Princes Trilogy: The Leopard Prince Part 2

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 facade. The vines were trimmed back from around tall, mullioned windows. A mult.i.tude 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 quant.i.ties."

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 d.a.m.ning. 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 princ.i.p.al problem with older siblings was that they never took one seriously.

"I'M SORRY I WASN'T WITH YOU, my lady, when you had the accident," Tiggle puffed behind George the next morning. The lady's maid was fastening an interminable row of hooks on the sapphire sack dress George had chosen to wear.

"I don't know what you'd have done, except end up in the ditch with us," George addressed Tiggle over her shoulder. "Besides, I'm sure you enjoyed the visit with your parents.""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 m.u.f.fled.

"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 la.s.ses 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 b.u.m."

"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."

THAT AFTERNOON, HARRY HUNCHED OVER his saddle in the relentless drizzle. He'd expected to be summoned to the manor almost from the moment they'd driven onto the Woldsly estate. Surprisingly, it had taken a full day and night for Lady Georgina to send for him. He nudged his mare into a trot up the long, winding drive to Woldsly Manor. Perhaps it was because she was a lady.

When he'd first learned that the owner of the multiple estates he would be managing was a woman, he'd been taken aback. A woman didn't usually own land by herself. Normally, if she did have an estate, there was a man-a son or husband or brother-in the background, the real power in how the lands were run. But although Lady Georgina had three brothers, it was the lady herself who was in control. And what was more, she'd come by the lands through inheritance, not marriage. Lady Georgina had never wed. An aunt had left everything to her and apparently stipulated in the will that Lady Georgina would have the reins of her holdings and their income.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 noddyc.o.c.k 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.