The Leopard Prince (3 page)

“That I did, my lady.”

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?”

Tiggle’s face reddened, but her eyes twinkled. “Too much of the time, I’m afraid.”

“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?”

“Rumors, my lady?” Tiggle slowly folded the gown. “I haven’t been down to the kitchens yet this stay. But I did hear something while at my pa’s. There was a farmer traveling through who lived on Granville land. Said as how the Woldsly steward was doing mischief. Hurting animals and playing pranks at the Granville stables.” Tiggle met George’s eyes in the mirror. “Is that what you mean, my lady?”

George took a breath and let it out slowly. “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”

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.

Lady Georgina strolled toward him in a dress a shade deeper than her blue eyes. “When I sent for you at nine this morning, Greaves looked at me like I was noddycock and informed me you would have left your cottage hours ago.”

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.

Harry looked back impassively.

“And everyone since only yesterday afternoon when we arrived.” She’d run out of fingers and let her hand drop.

Harry said nothing. He felt a twisting in his chest, but that was bootless. Why should she be any different from everyone else?

“They all seem to be under the impression that you’ve been poisoning the neighbor’s sheep with some kind of weed. Although”—her brow puckered—“why everyone should fly up into the boughs about sheep, even murdered sheep, I’m not quite sure.”

Harry stared. Surely she jested? But then again, she was from the city. “Sheep are the backbone of this country, my lady.”

“I know the farmers all raise them hereabouts.” She peered at the cake tray, hand hovering above it, apparently choosing a sweet. “I’m sure people become quite fond of their livestock—”

“They aren’t pets.”

She looked up at his sharp tone, and her eyebrows drew together.

He was impertinent, he knew, but damn it, she needed to know. “They’re life. Sheep are a man’s meat and his clothes. The income to pay the landowner his due. The thing that keeps his family alive.”

She stilled, her blue eyes solemn. He felt something light and frail connect himself and this woman, who was so far above his station. “The loss of an animal might mean no new dress for a man’s wife. Maybe a shortage of sugar in the pantry. A couple of dead sheep could keep his children from winter shoes. For a farmer living lean”—he shrugged—“he might not make the rent, might have to kill the rest of his herd to feed his family.”

Her eyes widened.

“That way lies ruin.” Harry gripped the settee arm, trying to explain, trying to make her understand. “That way lies the poorhouse.”

“Ah. So the thing is more serious than I knew.” She sat back with a sigh. “It would appear I must act.” She looked at him, it seemed, regretfully.

Here it was, finally. He braced himself.

The front doors slammed.

Lady Georgina cocked her head. “What . . .?”

Something crashed in the hall, and Harry leaped to his feet. Arguing voices and a scuffle were coming nearer. He placed himself between the door and Lady Georgina. His left hand drifted down to the top of his boot.

“I’ll see her now, damn your eyes!” The door flew open, and a ruddy-faced man stormed in.

Greaves followed, panting, his wig crooked. “My lady, I am so sorry—”

“That’s all right,” Lady Georgina said. “You may leave us.”

The butler looked like he wanted to protest, but he caught Harry’s eye. “My lady.” He bowed and shut the door.

The man wheeled and looked past Harry to Lady Georgina. “This cannot go on, ma’am! I have had enough. If you cannot control that bastard you employ, I will take matters into my own hands and have great pleasure in doing so.”

He started forward, his heavy face flushed red against his white powdered wig, his hands balled threateningly at his sides. He looked almost exactly the same as he had that morning eighteen years ago. The heavy-lidded brown eyes were handsome even in age. He had the shoulders and arms of a strong man—thick, like a bull. The years had brought closer the gap in their heights, but Harry was still half a head shorter. And the sneer on the thick lips— yes, that was certainly unchanged. Harry would carry the memory of that sneer to his grave.

The man was abreast of him now, paying no attention to him, his gaze focused solely on Lady Georgina. Harry shot out his right hand, his arm a solid bar across the other man’s path. The intruder made to barrel through the barrier, but Harry held firm.

“What th—” The man cut himself off and stared down at Harry’s hand. His right hand.

The one with the missing finger.

Slowly, the other man raised his head and met Harry’s eyes. Recognition flamed in his gaze.

Harry bared his teeth in a grin, though he had never felt less amused in his life. “Silas Granville.” Deliberately he left off the title.

Silas stiffened. “Goddamn you to hell, Harry Pye.”