Not while Silas Granville ruled this land.
Bennet shook his head. “Poison isn’t the method Harry would use if he wanted revenge on you. He loves the land and the people who farm it.”
“Loves the land?” Silas scoffed. “How can he? He doesn’t own any land. He’s naught but a paid custodian. The land he tends and works on belongs to someone else.”
“But the farmers still come to him, don’t they?” Bennet asked softly, his eyes narrowed. “They ask him his opinion; they follow his guidance. Even many of your own tenants go to Harry when they have a problem—or at least they did before all this started. They wouldn’t dare come to you.”
A line of pain shot along Silas’s left temple. “Why should they? I’m not the tavern keep, someone for the farmers to bawl their troubles to.”
“No, you’re not interested in other people’s troubles, are you?” Bennet drawled. “But their respect, their allegiance—that’s a different matter.”
He had the allegiance of the local people. Didn’t they fear him? Stupid, dirty peasants, to seek the council of one of their own just because he’d risen a little from their ranks. Silas felt sweat drip down his neck. “Pye’s envious of his betters. He wishes he was an aristocrat.”
“Even if he was envious, he wouldn’t use this method to get back at his betters, as you term it.”
“Method?” Silas slammed the flat of his hand on his desk. “You talk as if he were a Machiavellian prince instead of a common land steward. He’s the son of a whore and a thief. What type of method do you think he’d use other than sneaking around poisoning animals?”
“A whore.” Bennet’s lips thinned as he poured himself another finger of whiskey. Probably how he spent all his time in London—on drink and women. “If Harry’s mother—my mother—was a whore, who do you think made her so?”
Silas scowled. “What do you mean, talking to me in that tone? I’m your father, boy. Don’t you ever forget that.”
“As if I’m likely to forget that you sired me.” Bennet gave a bark of laughter.
“You should be proud—” Silas began.
His son sneered and emptied his glass.
Silas surged to his feet. “I saved you, boy! If it weren’t for me—”
Bennet flung his tumbler into the grate. The glass exploded, flinging sparkling shards onto the carpet. “If it weren’t for you, I would’ve had a mother, not your frozen bitch of a wife who was too proud to show affection for me!”
Silas swept the papers from his desk with his arm. “Is that what you want, boy? A mother’s tit to suckle?”
Bennet turned white. “You’ve never understood.”
“Understood? What’s there to understand between a life lived in the muck and one in a manor? Between a starving bastard and an aristocrat who can afford all that’s good in life? I gave you that. I gave you everything.”
Bennet shook his head and stalked to the door. “Leave Harry alone.”
He shut the door behind him.
Silas raised his arm to swipe at the only thing still on his desk, the inkstand, but he paused when he saw his hand. It was shaking. Bennet. He sank into his chair.
Bennet.
He’d brought him up strong, made sure he could ride like a demon and fight like a man. He’d always favored the boy and made no bones about it. Why should he? Couldn’t anyone see that this was the son a man could be proud of? In return he’d expected… what? Not like or love, but respect, certainly. Yet, his second son treated him like a pile of dung. Came to Granville House only for money. And now took the side of a baseborn servant against his own sire. Silas pushed away from his desk. He needed to deal with Harry Pye before he became any more of a threat. He couldn’t let Pye drive a wedge between himself and Bennet.
The door opened a crack, and Thomas peeked around it like a timid girl.
“What do you want?” Silas was too tired to yell.
“I saw Bennet rush by. He’s back, eh?” Thomas eased into the room.
“Oh, yes, he’s back. And that’s why you invited yourself into my study? To exchange the news that your brother has returned?”
“I heard some of the words you had with him.” Thomas crept another few steps forward as if approaching a wild boar. “And I wanted to offer my support. About seeing Harry Pye punished, I mean. He’s quite obviously the one doing this, anyone can understand that.”
“Lovely.” Silas eyed his eldest with a curled lip. “And what, exactly, can you help me with?”
“I talked to Lady Georgina the other day. I tried to tell you.” The muscle under Thomas’s right eye had started to twitch.
“And she told you she would hand over Pye, tied with a pretty bow, at our convenience?”
“N-no, she seemed charmed by him.” Thomas shrugged. “She is a woman, after all. But perhaps if there was further evidence, if we had men guarding the sheep…”
Silas chuckled hoarsely. “As if there are enough men in the county to watch all the sheep on my land every night. Don’t be more of a fool than you can help.” He crossed to the whiskey decanter.
“But if there was evidence linking him—”
“She wouldn’t accept anything but a signed confession from Pye. We have evidence—Pye’s carving, found right by the dead sheep—and she still thinks him innocent. It’d be different if instead of a sheep, a man, or—” Silas stopped midsentence, staring sightlessly at his newly filled whiskey glass. Then he threw back his head and began to laugh, great, bellowing guffaws that shook his frame and spilled the whiskey in his glass.
Thomas looked at him as if he’d lost his mind.
Silas slapped the boy on the back, nearly bowling him over. “Aye, we’ll give her evidence, boy. Evidence that not even she can ignore.”
Thomas smiled tremulously, the pretty boy. “But we haven’t any evidence, Father.”
“Oh, Tommy, my lad.” Silas took a gulp of the whiskey and winked. “Who says evidence can’t be made?”
“THAT WILL BE ALL. You may have the rest of the night off.” George smiled in what she hoped was a casual manner. As if she always dismissed Tiggle before supper.
Apparently it didn’t work.
“All, my lady?” The maid straightened from putting away a stack of linens. “What do you mean? You’ll be undressing later, surely?”
“Yes, of course.” She felt her face heat. “But I thought I’d manage it myself tonight.”
Tiggle stared.
George nodded confidently. “I’m sure I’ll be able. So you may go.”
“What are you up to, my lady?” Tiggle placed her hands on her hips.
This was the problem with having the same servants for years on end. One didn’t inspire the proper awe.
“I’m having a guest to dinner.” She waved a hand airily. “I just thought you wouldn’t want to wait for me.”
“It’s my job to wait for you,” Tiggle said suspiciously. “Has Lady Violet’s maid had the night off as well?”
“Actually”—George ran a fingertip along her dresser—“it’s a very private dinner. Violet won’t be attending.”
“Won’t be—”
The maid’s exclamation was interrupted by a knock on the door. Darn! She’d hoped to have Tiggle out of the way by now.
George opened the door. “In my sitting room, please,” she told the footmen outside.
“My lady,” Tiggle hissed as George passed her on the way to the connecting door.
George ignored her and opened the door. In the sitting room, the footmen were busy rearranging the furniture and setting up the table they’d had to bring in. A fire was flickering in the grate.
“What…?” Tiggle dogged George into the sitting room but immediately quieted in the presence of the other servants.
“Is this how you want it, my lady?” one of the footmen asked.
“Yes, that will do nicely. Now, be sure and alert Cook when Mr. Pye arrives. We’ll want supper promptly.”
The footmen
bowed out, which, unfortunately, freed the lady’s maid from her self-imposed silence.
“You’re having Mr. Pye to dinner?” Tiggle sounded scandalized. “All alone?”
George tilted her chin in the air. “Yes, I am.”
“Oh, my Lord, why didn’t you tell me, my lady?” Tiggle abruptly turned and ran back into the bedroom.
George stared after her.
The maid’s head popped around the door frame, and she beckoned urgently. “Hurry, my lady! There’s not much time.”
Feeling like she’d been goosed, George followed her into the bedroom.
Tiggle was already at the vanity table, rummaging through bottles. She held up a small glass vial as George neared. “This’ll do. Exotic, but not overwhelming.” She snatched the fichu from around her mistress’s neck.
“What are you—” George raised her hands to her suddenly bare décolletage.
The maid batted her hands away. She removed the bottle’s glass stopper and stroked it down George’s neck and between her breasts. The scent of sandalwood and jasmine hovered in the air.
Tiggle recapped the bottle and stepped back to look at her assessingly. “I think the garnet drops instead.”
George obediently searched through her jewelry box.
From behind her Tiggle sighed. “It’s a pity I haven’t time to redo your hair, my lady.”
“It was fine a moment ago.” George squinted into the mirror as she replaced her earrings.
“A moment ago I didn’t know you were meeting a gentleman.”
George straightened and turned.
Tiggle knit her brows as she inspected her.
George ran a hand self-consciously across her green velvet gown. A row of black bows marched down the bodice, echoed at the elbows. “Will I do?”
“Yes.” Tiggle nodded firmly. “Yes, my lady, I think you’ll do.” She walked swiftly to the door.
“Tiggle,” George called.
“My lady?”
“Thank you.”
Tiggle actually blushed. “Good luck, my lady.” She grinned and disappeared.
George strolled back into the sitting room and shut the door to her bedroom. She sat down in one of the armchairs by the fire and immediately jumped up; then she crossed to the mantel and inspected the clock sitting upon it. Five minutes after seven o’clock. Perhaps he didn’t have a timepiece? Or maybe he was just a habitually late man? Or perhaps he didn’t intend to come—
Someone knocked at the door.
George froze and stared at it. “Come in.”
Harry Pye opened the door. He hesitated, watching her with the door still ajar behind him.
“Won’t you come in?”
He walked in but left the door open. “Good evening, my lady.” He was at his most indecipherable.
George started babbling. “I thought we might have a quiet dinner to discuss the poisoning and the attack and what we might want to do—”
Footmen appeared at the door—thank goodness!—and started laying the table. Behind came more servants, bearing covered dishes and wine. There was a flurry of activity. She and Harry watched silently as the servants arranged the meal. Finally, most of the servants departed, leaving only one footman to serve dinner. That correct gentleman held the chairs, first for George and then for Harry. They sat and he began ladling the soup.
The room was deathly silent.
George looked from the footman to Harry. “I think we’ll manage, thank you.”
The footman bowed and left.
And they were alone. George peeked at Harry, who was frowning down at his soup. He didn’t care for consommé?
She broke her roll, a thunderclap in the quiet. “I hope you didn’t catch a chill from the stream this afternoon?”
Harry lifted his spoon. “No, my lady.”
“Because the stream looked extremely cold.”
“I am fine, my lady. Thank you.”
“Good. Well… that’s good.” George chewed and furiously tried to think of something to say. Her mind was a complete blank.
Harry suddenly set his spoon down. “Why did you call me here tonight?”
“I just said—”
“You wanted to talk about the poisoning and the attack, yes, I know.” Harry rose from the table. “But your breasts are all but naked, and you’ve sent the servants away. The other servants. Why do you really want me here?” He stood almost menacingly, his jaw bunched, his hands fisted.
“I…” George’s heart quickened. Her nipples had tightened the moment he said breasts.
His eyes flickered down, and she wondered if he knew.
“Because I’m not what you think I am,” Harry said evenly as he advanced around the table toward her. “I’m not a servant to jump to your bidding and then lie down when you’ve done with me.” His voice was deepening. “I’m not someone you can dismiss like those footmen, like everyone else in this manor. I’m a man with blood in his veins. If you start something with me, don’t expect me to turn into a lapdog, panting at your call.” Harry seized her upper arms and drew her against his hard body. “Don’t expect me to be your servant.”
George blinked. The idea of confusing this man, who fairly crackled with danger, with a lapdog was absurd.
He drew a finger slowly across the edge of her bodice, watching her reaction. “What do you want with me, my lady?”
Her breasts seemed to swell. “I…” She couldn’t think while he touched her; she didn’t know what to say. What did he need to hear? George looked around the room for help but saw only the piles of food and dishes. “I’m not sure, really. I don’t have any experience in this.”
He dipped two fingers below her bodice and brushed her nipple. She shuddered. Oh, my. Harry pinched the nipple, sending sparks all the way to her most private places. George closed her eyes.
She felt his breath caress her cheek. “When you figure it out, my lady, let me know.”
He closed the door quietly behind him.
Chapter Nine
Bennet walked into the Cock and Worm at just after midnight that evening. The tavern was crowded and loud at that hour, the smoke from innumerable pipes hovering in a cloud near the ceiling. Harry sat in a dark corner and watched young Mr. Granville move with the overly cautious gait of a man who was already the worse for drink. Walking into a disreputable place like the Cock and Worm with one’s senses impaired wasn’t a particularly bright thing to do, but that wasn’t Harry’s worry. An aristocrat gambling with his own safety wasn’t his business—now or ever.
Harry took a pull from his mug and switched his gaze to the two local harlots drumming up trade. The younger of the wenches, a blonde, sat on a ruddy-faced man’s lap. Her titties were right under his chin—as if she was worried he was near-sighted. The man’s eyes were glazed, and the harlot made stealthy movements at the front of his trousers. It wouldn’t be long before the two came to an understanding.
The second harlot, a red-haired wench, caught his gaze and tossed her head. She’d already tried her charms with him, and he’d sent her away. Of course, if he flashed a purse now, she’d be smiling soon enough. The more ale he drank, the more he began to rethink turning the redhead down. He’d been randy for days now, and the object of his bone-on, despite her offer, wasn’t likely to help him now, was she?
Harry scowled into his ale. What had she been after, his Lady Georgina, when she invited him to her private rooms? Not what he’d wanted to think, that’s for sure. The lady was a virgin, and the first rule of aristocratic maidens was Guard well thy virginity. Don’t, whatever you do, go handing it out to the hired help. The lady had been looking for the thrill of a stolen kiss or two. He was forbidden fruit to her. Good thing he’d resisted her blandishments. Few men he knew could’ve done so. He nodded and drank to his own wisdom.
But then he remembered how she’d looked earlier that night. Her eyes had been so blue and so unwary, belying the temptation of her low neckline. Her breasts had seemed to glow in the firelig
ht. The thought of her even now made his too-alert prick come to attention. He frowned, disgusted at his own weakness. Actually, none of the men he knew—
Crash!
Harry jerked around.
Young Mr. Granville slid across a table, headfirst, knocking ale-filled glasses to the floor. Each glass detonated with a small, wet explosion upon impact with the floor.
Harry took another swig from his mug. This wasn’t his worry.
The men at the table weren’t pleased. One fellow with hands the size of hams hauled Bennet upright by his shirtfront. Bennet flailed at the other man, catching him a blow to the side of the head.
Not his worry.
Two other men grabbed Bennet’s wrists, jerking them behind him. The man in front buried his fist in Bennet’s belly. Bennet doubled over. He tried to kick, but he was heaving bile from the blow to the stomach. His feet missed his attacker by miles. Behind them, a tall woman threw back her head and laughed drunkenly. She looked familiar, wasn’t she…? The big man drew back his fist again in preparation.
Not his worry. Not his… oh, the hell with it.
Harry stood and drew the knife from his boot in one movement. No one was paying any attention to him and he was on the man about to hit Bennet before anyone noticed him. From this angle, a quick stab to the side followed by a twist of the wrist would kill the man before he even fell. But death wasn’t what Harry was after. He sliced the man’s face open instead. Blood gushed, blinding the man. He bellowed and dropped Bennet. Harry slashed one of the men holding Bennet’s wrists, then waved his blade in front of the second man’s eyes.
That one raised his hands. “Hold on! Hold on! We was only teaching him his manners!”
“Not anymore,” Harry whispered.
The man’s eyes flickered.
Harry ducked—in time to protect his head but not his shoulder—as a chair smashed across his side. He turned and stabbed. The man behind him howled, clutching a bleeding thigh. Another crash and the thwack of flesh hitting flesh. Harry realized that Bennet was standing back-to-back with him. The aristo wasn’t as pie-eyed as he’d thought. He was able to fight, at least.