The Leopard Prince (13 page)

Silas whirled and peered into the dark alley between the Cock and Worm and the neighboring building. “Who are you? How dare you speak to me thus?”

“I’m juss a little bird.” A harsh feminine giggle.

Silas felt pressure building in his temple. “Come out of there or I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” the voice sneered. A face appeared, ghostly in the shadows. It was lined and worn and belonged to an old woman Silas couldn’t remember ever seeing before. “You’ll what?” she repeated, cackling like a demon. “He’s been killing your sheep for weeks and you’ve done naught. You’re juss an old man. Ol’ man Granville, lord of nothing! How’s it feel to be under the spur of the new cock?”

She turned and started staggering down the road, one hand held out to balance herself against the wall.

Silas was on her in two steps.

“Mmm.” Violet shrugged one shoulder.

At least she was still alive. What had happened to her vivacious younger sister? The one who was constitutionally unable to refrain from exclaiming about every little thing?

“I do like soft-boiled eggs,” Euphie fluted from the other end of the table. “Of course, it is very important that they still be
moist
and not at all dried out.”

George frowned as she took a sip of tea. Hadn’t Euphie noticed the almost deathly quiet of her charge?

“Kidneys are nice as well,” Euphie continued. “If they’ve been prepared in butter. But I can’t abide gammon in the morning. I don’t know how anyone can, really.”

Perhaps it was time to find a younger companion for Violet. Euphie was a dear but a tad absentminded at times.

“Would you like to go riding today?” George asked. Maybe Violet just needed fresh air. “I saw a lovely vista the other day, and I thought if you brought your pencils, you could sketch it. Tony says—”

“I’m sorry.” Violet leaped from her seat. “I . . . I can’t go today.”

She ran from the room.

“Young people are so abrupt, aren’t they?” Euphie looked puzzled. “When I was a girl, I’m sure my mother told me a hundred times, ‘Euphemia, do not rush about. The true mark of a lady is her ability to be sedate.’”

“Very enlightening, I’m sure,” George said. “Do you know what is bothering Violet?”

“Bothering her, my lady?” Euphie cocked her head like a bird. “I don’t know that she is actually
bothered.
I think any little change from her normal behavior might be blamed on her youth and certain
monthly
happenings.” She blushed and hurriedly took a drink of tea.

“I see.” George studied the older woman thoughtfully. Perhaps she would be better employed as M’man’s companion. Her absentmindedness would certainly do no harm there. “Well, I thank you for your insight. And now if you will excuse me?” George stood and walked out of the breakfast room as Euphie was still murmuring her consent.

She hurried up the stairs to Violet’s room.

“Violet, dear?” George knocked at her door.

“What is it?” Her sister’s voice sounded suspiciously stuffy.

“I wanted to talk with you, if I may?”

“Go away. I don’t want to see anyone. You never understand.” The key turned in the lock.

Violet had locked her out.

George stared at the door. Fine, then. She was certainly not going to engage in an argument through solid wood. She stomped down the hallway. Euphie was in her own little world, Violet was sulking, and Harry . . . George opened the door to her bedroom so forcefully it banged against the wall. Harry wasn’t anywhere to be found. She’d had her gig at his cottage at seven this morning, and he’d already left.
Coward!
And men thought women faint of heart. He was probably out doing male things in the delusion that work needed being done, when in reality, he was simply avoiding her. Ha! Well, two could play at that game. She struggled out of her day dress and yanked on a riding costume. She turned in a complete circle, trying to fasten the hooks in the back before she conceded defeat and rang for Tiggle.

The maid arrived wearing the same half-mournful, half-consoling expression she’d worn since the previous disastrous night.

George nearly lost control at the sight. “Help me do this up, please.” She presented her back.

“You’re going riding, my lady?”

“Yes.”

“In this weather?” Tiggle looked doubtfully at the window. A wet tree branch lashed against it.

“Yes.” George frowned at the tree branch. At least there was no lightning.

“I see.” Tiggle bent behind her to reach the hooks at her waist. “It’s a pity about last night—that Mr. Pye turned down your invitation.”

George stiffened. Did all the servants feel sorry for her now? “He didn’t turn me down. Well, not precisely.”

“Oh?”

George could feel the heat stealing up her face. Drat pale complexions. “He asked me what I wanted from him.”

Tiggle, who was picking up the discarded day dress, stopped and stared at her. “And what did you answer, my lady? If you don’t mind me asking.”

George threw up her hands. “I didn’t know what to say. I mumbled something about never having done this before and he left.”

“Oh.” Tiggle frowned.

“What does he want me to say?” George paced to the window. “ ‘I want you naked, Harry Pye?’ Surely it’s usually done with more finesse than that? And why demand my intentions? I can’t imagine most
affairs de coeur
begin on such a lawyerly note. I’m surprised he didn’t ask for them in writing: ‘I, Lady Georgina Maitland, do request Mr. Harry Pye to make very fine love to me.’ Really!”

There was silence behind her. George winced. Now she’d shocked Tiggle. Could this day get any—

The maid started laughing.

George turned.

Her maid was doubled over, trying to catch her breath. “Oh, my lady!”

George’s mouth twitched. “It isn’t that funny.”

“No, of course not.” Tiggle bit her lip, plainly struggling. “It’s just, ‘I want you naked, Ha-Ha-Harry Pye.’” She went off again.

George plopped on the side of the bed. “What am I going to do?”

“I’m sorry, my lady.” Tiggle sat beside her, the dress still in her arms. “Is that what you want from Mr. Pye? An affair?”

“Yes.” George wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know. If I’d met him at a ball, I wouldn’t have asked him for an affair.”

She would’ve danced with him, then flirted and exchanged witty banter. He would’ve sent flowers the next morning and maybe asked her to drive in the park. He would’ve courted her.

“But a land steward wouldn’t be invited to the balls you attend, my lady,” Tiggle said soberly.

“Exactly.” For some reason this simple fact had George blinking back tears.

“Well, then”—Tiggle sighed and rose—“since there isn’t any other choice, maybe you should just tell him what you’ve told me.” She smiled without meeting George’s eyes and left the room.

George flopped back on her bed.
I wish . . .
She sighed. If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride.

He’d ridden out before dawn and had worked ever since, inspecting crops. He couldn’t stand the stink of his own body anymore. He swiftly stripped to the waist and poured the heated water into a basin. It was barely tepid, but he used it to wash under his arms, his chest, and his back. Finally, he poured clean water into the basin and dunked his head and face in. The cool water ran down his face, dripping off his chin. It seemed to wash away not only the filth of the day, but all the mental ills as well— the frustration and anger and helplessness. Harry caught up a cloth and toweled his face.

There was a knock at the door.

He froze, the cloth still in his hand. Had Granville’s men finally come for him? He put out the lantern, drew his knife, and stole to the door. Standing to one side, he flung it wide.

Lady Georgina stood outside, the rain dripping from her hood. “May I come in?” Her gaze lowered and caught at his bare chest. Her blue eyes widened.

Harry felt his cock harden at her reaction. “I didn’t think you waited on my permission to enter, my lady.” He turned back to the table to put on his shirt.

“Sarcasm doesn’t become you.” She walked in and shut the door.

He uncovered his supper—bean soup—and sat to eat it.

Lady Georgina dropped her cloak untidily on a chair. He felt her glance at him before she wandered to the fireplace. She touched each of the animal carvings with a fingertip and then came back toward him.

He spooned up some of the soup. It was cold now but still tasty.

She trailed her fingers across the table, stopping at the letter. She picked it up. “You know the Earl of Swartingham?”

“We frequent the same coffeehouse in London.” He poured himself a mug of ale. “Sometimes he writes me about agricultural matters.”

“Really.” She started reading the letter. “But he sounds like he considers you a friend. His language is certainly casual.”

Harry choked and snatched the letter from her hand, startling her. Lord Swartingham’s writing could be colorful at times—not fit for a lady. “How can I help you, my lady?”

Lady Georgina drifted away from the table. Her manner seemed off, and it took him a minute to place it.

She was nervous.

Harry narrowed his eyes. He’d never seen her flustered before.

“You wouldn’t let me finish my tale last time,” she said. “About the Leopard Prince.” She halted by the fire and turned a curiously vulnerable face to him.

With one cold word, he could send her flying, this woman whose station so far outranked his. Had he ever had that much power over an aristocrat? He doubted it. The problem was that sometime in the last week she’d stopped being merely a member of the aristocracy and had become . . . a woman. Lady Georgina.

His
lady.

“Please tell me your story, my lady.” Harry ate some more of Mrs. Burns’s soup, chewing on a piece of mutton.

She seemed to relax and turned back to the mantel, playing with the whittled animals as she spoke. “The Leopard Prince defeated the ogre and brought back the Golden Horse. Did I tell you that part?” She glanced at him.

Harry nodded.

“Yes, now . . .” She scrunched her nose in thought. “The young king, do you remember him?”

“Mmm.”

“Well, the young king took the Golden Horse from the Leopard Prince, probably without even a ‘thank you very much,’ and carted it off to the princess”—she waved a hand—“or rather to her
father,
the
other
king. Because the princess doesn’t have any say-so, does she?”

He shrugged. It was her fairy tale; he’d no idea.

“They very rarely do. Princesses, I mean. They get sold off to old dragons and giants and such all the time.” Lady Georgina was frowning at a badger. “Where’s the stag?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The stag.” She pointed at the mantel. “It’s not here. You didn’t knock it into the fire, did you?”

“I don’t think so, but I might’ve.”

“You’ll have to find another place for them. It’s too dangerous here.” She began lining the carved animals at the back of the mantel.

“As you wish, my lady.”

“Anyway,” Lady Georgina continued, “the young king brought the Golden Horse to the father king and said, ‘Here you are, and how about your beautiful daughter, then?’ But what the young king didn’t know was that the Golden Horse could speak.”

“It’s a talking metal horse?”

She appeared not to hear him. “The minute the young king left the room, the Golden Horse turned to the other king, the father king—are you following me?”

“Mmm.” His mouth was full.

“Good. All these kings are very confusing.” She heaved a sigh. “And the Golden Horse said, ‘That’s not the man who freed me. You’ve been tricked, Your Majesty.’ And didn’t that make the father king mad.”

“Why?” Harry drank some ale. “The father king had possession of the Golden Horse. Why would he care one way or the other who actually stole it?”

She set her hands on her hips. “Because stealing the Golden Horse is a test. He wants only the man who can do that to marry his daughter.”

“I see.” The whole thing sounded silly. Wouldn’t a noble father be more interested in the richer man rather than the stronger? “So, then, he didn’t really want the Golden Horse.”

“He probably wanted the Golden Horse as well, but that’s neither here nor there.”

“But—”

“What
is
important”—Lady Georgina glared at him— “is that the father king marched straight back to the young king and said, ‘See here, the Golden Horse is all very well, but what I really want is the Golden Swan that belongs to a very nasty witch. So if you want the princess, off you go to get it.’ What do you think of that?”

It took a moment for Harry to realize that the last was said to him. He swallowed. “There seem to be a lot of golden animals in this fairy tale, my lady.”

“Ye-es,” Lady Georgina said. “That did occur to me, too. But they can’t very well be anything else, can they? I mean, it wouldn’t do to have a copper horse or a lead swan.” She frowned and switched a mole with a sparrow.

He watched her thoughtfully. “Is that all, my lady?”

“What?” She didn’t look up from the little animals. “No, there’s lots more.” But she didn’t elaborate.

He pushed the remains of his supper away. “Are you going to tell me the rest?”

“No. Not right now, anyway.”

He got up from the table and took a step closer. He didn’t want to frighten her. He felt as if he had his own golden swan within reach. “Then, will you tell me why you’ve really come, my lady?” he asked. He could smell the perfume in her hair, an exotic scent like spices from distant lands.

She set a thrush next to a cat. The bird toppled over, and he waited while she carefully righted it. “I need to tell you something. Besides the fairy tale.” Her face was half turned away, and he could see the glistening trail of a tear on her cheek.

A kind man—an
honorable
man—would leave her alone. He would pretend he didn’t see the tears and would turn away. He would not trespass upon her fears and desires. But long ago Harry had lost what little honor he’d ever had.

And he had never been kind.

He touched her hair with a fingertip, feeling the soft strands. “What do you need to tell me?”

She turned to face him, and her eyes were bright in the firelight, uncertain and hopeful and as alluring as Eve herself. “I know now what I want from you.”