“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 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 punishing 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 blushing like a lass.” 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 bollocks overnight. Silas stomped into his dining room, perversely pleased to see that the table wasn’t set.
“Where the hell’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.
“Were you able to see Lady Georgina?” Thomas had taken a bite of the beef and was chewing it as if he held dung in his mouth.
“Oh, aye, I saw the arrogant bitch. Saw her in the library at Woldsly. And Harry Pye, damn his green eyes.” He reached for a roll.
Thomas stopped chewing. “Harry Pye? The same Harry Pye who used to live here? Not a different man with the same name? Her steward, I mean.”
“Aye her steward.” Silas’s voice rose on the last word to a mincing falsetto. His son flushed again. “It’s not like I’m apt to forget those green eyes any time soon.”
“I suppose not.”
Silas looked hard at his son, his eyes narrowed.
“You’ll have him arrested?” Thomas spoke quickly, one shoulder up.
“As to that, I’ve run into a slight problem.” Silas curled his upper lip. “Seems Lady Georgina doesn’t want her steward arrested, stupid wench.” He took another swig of ale. “Doesn’t think the evidence is damning enough. Probably doesn’t care one way or the other about dead livestock—my dead livestock—seeing as she’s from London.”
“The carved figurine didn’t convince her?”
“No, it did not.” Silas picked a bit of gristle from between his front teeth. “Ridiculous to let a woman have that much land, anyway. What’s she want it for? Probably cares more for gloves and the latest dance in London than she does for her estate. The old woman should have left it to a man. Or made her get married so she’d have a husband to run it.”
“Perhaps…” Thomas hesitated. “Perhaps I could talk to her?”
“You?” Silas flung back his head and laughed until he began to choke. Tears appeared in his eyes, and he had to take a drink.
Thomas was silent on the other side of the table.
Silas wiped his eyes. “It’s not as if you have a way with the ladies, now, is it, Tommy, my boy? Not like your brother, Bennet. That lad had his first cream jug while still in the schoolroom.”
Thomas’s head was bowed. His shoulders twitched up and down.
“Have you ever even bedded a wench?” Silas asked softly. Slyly. “Ever felt soft, fat titties? Ever smelled the fishy odor of eager twat?” He leaned back, balancing his chair on two legs, and watched his son. “Ever plunged your pud into a willing woman and fucked her until she screamed?”
Thomas jerked. His fork slid off the table and rattled onto the floor.
Silas sat forward. The front legs of his chair came down with a thump. “I thought not.”
Thomas stood so suddenly his chair crashed over. “Bennet isn’t here, is he? And not likely to be here anytime soon.”
Silas pursed his lips at that.
“I’m your oldest son. This will be my land someday. Let me try to talk to Lady Georgina.”
“Why?” Silas cocked his head.
“You can go there and take Pye by force,” Thomas said. “But it isn’t likely to endear her to us. And while she’s our neighbor, it behooves us to remain on good terms. He’s only her steward. I can’t believe she’d start a feud over the man.”
“Aye. Well, I don’t suppose you can make it any worse.” Silas drained his ale and banged down his cup. “I’ll give you a couple of days to try and talk sense into the woman.”
“Thank you, Father.”
Silas ignored his son’s gratitude. “And when you fail, I’ll break down the doors of Woldsly if I have to and drag Harry Pye out by his neck.”
HARRY SHIVERED AS HE GUIDED the bay mare up the track leading to his cottage. In his rush to question the Granville farmers this morning, he hadn’t bothered to take a cloak. Now it was well after sundown, and the fall nights were chilly. Overhead, the leaves in the trees rattled in the wind.
He should’ve waited and let Lady Georgina say whatever she was going to say this morning. But the realization that someone was actively trying to implicate him in the sheep killings had spurred him from the room. What was happening? There had been vicious rumors for weeks that he was the killer. Gossip that had started almost from the moment the first dead sheep had been found a month ago. But Harry had brushed aside talk. A man couldn’t be arrested for talk. Evidence was a different matter.
His cottage stood off the main drive to Woldsly Manor, built, God only knew why, in a little copse. Across the drive was the gatekeeper’s cottage, a much bigger building. He could have turned the gatekeeper out and taken possession of the larger house when he had first came to Woldsly. A steward, after all, was higher in status than a mere gatekeeper. But the man had a wife and family, and, the smaller cottage was farther back from the drive and hidden in the trees. It had more privacy. And he was a man who treasured his privacy.
He swung down from the mare and led her to the tiny lean-to against the back of the cottage. Harry lit the lantern hanging inside the door and took off the horse’s saddle and bridle. Weariness of body and spirit dragged at his limbs. But he carefully rubbed down the mare, watered her, and gave her an extra scoop of oats. His father had drummed into him at an early age the importance of taking care of one’s animals.
With a final pat for the already dozing mare, he picked up the lantern and left the stable. He walked around the cottage on the well-worn path toward the door. As he neared the front door, his step faltered. A light flickered through his cottage window.
Harry put out his lantern. He backed into the underbrush beside the path and hunkered down to think. From the size of the light, it looked to be a single candle. It didn’t move, so it probably stood on a table inside. Maybe Mrs. Burns had left the candle burning for him. The gatekeeper’s wife sometimes came to clean and leave him a meal. But Mrs. Burns was a thrifty woman, and Harry doubted she would waste a candle—even a tallow candle like the ones he used—on an empty cottage.
Someone waited for him inside.
And wouldn’t that be a surprise after arguing with Granville this morning? If they meant to jump him, surely they would’ve taken care to wait in darkness? After all, he hadn’t suspected anything until he’d seen the light. Had his cottage been dark, he’d have gamboled up, as trusting as a newborn lamb. Harry gave a soft snort. So. They—whoever they were—were very assured, waiting for him in his own home. They figured that even with the light showing so plainly from his windows, he’d be stupid or brash enough to walk right in.
And maybe they were right.
Harry set the lantern down, took the knife from his boot, and rose silently from his crouch. He stole to the cottage wall. His left hand held the knife by his thigh. Quietly he skimmed along the stone wall until he was at the door. He grasped the door handle and pressed the latch slowly. He took a breath and flung open the door.
“Mr. Pye, I had begun to think you would never come home.” Lady Georgina knelt by his fireplace, looking quite unperturbed by his sudden entrance. “I’m afraid I’m hopeless at lighting fires, otherwise I would’ve made some tea.” She rose and dusted off her knees.
“My lady.” He bent and brushed his left hand over the top of his boot, sheathing the knife. “Naturally I’m honored to have your company, but I’m also surprised. What are you doing in my cottage?” He shut the door behind him and walked to the fireplace, picking up the burning candle on the way.
She stepped aside as he crouched by the hearth. “I fear I d
etect some sarcasm in your tone.”
“Do you?”
“Mmm. And I am at a loss to understand why. After all, it was you who walked away from me this morning.”
The lady was peeved.
Harry’s lips curved as he lit the already laid fire. “I apologize most humbly, my lady.”
“Humph. A less humble man I have yet to meet.” From the sound of her voice, she was wandering the room behind him.
What did she see? What did this little cottage look like to her? In his mind’s eye, he reviewed the inside of his cottage: a wooden table and chairs, well made but hardly the cushioned luxury of the manor’s sitting rooms. A desk where he kept the record books and ledgers of his job. A set of shelves with some coarse pottery dishes—two plates, two cups, a bowl, a teapot, forks and spoons, and an iron cooking pot. A door off to one side that was no doubt open, so she could see his narrow bed, the hooks that held his clothes, and the dresser with the earthenware washbasin and pitcher.
He stood and turned.
Lady Georgina was peering into his bedroom.
He sighed silently and walked to the table. On it sat a crock covered with a plate. He lifted the plate and looked inside the pot. Mutton stew left by Mrs. Burns, cold now, but welcome nonetheless.
He went back to the hearth to fill the iron kettle with water and swing it over the fire. “Do you mind if I eat, my lady? I haven’t had my supper yet.”
She turned and stared at him as though her mind has been elsewhere. “Please. Do go ahead. I wouldn’t want you to accuse me of withholding food.”
Harry sat at the table and spooned some of the stew onto a plate. Lady Georgina came and looked curiously at his supper and then moved to the fireplace.
He watched her as he ate.
She examined the animal carvings lining his mantel. “Did you make all these?” She gestured to a squirrel with a nut between its paws and glanced back at him.
“Yes.”
“That’s how Lord Granville knew you’d made the hedgehog. He’d seen your work before.”