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.”
/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 impassivity. “I don’t see why—”
“He assaulted 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?”
GODDAMN HARRY PYE and that haughty bitch as well! Silas Granville kicked
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