The Leopard Prince (31 page)

She tapped her foot on the flagstones. When Harry and his friends had first shown up, it had been quite tense, exciting really, with all those swords waving about. She’d thought for sure that some type of fight would break out. She’d been all ready to start tearing up her underskirts in the proscribed manner should any blood be spilled. But as the minutes wore on, the gentlemen had begun to look, well,
bored.

The big man with the scarred face started poking the tip of his sword into the cracks in the church flagstones. The elegant-looking man was glaring at the big man and lecturing him on the proper maintenance of blades. The third man in Harry’s group had brown hair and was wearing a terribly dusty coat. That was all she knew about him because his back was to everyone else as he idly inspected the church’s stained-glass windows. He had a small boy by his side and appeared to be pointing out to him the biblical scenes depicted in the glass.

Meanwhile, Oscar, Ralph, Cecil, and Freddy, the defenders of George’s honor, were arguing about the correct way to hold a sword. Ralph’s eye was swollen and turning greenish yellow, and Oscar was limping. She’d have to find out about that later.

Violet sighed. It was all rather disappointing.

“I say, aren’t you de Raaf?” Tony had returned from knocking on the vestry with an odd, almost embarrassed expression. He addressed the scarred man. “The Earl of Swartingham, I mean?”

“Yes?” The big man frowned ferociously.

“Maitland here.” Tony stuck out his hand.

Lord Swartingham stared at the proffered appendage for a moment, then sheathed his sword. “How d’you do?” He tilted his head toward the elegant man. “This is Iddesleigh, viscount.”

“Ah, indeed.” Tony shook hands with him as well. “Heard of you, de Raaf.”

“Oh?” The big man looked wary.

“Yes.” Tony was unperturbed. “Read a manuscript of yours a while back. About crop rotation?”

“Ah.” The big man’s face cleared. “Do you practice crop rotation on your lands?”

“We’ve begun to. We’re a bit farther north than you, and peas are a major crop in the area.”

“And barley and swedes,” Oscar cut in. He and Ralph wandered over.

“Naturally,” Lord Swartingham murmured.

Swedes?
Violet stared. They were discussing farming as if they were at an afternoon tea. Or rather, in this case, at the neighborhood tavern.

“Sorry.” Tony indicated his brothers. “This is Oscar and Ralph, my younger brothers.”

“How d’you do?”

Another round of masculine handshaking.

Violet shook her head dumbly. She would never, never,
never
understand the human male.

“Oh, and this is Cecil and Freddy Barclay.” Tony cleared his throat. “Cecil was to marry my sister.”

“Not anymore, I fear,” Cecil said ruefully.

They all chuckled, the boobies.

“And you must be the little sister,” a male voice said in her ear.

Violet whirled to find Harry’s third friend standing behind her. He’d left the boy kicking his heels in a pew. Up close, the man’s eyes were a beautiful green, and he was suspiciously handsome.

Violet narrowed her own eyes. “Who are you?”

“Granville, Bennet Granville.” He bowed.

Violet didn’t curtsy. This was too confusing. Why would a Granville be helping Harry?

“Lord Granville nearly killed Mr. Pye.” She scowled up at Bennet Granville.

“Yes, I’m afraid he’s my father.” His smile slipped a bit. “Not my fault, I assure you. I had very little to do with my conception.”

Violet felt her mouth start to relax into a smile and suppressed it ruthlessly. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, that is a story—” Mr. Granville cut himself off, and his gaze moved over her head. “Ah, I think they’re emerging.”

And the questions Violet had been about to ask slid from her mind. She turned to see if George had decided which man she would marry.

Apparently he wanted an answer now. She tried to think, hoping her brain hadn’t turned to mush like her legs. “I love you, Harry, you know I do. But what about your reservations? That others would think you my pet”—she gulped, hating to say the word—“monkey?”

He nuzzled the hair at her temple. “I can’t deny that it will bother me. That and what they will say about you. But the thing is”—he raised his head and she saw that his emerald eyes had grown soft, almost vulnerable—“I don’t think I can live without you, my lady.”

“Oh, Harry.” She cradled his face in her palms. “My brothers like you, as does Violet. And, really, they’re all that matter in the end. The rest can go hang for all I care.”

He smiled, and as always, her heart sang at the sight. “Then will you marry me and be my lady for all our lives?”

“Yes. Yes, of course I’ll marry you.” She felt tears start in her eyes. “I love you desperately, you know.”

“And I love you,” he said rather absently, in her opinion. He carefully removed himself from her sensitive flesh.

“Oh, must you?” George tried to hold on to him.

“I’m afraid so.” Harry was swiftly rebuttoning his breeches. “They’re waiting for us out there.”

“Oh, let them wait.” She wrinkled her nose. He’d just proposed to her in a most romantic manner. Couldn’t she savor the moment?

Harry leaned forward to flip down her skirts and kiss her nose. “We’ll have plenty of time to lounge about after.”

“After?”

“After our marriage.” Harry frowned at her. “You did just agree to marry me.”

“But I didn’t imagine right away.” She checked her bodice. Why wasn’t there a mirror in here?

“You were ready to marry that popinjay out there right away.” Harry gestured with an outflung arm.

“That was different.” Did she look like she’d been doing what she had been doing? “And Cecil isn’t a popinjay; he’s—” She noticed that his expression had darkened alarmingly. Perhaps it was time to change the subject. “We can’t get married. We need a license.”

“I already have one.” Harry patted his coat pocket. It crinkled.

“How—?”

He cut her off with a kiss that could only be described as masterful. “Are you going to marry me or not?”

George clutched at his arms. Really, some of Harry’s kisses left her quite weak. “I’m going to marry you.”

“Good.” Harry tucked her arm through his and marched her to the door.

“Stop!”

“What?”

Men could be so obtuse. “Do I look like I’ve just been tumbled?”

Harry’s lips twitched. “You look like the most beautiful woman in the world.” He kissed her soundly again. He hadn’t exactly answered her question, but it was too late now.

He opened the door.

The two camps had merged into one lump, crowded around the altar. Good Lord, they hadn’t been fighting, had they? Everyone turned expectantly.

George cleared her throat, trying to put together the right words. Then she saw something and stopped dead. “Harry . . .”

“My lady?”

“Look.” She pointed.

A Persian carpet of lights danced on the formerly dingy floor: cobalt blues, ruby reds, and amber yellows. She followed the beam of light back to its source, the rose window above the altar. It glowed, lit from without by sunshine.

“The sun has come out,” George whispered in awe. “I’d almost forgotten what it looked like. Do you think it’s shining in Yorkshire as well?”

Harry’s green eyes sparkled down at her. “I have no doubt, my lady.”

“Ahem.” George looked up to see Violet staring at them in a rather exasperated manner.
“Well?”

She smiled. “I shall be marrying Mr. Pye today.”

Violet squealed.

“About time,” someone, probably Oscar, muttered.

George ignored that and tried to look contrite as she turned to poor Cecil. “I am so sorry, Cecil. I—”

But Cecil interrupted, “Don’t worry your head, old thing. I shall dine out on this tale for the next year. It isn’t every day a fellow is left at the altar.”

“Eh?” A cry from the front pew brought everyone around. The vicar straightened his wig. He returned his spectacles to his nose and searched the gathering until his eyes lit on George. “Now, then, young lady. Which of these gentlemen will you marry?”

“This one.” She squeezed Harry’s arm.

The vicar inspected Harry and sniffed. “Doesn’t look that much different from the other one.”

“Nevertheless”—she fought to remain sober-faced— “this is the man I want.”

“Very well.” The vicar frowned at Harry. “Have you a license?”

“Yes.” He produced the piece of paper. “And my brothers will serve as groomsmen.”

Bennet walked to Harry’s side and stood with Will just a little behind him. The boy looked both terrified and excited.

“Brothers?”
Violet hissed.

“I’ll explain later,” George said. She blinked back sudden tears.

“My dinner is waiting, so let us commence.” The vicar cleared his throat noisily. He began again in the same falsetto voice he’d used before, “Dearly beloved . . .”

Everything else was different.

The sun shone through the rose window, lighting and warming the little church. Tony looked relieved, as if a terrible burden had been lifted from his shoulders. Ralph grinned next to him. Oscar winked at George as she caught his eye. Violet kept shooting puzzled glances at Bennet, but in between she grinned at George. Bennet stood a little awkwardly beside Harry, but he seemed proud as well. Will was bouncing on his toes in excitement.

And Harry . . .

George looked at him and felt a great bubble of joy well up inside her. Harry watched her as if she were the center of his soul. He wasn’t smiling, but his beautiful emerald eyes were warm and serene.

When it came time to pledge herself to Harry, George leaned toward him and whispered, “I forgot one thing when I told you about the end of the fairy tale.”

Her almost husband smiled down at her and asked gravely, “What was that, my lady?”

She savored the moment and the love in his eyes, then declared, “And they lived happily ever after!”

“So they did,” Harry whispered back, and kissed her.

Vaguely she heard the vicar moan, “No, no, not yet!” and then, “Oh, never mind. I pronounce you man and wife.”

And that was how it should be, George thought as she opened her mouth beneath her husband’s. She was Harry’s wife.

And Harry was her man.

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“Mr. Hedge,” Lucy called over her shoulder. She glanced around the lonely lane leading from the town of Maiden Hill to the Craddock-Hayes house. It appeared the same as before she’d made her find: deserted, except for herself; her manservant, puffing a ways behind her; and the corpse lying in the ditch. The sky hung low and wintry gray. The light had already begun to leak away, though it was not yet five o’clock. Leafless trees lined the road, silent and chill.

Lucy shivered and drew her wrap more closely about her shoulders. The dead man lay sprawled facedown, naked and battered. The long lines of his back were marred by a mass of blood on his right shoulder. Below were lean hips, muscular, hairy legs, and curiously elegant, bony feet. She blinked and returned her gaze to his face. Even in death he was handsome. His head, turned to the side, revealed a patrician profile: long nose, high bony cheeks, and a wide mouth. An eyebrow, winging over his closed eye, was bisected by a scar. Closely cropped pale hair grew flat to his skull, except where it was matted by blood. His left hand was flung above his head and on the index finger was an impression where a ring had once been. His killers must’ve stolen it along with everything else. Around the body the mud was scuffed, the imprint of a boot heel stamped deep beside the dead man’s hip. Other than that, there was no sign of whoever had dumped him here like so much offal.

Lucy felt silly tears prick at her eyes. Something about the way that he’d been left, naked and degraded by his murderers, seemed a terrible insult to the man. It was so unbearably sad.
Ninny,
she chided herself. She became conscious of a muttering drawing steadily closer. Hastily, she swiped at the moisture on her cheeks.

“First she visits the Joneses and all the little Joneses, snotty-nosed buggers. Then we march up the hill to old woman Hardy—nasty biddy; don’t know why she hasn’t been put to bed with a shovel yet. And is that all? No, that’s not all by half. Then,
then
she must needs call round the vicarage. And me carting great jars of jelly all the while.”

Lucy suppressed an urge to roll her eyes. Hedge, her manservant, wore a greasy tricorne smashed down over a shock of gray hair. His dusty coat and waistcoat were equally disreputable, and he’d chosen to highlight his bowlegs with scarlet-clocked stockings, no doubt Papa’s castoffs.

He halted beside her. “Oh, gah, not a deader!”

In his surprise, the little man had forgotten to stoop, but when Lucy turned to him, she saw his wiry body decay before her eyes. His back suddenly curved, the shoulder bearing the awful weight of her now empty basket fell, and his head hung to the side listlessly. As the pice de rŽsistance, Hedge took out a checkered cloth and laboriously wiped his forehead.

Lucy ignored all this. She’d seen the act hundreds, if not thousands, of times in her life. “I don’t know that I would have described him as a
deader,
but he is indeed a corpse.”

“Well, best not stand here gawping. Let the dead rest in peace, I always say.” Hedge made to sidle past her.

She placed herself in his path. “We can’t just leave him here.”

“Why not? He was here before you trotted past. Wouldn’t never have seen him neither, if we’d’ve taken the shortcut through the common like I said.”

“Nevertheless, we did find him. Can you help me carry him?”

Hedge staggered back in patent disbelief. “Carry him? A great big bloke like that? Not unless you want me crippled for sure. My back’s bad as it is, has been for twenty years. I don’t complain, but still.”

“Very well,” Lucy conceded. “We’ll have to get a cart.”

“Why don’t we just leave him be?” the little man protested. “Someone’ll find him in a bit.”

“Mr. Hedge . . .”

“He’s stabbed through the shoulder and all over bloody. It’s not nice, that.” Hedge screwed up his face until it resembled a rotten pumpkin.

“I’m sure he didn’t mean to be stabbed, through the shoulder or not, so I don’t think we can hold that against him,” Lucy chided.

“But he’s begun to go off!” Hedge waved the handkerchief in front of his nose.

Lucy didn’t mention that there hadn’t been any smell until he’d arrived. “I’ll wait while you go fetch Bob Smith and his cart.”

The manservant’s bushy gray eyebrows drew together in imminent opposition.

“Unless you would prefer to stay here with the body?”

Hedge’s brow cleared. “No, mum. You knows best, I’m sure. I’ll just trot on over to the smithy—”

The corpse groaned.

Lucy looked down in surprise.

Beside her, Hedge jumped back and stated the obvious for both of them.

“Jaysus Almighty Christ! That man ain’t dead!”

Dear Lord.
And she’d been standing here all this while, bickering with Hedge. Lucy swept off her wrap and threw it across the man’s back. “Hand me your coat.”

“But—”

“Now!” Lucy didn’t bother giving Hedge a look.

She rarely used a sharp tone of voice, making it all the more effective when she did employ it.

“Awww,” the manservant moaned, but he tossed the coat to her.

“Go fetch Doctor Fremont. Tell him it’s urgent and that he must come at once.” Lucy gazed sternly into her manservant’s beady eyes. “And Mr. Hedge?”

“Yes’m?”

“Please run.”

Hedge dropped the basket and took off, moving surprisingly fast, his bad back forgotten.

Lucy bent and tucked Hedge’s coat around the man’s buttocks and legs. She held her hand under his nose and waited, barely breathing, until she felt the faint brush of air. He was indeed alive. She sat back on her heels and contemplated the situation. The man lay in the ditch on half-frozen mud and in the weeds, which were cold and hard. That couldn’t be good for him, considering his wounds. But as Hedge had noted, he was a big man and she wasn’t sure she could move him by herself. She peeled back a corner of the wrap covering his back. The slit in his shoulder was crusted with dried gore, the bleeding already stopped to her admittedly inexperienced eyes. Bruises bloomed across his back and side. Lord only knew what the front of him looked like.

And then there was the head wound.

She shook her head. He lay so still and white. No wonder she’d mistaken him for dead. But all the same, Hedge could’ve already been on his way to Doctor Fremont in the time they’d taken to argue over the poor man.

Lucy checked again that he was breathing, her palm hovering above his lips. His breath was light, but even. She smoothed the back of her hand over his cold cheek. Almost invisible stubble caught at her fingers. Who was he? Maiden Hill was not so big that a stranger could pass through it without notice. Yet she had heard no gossip about visitors on her rounds this afternoon. Somehow he’d appeared here in the lane without anyone noticing. And the man had obviously been beaten and robbed. Why? Was he merely a victim or had he somehow brought this fate upon himself?

Lucy hugged herself on the last thought and prayed Hedge would hurry. The light was fading fast and was taking with it what little warmth the day had held. A wounded man lying exposed to the elements for Lord knows how long . . . She bit her lip.

If Hedge didn’t return soon, there would be no need of a doctor.