Hoyt, Elizabeth - The Leopard Prince2.txt

by The Leopard Prince

  “An errand at midnight?” Violet asked. “What could you possibly have

  been doing?”

  “I was consulting Mr. Pye, if you must know, dear. About the sheep

  poisoning.”

  “Mr. Pye?” Violet squawked. “Mr. Pye is the one poisoning the sheep!

  What do you need to consult him about?”

  George stared, taken aback at her sister’s vehemence. “Well, we

  interviewed one of the farmers yesterday, and he told us that hemlock

  was the poison being used. And we were going to inquire of another

  farmer, but there was an incident on the road.”

  “An incident.”

  George winced. “We had a bit of trouble with some men attacking Mr. Pye.”

  “Attacking Mr. Pye?” Violet pounced on the words. “While you were with

  him? You might have been hurt.”

  “Mr. Pye acquitted himself very well, and I’d brought the pistols Aunt

  Clara left me.”

  “Oh, George,” Violet sighed. “Can’t you see the trouble he’s causing

  you? You must turn him over to Lord Granville so he can be properly

  punished. I heard how you sent Lord Granville away the other day when he

  came for Mr. Pye. You’re just being contrary; you know you are.”

  “But I don’t believe he is the poisoner. I thought you understood that.”

  It was Violet’s turn to stare. “What do you mean?”

  George got up to pour herself some more tea. “I don’t think a man of Mr.

  Pye’s character would commit a crime like this.”

  She turned back to the table to find her sister gawking, horrified.

  “You’re not infatuated with Mr. Pye, are you? It’s so awful when a lady

  of your age starts mooning over a man.”

  /Mooning?/ George stiffened. “Contrary to your opinion, eight and twenty

  is not actually in one’s dotage.”

  “No, but it’s an age when a lady should know better.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “You should have some sense of propriety by now. You should be more

  dignified.”

  “Dignified!”

  Violet slapped the table, making the silverware rattle. “You don’t care

  what others think about you. You don’t—”

  “What are you talking about?” George asked, genuinely confused.

  “Why are you doing this to me?” Violet wailed. “It’s not fair. Just

  because Aunt Clara left you piles of money and land you think you can do

  anything you want. You /never/ stop to consider those around you and how

  your actions might affect them.”

  “What is the matter with you?” George set down her cup. “I simply don’t

  believe a /tendre/ I may or may not have is any of your concern.”

  “It’s my business when what you do reflects on the family. On /me./”

  Violet stood up so abruptly her teacup overturned. An ugly brown stain

  started migrating across the tablecloth. “You know very well it isn’t

  proper to be alone with a man like Mr. Pye, and yet you’re having sordid

  assignations with him at night.”

  “Violet! That’s quite enough.” George was startled at her own anger. She

  hardly ever raised her voice to her younger sister. Quickly she held out

  a hand in appeasement, but it was too late.

  Violet was beet red and had tears in her eyes. “Fine!” she shouted.

  “Make a fool of yourself over some baseborn yokel! He’s probably only

  interested in your money, anyway!” The last words hung horribly in the air.

  Violet looked stricken for a moment; then she spun violently and ran out

  the door.

  George pushed her plate aside and laid her head in her arms. It wasn’t a

  day for kippers after all.

  VIOLET POUNDED UP THE STAIRS, her vision blurred. Why, oh why must

  things change? Why couldn’t everything stay the same? At the top, she

  turned right, striding as fast as possible in her voluminous skirts. A

  door ahead of her opened. She tried to duck away but wasn’t quick enough.

  “You’re quite flushed, dear. Is something amiss?” Euphie looked at her

  worriedly, blocking Violet from her own room farther down the corridor.

  “I . . . I have a slight headache. I was just going to lie down.” Violet

  tried a smile.

  “How horrible headaches are,” Euphie exclaimed. “I shall send up a maid

  with a basin of cool water for your brow. Make sure to lay a damp cloth

  on your forehead and change it every ten minutes. Now, where did I put

  my powder? It’s very useful for headaches.”

  Violet felt like screaming as Euphie went into a dither that looked like

  it might last for hours.

  “Thank you, but I think I’ll be all right if I just lie down.” Violet

  leaned forward and whispered, “My woman’s flow, you know.”

  If anything was likely to stop Euphie, it was mention of /women’s

  matters./ She turned bright red and averted her eyes as if Violet was

  wearing a sign proclaiming her condition.

  “Oh, I /comprehend,/ dear. Well, then, you just go lie down. And I’ll

  see if I can find my powder.” She half-covered her mouth with her hand

  and hissed, “It’s good for /that/ as well.”

  Violet sighed, realizing there was no way she could get away without

  accepting Euphie’s help. “That’s sweet of you. Perhaps you can give it

  to my maid when you find it?”

  Euphie nodded, and after further detailed instructions on how to deal

  with /that,/ Violet was mercifully able to escape. In her room, she

  closed and locked the door, and then crossed to sit on the window seat.

  Her room was one of the prettiest in Woldsly, although it was by no

  means the biggest. Faded yellow and blue striped silk hung on the walls,

  and the carpet was an ancient Persian in blues and reds. Normally,

  Violet adored the room. But now it had begun to rain again outside, the

  wind spitting drops against the window and rattling the panes. Had the

  sun shone at all since she’d come to Yorkshire? She leaned her forehead

  against the glass and watched as her breath fogged the window. The fire

  had died on the grate, and her room was dim and cold, perfectly suiting

  her mood.

  Her life was in utter shambles, and it was all her fault. Her eyes

  burned again, and she swiped at them angrily. She’d cried enough in the

  last two months to float a fleet of ships, and it hadn’t done a lick of

  good. Oh, if only one could go back and have a second chance to do

  things over. She’d never do it again, not if she had a second chance.

  She’d know that the feelings—so desperate and urgent at the time—would

  fade soon enough.

  She hugged a blue silk cushion to her chest as the window blurred before

  her eyes. It hadn’t helped to run away. She’d thought that, surely, if

  she left Leicestershire, she’d soon forget. But she hadn’t, and now all

  her problems had followed her to Yorkshire. And George—staid George,

  funny older sister so firmly on the shelf with her flyaway hair and love

  of fairy tales—/George/ was acting strange, hardly noticing Violet at

  all and spending all her time with that dreadful man. George was so

  na•ve, it probably never occurred to her that nasty Mr. Pye was after

  her fortune.

  Or worse.

&n
bsp; Well, that at least she could do something about. Violet tumbled off the

  window seat and ran to her escritoire. She pulled out drawers and

  rummaged through them until she found a sheet of writing paper.

  Uncapping her ink bottle, she sat down. George would never listen to

  her, but there was one person she had to obey.

  She dipped her quill in the ink and began to write.

  “WHY HAVE YOU NEVER MARRIED, Mr. /Pye?/” Lady Georgina stressed his

  surname just to irritate him, Harry was sure.

  Today, she wore a yellow dress printed with birds like none he’d ever

  seen—some of them had three wings. She did look fetching in it, he had

  to admit. She had one of those scarf things that women wore tucked into

  her bodice. It was almost transparent, giving him a teasing hint of her

  titties. That irritated him as well. And the fact that she was beside

  him in the gig again, despite his strong objections, pretty much put a

  cap on things. At least the relentless rain had let up for a bit today,

  although the sky was an ominous gray. He hoped they could reach the

  first cottage before they were soaked.

  “I don’t know.” Harry spoke curtly, a tone he would never have taken

  with her a week ago. The horse seemed to sense his mood and jogged

  sideways, jolting the gig. Harry tightened the reins to bring the nag

  back on the track. “I haven’t met the right woman yet, likely.”

  “Who would be the right woman?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You must have some idea,” she stated with aristocratic certainty. “Do

  you fancy a golden-haired girl?”

  “I—”

  “Or do you prefer black-haired maidens? I once knew a man who would only

  dance with short, black-haired ladies, not that any of them wanted to

  dance with /him,/ mind you, but that never seemed to occur to him.”

  “I’m not particular as to hair,” he muttered when she paused to take a

  breath. Lady Georgina opened her mouth again, but he’d had enough. “Why

  haven’t you married, my lady?”

  There. Let her stew on that a bit.

  She didn’t miss a beat. “It is rather hard to find a promising

  gentleman. I sometimes think it would be easier to find a goose that

  really did lay golden eggs. So many of the gentlemen in society haven’t

  a thought to their head, truly. They consider being knowledgeable about

  hunting or hounds sufficient and don’t worry with anything else. And one

  must make conversation about /something/ at the breakfast table.

  Wouldn’t it be awful to be in a marriage with a lot of awkward pauses?”

  He’d never thought about it. “If you say so.”

  “I do. Nothing but the clicking of the silverware against the china and

  the slurping of tea. Horrible. Then there are the ones who wear corsets

  and use rouge and patches.” She scrunched up her nose. “Have you any

  idea how unappetizing it is to kiss a man wearing rouge on his lips?”

  “No.” Harry frowned. “Have you?”

  “Well, no,” she admitted, “but I have it on good authority that it’s not

  an experience one would want to repeat.”

  “Ah.” That was about the only thing he could think to say, but it seemed

  to do.

  “I was engaged once.” She gazed idly at a herd of cows they were passing.

  Harry straightened. “Really? What happened?” Had some lordling jilted her?

  “I was only nineteen, which, in my opinion, is a rather dangerous age.

  One is old enough to know quite a bit but not wise enough to realize

  there are many things that one /doesn’t/ know.” Lady Georgina paused and

  looked around. “Where, exactly, are we going today?”

  They had crossed into Granville land.

  “To the Pollard cottage,” he said. What had happened with her

  engagement? “You were talking about when you were nineteen.”

  “I found myself engaged to Paul Fitzsimmons; that was his name, you know.”

  “I understand that part,” he nearly growled. “But how did you get

  engaged, and how did it end?”

  “I’m a trifle fuzzy about how I got engaged.”

  He looked at her, brows raised.

  “Well, it’s true.” She sounded defensive now. “One moment I was

  strolling on the terrace with Paul at a dance, discussing Mr. Huelly’s

  wig—it was /pink,/ can you imagine?—and then suddenly, /boom!/ I was

  engaged.” She looked at him as if this made perfect sense.

  He sighed. That was probably the best he would get out of her. “And it

  fell through how?”

  “Not long afterward, I discovered that my bosom beau, Nora

  Smyth-Fielding, was in love with Paul. And when I saw that, it was a

  short step to realizing that he was in love with her. Although”—Lady

  Georgina frowned— “I still don’t understand why he asked me to marry him

  when he so obviously doted on Nora. Perhaps he was confused, poor man.”

  /Poor man, my arse./ This Fitzsimmons sounded like a half-wit. “What did

  you do?”

  She shrugged. “I broke the engagement off, of course.”

  Of course. Too bad he hadn’t been around to show the bastard proper

  manners. The fellow sounded like he could do with a bloody nose. Harry

  grunted. “Makes sense that you’d have trouble trusting a man after him.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it like that. But you know, I think it’s Aunt

  Clara’s inheritance that is the bigger barrier to finding a husband.”

  “How could an inheritance be a barrier?” he asked. “I would have thought

  it would bring the men flocking like crows to a carcass.”

  “What a delightful simile, /Mr. Pye./” Lady Georgina had narrowed her

  eyes at him.

  He winced. “What I meant—”

  “What /I/ meant was that due to Aunt Clara’s inheritance, I don’t ever

  have to marry because of financial reasons. Thus, it becomes much less

  pressing to think about gentlemen in terms of marriage.”

  “Oh.”

  “Which doesn’t stop me from thinking of gentlemen in other terms.”

  Other terms? He looked at her.

  She was blushing. “Than marriage, that is.”

  He tried to work out that convoluted statement, but he had already

  turned the gig into a rutted lane. Now he pulled the horse to a stop

  beside a wretched cottage. Had he not been told otherwise, he would

  never have guessed anyone lived here. Built in the same shape as the

  Oldson cottage, this one was much different. The thatched roof was black

  and rotten, and one part had fallen in. Weeds grew along the walk, and

  the door hung at an angle.

  “Perhaps you should stay here, my lady,” he tried. But she was already

  climbing down from the gig without his help.

  He gritted his teeth and held out his arm pointedly. She took it without

  protest, wrapping her fingers around him.

  He could feel her warmth through his coat, and it soothed him somehow.

  They walked to the door. Harry knocked on it, hoping he wouldn’t bring

  the whole place down.

  Sounds of movement came from within, and then stopped. No one answered

  the door. Harry banged on the door again and waited. He was raising his

  arm to try a third time, when the old wood creaked open. A boy of about


  eight stood mutely in the doorway. His hair, greasy and overlong, hung

  in his brown eyes. He was barefoot and wore clothes gray with age.

  “Is your mother at home?” Harry asked.

  “Who is it, lad?” The voice was harsh, but it held no malice.

  “Gentry, Gran.”

  “What?” A woman appeared behind the boy. She was nearly as tall as a

  man, rawboned and strong-looking despite her age, but her eyes were

  bewildered and fearful, as though angels had come calling at her doorstep.

  “We’ve some questions to ask you. About Annie Pollard,” Harry said. The

  woman simply continued to stare. He might’ve been speaking French. “This

  is the Pollard cottage, isn’t it?”

  “Don’t like to talk about Annie.” The woman looked down at the boy, who

  hadn’t taken his gaze away from Harry’s face. Abruptly, she cuffed him

  across the back of the head. “Go on! Go find something to do.”

  The boy didn’t even blink, just walked past them and around the corner

  of the cottage. Maybe that was how his grandmother always spoke to him.

  “What about Annie?” she asked.