Princes Trilogy: The Leopard Prince Part 3

"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 cus.h.i.+ons 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 b.a.l.l.s 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 impa.s.sively.

"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 d.a.m.n 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 c.o.c.ked 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, d.a.m.n 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d 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 t.i.tle.

Silas stiffened. "G.o.dd.a.m.n you to h.e.l.l, Harry Pye."

Chapter Three.

No wonder Harry Pye never smiled. The expression on his face at that moment was enough to scare little children into fits. George felt her heart sink. She'd rather hoped that all the gossip about Mr. Pye and Lord Granville was just that: stories made up to entertain bored country folk. But judging from the filthy looks the two men were exchanging, not only did they know each other, but they did indeed have a nasty past.

She sighed. This complicated matters."You cur! You dare show your face to me after the criminal damage you've done on my land?" Lord Granville shouted directly in Mr. Pye's face, spittle flying.

Harry Pye did not reply, but he had an incredibly irritating smirk on his lips. George winced. She could almost sympathize with Lord Granville.

"First the tricks in my stable-the cut halters, the ruined feed, the vandalized carriages." Lord Granville addressed George but never took his eyes from Mr. Pye. "Then sheep killing! My farmers have lost over fifteen good animals in the last fortnight alone. Twenty, before that. And all of it began when he returned to this district, employed by you, madam."

"He had excellent references," George muttered.

Lord Granville swung in her direction. She recoiled, but Mr. Pye moved smoothly with the larger man, keeping his shoulder always between them. His show of protectiveness only enraged Lord Granville further.

"Enough, I say. I demand you dismiss this . . . this scoundrel!" Lord Granville spat the word. "Blood always shows. Like his father before him, he's the lowest form of criminal."

George inhaled.

Mr. Pye didn't speak, but a soft noise came from between his drawn-back lips.

Good Lord, it sounded like a snarl. Hastily, she broke into speech. "Now, Lord Granville, I think you're being rather rash in your condemnation of Mr. Pye. After all, have you any reason to suppose it is my steward instead of someone else doing the damage?"

"Reason?" Lord Granville hissed the word. "Reason? Aye, I've got reason. Twenty years ago this man's father attacked me. Nearly killed me, he was so insane."

George lifted her eyebrows. She darted a look at Mr. Pye, but he'd controlled his face into its customary impa.s.sivity. "I don't see why-"

"He a.s.saulted me as well." Lord Granville speared a finger at the land steward's chest. "Joined his father in trying to murder a peer of the realm."

"But"-she looked from one man to the other, the first the very embodiment of rage, the other showing no expression at all-"but he could hardly have been full grown twenty years ago. Wouldn't he be a boy of . . . of-"

"Twelve." Mr. Pye spoke for the first time since he'd uttered the other man's name. His voice was quiet, almost a whisper. "And it was eighteen years ago. Exactly."

"Twelve is plenty old enough to murder a man." Lord Granville batted aside the objection with the flat of his hand. "It's well known that the common rabble mature early-the better to breed more vermin. At twelve, he was as much a man as he is now."

George blinked at this outrageous statement, said with a perfectly straight face and apparently believed as fact by Lord Granville. She glanced again at Mr. Pye, but if anything, he appeared bored. Obviously, he'd heard this sentiment or ones very like it before. She wondered briefly how often he'd listened to such drivel in his childhood.

She shook her head. "Be that as it may, my lord, it does not sound as if you have concrete evidence of Mr. Pye's culpability now. And I really do feel-"

Lord Granville threw something down at her feet. "I have evidence." His smile was quite odious.

George frowned and looked at the thing by her embroidered shoe tip. It was a little wooden figure. She bent to pick it up, a small, treacle-colored figurine, no larger than the ball of her thumb. Its features were partially obscured by dried mud. She turned it over, rubbing the dirt off. A hedgehog carved in exquisite detail emerged. The artist had cleverly taken advantage of a dark spot in the wood to highlight the bristles on the tiny animal's back. How sweet! George smiled in delight.

Then she became aware of the silence in the room. She looked up and saw the dreadful stillness with which Mr. Pye stared at the carving in her hand. Dear Lord, surely he hadn't really- "That, I think, is evidence enough," Lord Granville said.

"What-?"

"Ask him." Granville gestured at the hedgehog, and George instinctively closed her fingers as if to protect it. "Go on, ask him who made that."

She met Mr. Pye's eyes. Was there a flicker of regret in them?

"I did," he said.

George cradled the carving in her two hands and brought them to her breast. Her next question was inevitable. "And what does Mr. Pye's hedgehog have to do with your dead sheep?"

"It was found next to the body of a ram on my land." Lord Granville's eyes bore the unholy light of triumph. "Just this morning."

"I see."

"So you must dismiss Pye at the very least. I'll have the charges written up and a warrant for his arrest drawn. In the meantime, I'll take him into my custody. I am, after all, the magistrate in this area." Lord Granville was almost jovial in his victory. "Perhaps you can lend me a brace of strong footmen?"

"I don't think so." George shook her head thoughtfully. "No, I'm afraid that just won't do."

"Are you out of your mind, woman? I offer to solve the problem for you-" Lord Granville cut himself off impatiently. He marched to the door, waving his hand. "Fine. I'll just ride back to my estate and bring my own men to arrest the fellow."

"No, I think not," George said. "Mr. Pye is still in my employ. You must let me handle this matter as I see fit."

Lord Granville stopped and turned. "You're insane. I'll have this man by sundown. You have no right-"

"I have every right," George interrupted him. "This is my steward, my house, my land. And you are not welcome upon it." Striding swiftly, she took both men by surprise, moving past them before they could object. She threw open the door and continued into the hall. "Greaves!"

The butler must have been hovering nearby because he appeared with amazing speed. He was accompanied by the two biggest footmen in her service.

"Lord Granville will be leaving now."

"Yes, my lady." Greaves, a perfect example of his kind, showed no satisfaction as he hurried forward to offer Lord Granville his hat and gloves, but his step was bouncier than usual.

"You'll regret this." Lord Granville shook his head slowly, heavily, like an enraged bull. "I'll make sure of it."

Mr. Pye was suddenly at George's side. She fancied she could feel his warmth even though he touched her not at all.

"The door is this way, my lord," Greaves said, and the footmen moved to flank Lord Granville.

She held her breath until the big oak doors banged shut. Then she blew it out. "Well. At least he is out of the manor."

Mr. Pye brushed past her.

"I haven't finished talking to you," George said, irritated. The man could at least thank her before leaving. "Where are you going?"

"I have some questions that need answering, my lady." He bowed briefly. "I promise to present myself to you by tomorrow morning. Anything you have to say to me can be said then."

And he was gone.

George slowly unclasped her fist and looked again at the elfin hedgehog. "And what if what I have to say can't wait until tomorrow?"

G.o.dd.a.m.n HARRY PYE and that haughty b.i.t.c.h as well! Silas Granville kicked his black gelding into a gallop as he left the Woldsly Manor gates. The animal tried to shy at the sting of the spurs, but Silas was having none of it. He yanked viciously on the reins, driving the bit into the soft sides of the horse's mouth until the animal tasted the copper of its own blood. The gelding subsided.

To what end did Lady Georgina protect Harry Pye? It wouldn't be long before Silas returned, and when he did, he'd be sure to bring a small army. She wouldn't be able to prevent him from dragging Pye away.The gelding hesitated at the ford in the stream that divided Granville land from the Woldsly estate. The stream was wide and shallow here. Silas spurred the horse, and it splashed into the water. Bright drops of blood swirled and mixed with the current and were swept away downstream. The hills rolled up from the stream, hiding the approach to Granville House. A man on foot, carrying baskets on a yoke across his shoulders, was in the lane. He scrambled to the side at the sound of the gelding's hoofbeats. As Silas rode by, the man doffed his cap. Silas didn't bother acknowledging him.

His family had held these lands since the time of the Tudors. Granvilles had married, begot, and died here. Some had been weak and some had been intemperate in drink or women, but that didn't matter. What mattered was the land. For the land was the foundation of their wealth and of their power-the foundation of Silas's power. No one-especially not a baseborn land steward-was going to endanger that foundation. Not while the blood still beat in his veins. The loss of monies from the dead sheep on his lands was minimal, but the loss of pride-of honor- was too great to bear. Silas would never forget the sheer insolence on Pye's young face nearly twenty years ago. Even as his finger was being cut off, the boy had stared him in the eye and sneered. Pye had never behaved as a peasant should. It was important that Silas make a show of punis.h.i.+ng Harry Pye for his criminal affront.

The gelding turned in at the great stone gates, and Silas nudged the horse into another gallop. He topped a rise and Granville House appeared. Gray granite, four stories high, with wings that formed a square around an inner courtyard, Granville House loomed over the surrounding countryside. The building was imposing and stern, meant to signal here is authority to any who saw it.

Silas cantered to the front door. He pursed his lips in distaste as he saw the figure in crimson and silver on the steps.

"Thomas. You look like a sodomite in that rig." He dismounted and threw the reins to a stable hand. "How much did that garment set me back at the tailor's?"

"Hullo, Father." His eldest son's face blotched red. "It really wasn't all that dear." Thomas stared at the blood on the gelding's heaving sides. He licked his lips.

"Gad, you're blus.h.i.+ng like a la.s.s." Silas brushed past the boy. "Come and sup with me, Miss Nellie."

He smirked as his son hesitated behind him. The boy didn't have much choice, did he? Not unless he'd grown a set of b.o.l.l.o.c.ks overnight. Silas stomped into his dining room, perversely pleased to see that the table wasn't set.

"Where the h.e.l.l's my dinner?"

Footmen jumped, maids scurried, and the butler babbled out apologies. Too soon the table was ready and they sat down to dine.

"Eat some of that." Silas pointed with a fork at the rare meat, lying in a pool of blood on his son's plate. "Mayhap you'll grow hair on your chest. Or elsewhere."

Thomas hazarded a half smile at Silas's baiting and shrugged one shoulder nervously.

Jesus! How had he ever thought this boy's mother would make a good breeder? His offspring, the fruit of his loins-which he never doubted, because his late wife hadn't the spirit to cuckold him-sat across from him and poked at his meat. His son had inherited Silas's height and brown eyes but that was all. His overlong nose, lipless mouth, and puling nature were all his mother's. Silas snorted in disgust.