The Leopard Prince (6 page)

“Going for a drive,” Violet repeated. “By yourself? At eight in the morning?”

George tilted her chin, but her cheeks were turning pink. “Mr. Pye will accompany me. He wishes to show me some things around the estate. Tenants and walls and crops and such, I suppose. Terribly boring, but necessary.”

“Mr. Pye! But, George, you can’t go out alone with him.”

“Why not? He is my land steward, after all. It’s his job to keep me informed about estate matters.”

“But—”

“I really must go, dear. The man is apt to take off without me if I’m late.” And with that, George all but ran down the stairs.

Violet followed more slowly, her brow knit in thought. What was George about? She couldn’t still trust the land steward, could she? Not after the accusations she’d heard, not after Lord Granville had stormed the manor yesterday? Perhaps her sister was trying to find out more about Mr. Pye on her own. But in that case, why had she blushed?

Violet nodded to the footmen as she entered the morning room where breakfast was served. She had the gold and pale blue room to herself—Euphie never rose before nine in the morning, even in the country. She went to the sideboard and helped herself to a bun and a slice of gammon, and then sat down at the pretty gilt table. Only then did she notice the letter by her plate. The handwriting was distinctively slanted backward.

“When did this arrive?” She took a too-quick sip of tea and burned her mouth.

“This morning, my lady,” one of the footmen murmured.

It was a silly question, and she wouldn’t have asked it, but she’d been stalling before opening the letter. She picked it up and turned it over to pry up the seal with a butter knife. She took a deep breath before unfolding the paper and then had trouble releasing it. It was important she not show her emotions before the servants, but it was difficult. Her worst fears had been realized. She’d had two months of respite, but now that was over.

He’d found her.

“Good morning.” Lady Georgina waved happily.

She was wearing some sort of red-and-white-patterned frock that should have jarred with her ginger hair but didn’t. On her head was a wide-brimmed hat tilted rakishly down in front and up in back where her hair was massed. Red ribbons on the crown of the hat fluttered in the breeze. She looked dainty and aristocratic, like she was out for a picnic in the country.

“I’ve had Cook pack a luncheon,” she called as he neared, confirming his worst fears.

Harry stopped himself in time from casting his eyes heavenward.
God help me.
“Good morning, my lady.”

It was another dreary, gray day. No doubt they would be rained on before the morning was out.

“Would you like to drive?” She scooted across the seat to make room for him.

“If you don’t mind, my lady.” He climbed in, making the gig rock on its oversized wheels.

“Oh, no, I don’t mind at all.” He could feel her gaze as he gathered the reins. “I can drive, naturally; it’s how I arrived here this morning, after all. But I find it’s much nicer to watch the scenery without worrying about the horses and the road and all that.”

“Indeed.”

Lady Georgina sat forward, her cheeks flushed with the wind. Her lips were slightly parted like a child looking forward to a treat. He felt a smile form on his own lips.

“Where will we be going today?” she asked.

He brought his eyes back to the road. “I want to visit another of the farmers whose sheep were killed. I need to find out what exactly killed the animals.”

“Wasn’t it a poisonous weed?”

“Yes,” he replied. “But no one I’ve talked to seems to know what kind, and it could be several. Wolfsbane is poisonous, though rare in these parts. Some folk grow belladonna and foxglove in their gardens—both can kill sheep and people as well. And there are common plants, such as tansy, that grow wild in pastures and will kill sheep if they eat enough.”

“I had no idea there are so many poisons growing in the countryside. It quite makes one shiver. What did the Medicis use?”

“The Medicis?”

Lady Georgina wriggled her little rump on the carriage seat. “You know, those deliciously horrible Italians with the poison rings that went about killing anyone who looked at them askance. What d’you suppose they used?”

“I don’t know, my lady.” The way her mind worked.

“Oh.” She sounded disappointed. “What about arsenic? That’s very poisonous, isn’t it?”

“It’s poisonous, but arsenic isn’t a plant.”

“No? Then what is it?”

He had no idea. “A sort of seashell that is ground into a powder, my lady.”

There was a short pause while she thought that one over.

Harry held his breath.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her squint at him. “You’re making that up.”

“My lady?”

“That bit about arsenic being a
sort of seashell.
” She lowered her voice on the last words to mimic him.

“I assure you”—Harry kept his tone bland—“it’s a pinkish seashell found only in the Adriatic Sea. The local villagers harvest the shells with long rakes and sieves. There is a yearly festival to celebrate the catch.” He fought to prevent his lips from twitching. “The Annual Adriatic Arsenic Assail.”

Silence—and, he was fairly certain—stunned silence at that. Harry felt a surge of pride. It wasn’t just any man who could make Lady Georgina lose her power of speech.

Not that it lasted long.

“I shall have to watch you, Mr. Pye.”

“My lady?”

“Because you are
evil.
” But her words shook as if she barely held in the laughter.

He smiled. He hadn’t felt so light in a very, very long time. He slowed the horse as they came to the stream that separated her estate from Granville’s land. He scanned the horizon. Theirs was the only vehicle on the road.

“Surely Lord Granville wouldn’t be so rash as to attack us here.”

He glanced at her, brows raised.

She frowned impatiently. “You’ve been watching the hills since we neared the stream.”

Ah. She’d been aware. He reminded himself not to underestimate her, even when she played the aristocratic ninny. “Granville would be insane to try an attack.” Which didn’t mean he wouldn’t.

Reapers harvested barley to their right. Usually reapers sang as they worked, but these labored in silence.

“Lord Granville has his workers out on a misty day,” Lady Georgina said.

He pressed his lips together to forestall a comment on Granville’s agricultural practices.

A sudden thought occurred to her. “I haven’t noticed anyone in my fields since I’ve arrived at Woldsly. Are you worried they might get the ague?”

Harry stared at her.
She didn’t know.
“The grain is still too damp to store. Only a fool would order the reapers out on a morning like this.”

“But”—she knitted her brows—“don’t you need to harvest it before frost?”

“Yes. But if the grain is wet, it’s worse than useless to harvest it. It would merely spoil in the storage bins.” He shook his head. “Those workers are wasting their strength on grain that will rot, anyway.”

“I see.” She seemed to think about that for a minute. “What will you do with the Woldsly harvest, then?”

“There’s nothing to do, my lady, except pray for a break in the rain.”

“But if the harvest is ruined . . .”

He straightened a bit in the seat. “Your revenue will be considerably lessened from the estate this year, I’m afraid, my lady. If the weather clears, we might still get most of the crop in, maybe all of it. But every day that goes by lessens that chance. The tenants on your land need those crops to feed their families as well as pay you your share. The farmers won’t have much left over—”

“I don’t mean that!” Now she was frowning at him, looking insulted. “Do you think me such a . . . a
fribble
that I’d care for my income over a tenant’s ability to feed his children?”

Harry couldn’t think of anything to say. All the landowners in his experience did indeed have more concern for their income than the well-being of the people who worked their land.

She continued, “We will, of course, waive the rent monies due me for this year if the harvest fails. And I will make available loans to any farmer who might need one to see him through the winter.”

Harry blinked, startled by a sudden lightness in his heart. Her offer was more than generous. She’d removed a burden from his shoulders. “Thank you, my lady.”

She looked down at her gloved hands. “Don’t thank me,” she said gruffly. “I should have realized. And I’m sorry for being cross with you. I was embarrassed to know so little about my own estate. You must think me an idiot.”

“No,” he replied softly, “only a lady who is city bred.”

“Ah, Mr. Pye.” She smiled, and his chest seemed to warm. “Ever the diplomat.”

They crested a rise, and Harry slowed the gig to turn into a rutted lane. He hoped they wouldn’t lose a wheel in the potholes. The lane led to a crofter’s cottage, long and low, with a thatched roof. Harry pulled the horse to a halt and jumped from the gig.

“Who lives here?” Lady Georgina asked when he went to her side to help her down.

“Sam Oldson.”

A shaggy terrier ran out from around the building and began barking at them.

“Sam!” Harry shouted. “You there, Sam! Are you home?”

He wasn’t about to go nearer the cottage with that dog growling so seriously. It was a smallish dog, true, but the small ones were more apt to bite.

“Aye?” A burly man wearing a reaper’s straw hat came from the shed. “Shuddup, dog!” He roared to the still-barking terrier. “Get on with you!”

The dog tucked its tail under its rear and sat.

“Good morning.” Lady Georgina spoke brightly from beside Harry.

Sam Oldson snatched the hat from his head, baring a wild nest of black hair. “Ma’am. I didn’t see you there at first.” He ran a hand through his hair, making it stand up even more, and looked helplessly at the cottage. “My woman’s not home. Visiting her mum she is, otherwise she’d be out here offering you a drink and a bite to eat.”

“That’s quite all right, Mr. Oldson. We did arrive unexpectedly, I know.” She smiled at the man.

Harry cleared his throat. “This is Lady Georgina Maitland from Woldsly.” He thought it best not to introduce himself, though Sam was no fool. Already he was beginning to scowl. “We’ve come to ask you about the sheep you lost. The ones that were poisoned. Did you find them yourself?”

“Aye.” Sam spat into the dust at his feet, and the terrier cringed at his tone. “A little over a fortnight ago, it were. I’d sent my lad to bring them in and he come running back quick. Said I’d better come see myself. There they were, three of my best ewes, rolled on their sides with tongues sticking out and bits of green leaves still in their mouths.”

“Do you know what they’d eaten?” Harry asked.

“False parsley.” Sam’s face turned purple. “Some son of a bitch had cut down false parsley and fed it to my sheep. And I says to my lad, I says, when I get my hands on the villain that’s killed my sheep, he’ll wish he’d never been born, he will.”

Time to go. Harry grabbed Lady Georgina around the waist and threw her up onto the carriage seat. She squealed.

“Thank you.” He walked swiftly around the front of the carriage, keeping an eye on Sam Oldson. The dog had begun to growl again.

“Here now, why’re you asking questions?” Sam started toward them.

The dog lunged and Harry bound into the carriage and caught up the reins. “Good day, Sam.”

He turned the horse’s head and slapped it into a trot down the track. Behind them, Sam made a reply not fit for a lady’s ears. Harry winced and glanced at Lady Georgina, but she was looking thoughtful rather than outraged. Maybe she hadn’t understood the words?

“What is false parsley?” she asked.

“It’s a weed that grows in wet places, my lady. About the height of a man with little white flowers at the top. It looks something like parsley or wild carrots.”

“I’ve never heard of it before.” Lady Georgina’s brows were knit.

“You probably know it by its other name,” Harry said. “Hemlock.”