“Where’ve you been? We expected you days ago and . . .” She skidded to a stop on the gravel courtyard to stare at the man helping her sister from the strange carriage.

Mr. Pye looked up at her approach and nodded, his face as usual set in an expressionless mask. What was he doing traveling with George?

Violet narrowed her eyes at him.

“Hullo, Euphie,” George said.

“Oh, my lady, we’re so happy you’ve arrived,” the companion gasped. “The weather has
not
been all one could wish for, and we have been quite
apprehensive
as to your safety.”

George smiled in reply and wrapped her arms around Violet. “Hullo, darling.”

Her sister’s marmalade hair, several shades lighter than Violet’s own exuberantly flaming head, smelled of jasmine and tea, the most comforting scents in the world. Violet felt tears prickle her eyes.

“I’m sorry you were worried, but I don’t think I’m so very late.” George bussed her cheek and stepped away to look at her.

Violet turned hurriedly to inspect the carriage, a rather dilapidated old thing that didn’t look a speck like George’s. “What’re you doing traveling about in that for?”

“Well, there lies a story.” George pulled off her hood. Her coiffure was incredibly bad, even for George. “I’ll tell you over tea. I’m just famished. We had only a few buns at the inn where we got the carriage.” She looked at the steward and asked rather diffidently, “Would you like to join us, Mr. Pye?”

Violet held her breath.
Say no. Say no. Say no.

“No, thank you, my lady.” Mr. Pye bowed in a sinister fashion. “If you’ll excuse me, there are some estate matters I should see to.”

Violet expelled her breath in a whoosh of relief.

To her horror, George persisted. “Surely they can wait another half hour or so?” She smiled in her wonderful, wide-mouthed way.

Violet stared at her sister. What was she thinking?

“I’m afraid not,” Mr. Pye replied.

“Oh, very well. I suppose it is why I employ you, after all.” George sounded like a prig, but at least Mr. Pye was no longer coming to tea.

“I’m sorry, my lady.” He bowed again, this time a little stiffly, and walked away.

Violet almost felt sorry for him—almost, but not quite. She hooked her arm through her sister’s as they turned back toward Woldsly. The manor was hundreds of years old and sat in the landscape as if it had grown there, a natural feature of the surrounding hills. Green ivy scrambled up the four-story redbrick façade. The vines were trimmed back from around tall, mullioned windows. A multitude of chimneys climbed the manor’s gabled roofs like so many hikers on a mountain. It was a welcoming house, perfectly suited to her sister’s personality.

“Cook baked lemon curd tarts just this morning,” Violet said as they climbed the wide front steps. “Euphie has been mooning over them ever since.”

“Oh, no, my lady,” the companion exclaimed behind them. “I don’t believe I have really. Not over lemon tarts, anyway. When it comes to
mince
pie, I do admit a certain fondness, not altogether
genteel,
I fear.”

“You are the very epitome of gentility, Euphie. We all strive to follow your example,” George said.

The older woman preened like a gray bantam hen.

Violet felt a twinge of guilt for always being so exasperated with the silly dear. She made a solemn vow to try and be more kind to her in the future.

They entered the manor’s huge double oak doors, where George nodded to Greaves, the butler. Light streamed in from the crescent window above the doors, illuminating the coffee-and-cream walls and the entry’s old parquet floor.

“Have you found something to amuse yourself with at Woldsly?” George asked as they continued down the hall. “I confess, I was surprised when you said you wanted to rusticate here with just Euphie. It’s a bit of a backwater for a fifteen-year-old. Although, of course, you are always welcome.”

“I’ve been sketching,” Violet replied, keeping her voice carefully light. “The views here are a change from Leicestershire. And M’man was becoming quite tiresome at home. She claims to have found a new tumor in her right leg and has brought in a Belgian quack who is dosing her on some awful stuff that smells like cooked cabbage.” Violet exchanged a glance with George. “You know how she is.”

“Yes, I do.” George patted her arm.

Violet looked away, relieved she didn’t have to explain further. Their mother had been predicting her own death since before Violet was born. Mostly the countess kept to her bed, attended by a patient maid. Every once in a while, however, M’man would become hysterical about some new symptom. When that happened, she nearly drove Violet mad.

They entered the rose morning room, and George pulled off her gloves. “Now, then, what was the purpose of that letter—”

“Hist!”
Violet jerked her head toward Euphie, who was busy instructing the maid to bring tea.

George raised her brows but caught on quick enough, thank goodness. She pressed her lips together and threw the gloves on a table.

Violet said clearly, “You were going to tell us why you changed carriages.”

“Oh, that.” George wrinkled her nose. “My carriage slid off the road last night. Quite sensational, actually. And then what do you think?” She sat down on one of the saffron settees, propped an elbow on the back, and rested her head in her palm. “The horses ran away. Left Mr. Pye and me quite high and dry—only, we were sopping wet, of course.
And
in the middle of who knows where.”

“Good G—” Violet caught Euphie’s censorious eye and changed her exclamation midbreath. “Gracious! Whatever did you do?”

Several maids with laden tea trays trooped in at that moment, and George held up a hand, indicating to Violet that she’d continue after they laid the tea out. A moment later, Euphie poured her a dish of tea.

“Ahh.” George sighed contentedly over her cup. “I think tea would cure the worst of mental ills if only applied in sufficient quantities.”

Violet bounced impatiently in her seat until her sister took the hint.

“Yes, well, fortunately Mr. Pye knew of a nearby cottage.” George shrugged. “So we spent the night.”

“Oh, my lady! All alone and Mr. Pye not even married.” The revelation that George had spent an entire night with a man appeared to shock Euphie more than the carriage accident itself. “I do not think, no, I do
not
think it could’ve been comfortable for you.” She sat back and fanned her face, causing the puce ribbons on her cap to flutter.

Violet rolled her eyes. “He’s only the
land
steward, Euphie. It isn’t as if he’s a gentleman from a good family. Besides,” she said practically, “George is eight and twenty. She’s too old to cause a scandal.”

“Thank you, dear.” George sounded rather dry.

“A scandal!” Euphie clutched her dish of tea. “I know you will have your little games, Lady Violet, but I do not think we should bandy the word
scandal
about so carelessly.”

“No, no, of course not,” George murmured soothingly while Violet barely refrained from rolling her eyes—
again.

“All this excitement has wearied me, I fear.” Euphie got to her feet. “Will it put you out terribly if I have a small lie-down, Lady Violet?”

“No, of course not.” Violet suppressed a grin. Every day after tea, regular as clockwork, Euphie found an excuse to have a small lie-down. She had counted on her companion’s routine today as she had in the past.

The door shut behind Euphie, and George looked at Violet. “Well? Your letter was incredibly histrionic, dear. I believe you used the word
diabolical
twice, which seems improbable considering you summoned me to Yorkshire, usually a most undiabolical place. I do hope it’s important. I had to refuse five invitations, including the Oswalt autumn masquerade, which had promised to be full of scandal this year.”

“It is important.” Violet leaned forward and whispered, “Someone is poisoning the sheep on Lord Granville’s land!”

“Yes?” George raised her brows and took a bite from a tart.

Violet blew out an exasperated breath. “Yes! And the poisoner is from your estate. Maybe from Woldsly Manor itself.”

“We did see some dead sheep by the road this morning.”

“Aren’t you concerned?” Violet jumped to her feet and paced in front of her sister. “The servants talk of nothing else. The local farmers are whispering about a witch, and Lord Granville has said you’ll be liable if the poisoner is from this estate.”

“Really?” George popped the rest of the tart into her mouth. “How does he know the sheep have been deliberately poisoned? Couldn’t they just have eaten something bad for them? Or more likely died from disease?”

“The sheep died suddenly, all at once—” “Disease, then.”

“And cut poisonous plants were found by the bodies!”

George sat forward to pour herself a cup of tea. She looked a little amused. “But if no one knows who the poisoner is—they don’t, do they?”

Violet shook her head.

“Then how do they know he is from the Woldsly estate?”

“Footprints!” Violet stopped, arms akimbo in front of her sister.

George quirked an eyebrow.

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.