The Leopard Prince (Princes #2)(8)

“It’s just that I don’t like to think of you alone with that Mr. Pye, my lady.” Tiggle’s voice was muffled.

“Whyever not? He was a perfect gentleman.”

“I should hope so!” Tiggle sounded outraged. “Still. He’s a bit of a cold fish, isn’t he?” She gave a final tug and stepped back. “There. That’s done.”

“Thank you.” George smoothed the front of her gown.

Tiggle had served her since before George had come out, so many years ago now. She had laced and unlaced what must be a thousand gowns and had lamented with George over the frizziness of her orangey-red hair. Tiggle’s own hair was a smooth golden blond, the preferred color of all those fairy tales. Her eyes were blue, and her lips the requisite ruby red. Indeed, she was a very lovely woman. Were her life a fairy tale, George should be the goose girl and Tiggle the fairy princess.

She walked to her vanity table. “Why do you think Mr. Pye is a cold fish?” She opened her jewel box and began rummaging for the pearl drops.

“He never smiles, does he?” In the mirror, she could see Tiggle gathering her nightclothes. “And the way he watches a body. Makes me feel like I’m a cow he’s sizing up, trying to reckon if I will calf well another season or if he should send me to the slaughterhouse.” She held out the dress George had worn during the accident and examined it critically. “Still, there’re plenty of lasses hereabouts who find him fetching.”

“Oh?” George’s voice came out a squeak. She stuck out her tongue to herself in the mirror.

Tiggle didn’t look up as she frowned over a hole she’d found near the gown’s hem. “Aye. The maids in the kitchen talk about his fine eyes and pretty bum.”

“Tiggle!” George dropped her pearl earring. It rolled across the vanity’s lacquered surface and came to a stop in a pile of ribbons.

“Oh!” Tiggle’s hand flew to her mouth. “I’m sorry, my lady. I don’t know what came over me to say that.”

George couldn’t help but giggle. “Is that what they talk about in the kitchen? Gentlemen’s bottoms?”

Tiggle’s face reddened, but her eyes twinkled. “Too much of the time, I’m afraid.”

“Maybe I should visit the kitchen more often.” George leaned forward to peer into the mirror as she put on an earring. “Several people, including Lady Violet, say they’ve heard rumors about Mr. Pye.” She stepped back and turned her head from side to side to study the earrings. “Have you heard anything?”

“Rumors, my lady?” Tiggle slowly folded the gown. “I haven’t been down to the kitchens yet this stay. But I did hear something while at my pa’s. There was a farmer traveling through who lived on Granville land. Said as how the Woldsly steward was doing mischief. Hurting animals and playing pranks at the Granville stables.” Tiggle met George’s eyes in the mirror. “Is that what you mean, my lady?”

George took a breath and let it out slowly. “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”

THAT AFTERNOON, HARRY HUNCHED OVER his saddle in the relentless drizzle. He’d expected to be summoned to the manor almost from the moment they’d driven onto the Woldsly estate. Surprisingly, it had taken a full day and night for Lady Georgina to send for him. He nudged his mare into a trot up the long, winding drive to Woldsly Manor. Perhaps it was because she was a lady.

When he’d first learned that the owner of the multiple estates he would be managing was a woman, he’d been taken aback. A woman didn’t usually own land by herself. Normally, if she did have an estate, there was a man—a son or husband or brother—in the background, the real power in how the lands were run. But although Lady Georgina had three brothers, it was the lady herself who was in control. And what was more, she’d come by the lands through inheritance, not marriage. Lady Georgina had never wed. An aunt had left everything to her and apparently stipulated in the will that Lady Georgina would have the reins of her holdings and their income.

Harry snorted. Plainly the old woman hadn’t had much use for men. Gravel crunched beneath the bay mare’s hooves as he entered the vast courtyard before Woldsly Manor. He crossed to the stable yard, swung down from his horse, and tossed the reins to a boy.

They dropped to the cobblestones.

The mare stepped back nervously, the reins trailing. Harry stilled and raised his gaze to meet the eyes of the stripling boy. The lad stared at him, chin up, shoulders back. He looked like a young St. Stephan readying himself for the arrows. When had his reputation gotten this bad?

“Pick them up,” Harry said softly.

The boy wavered. The arrows were looking sharper than he’d expected.

“Now,” Harry whispered. He turned on his heel, not bothering to see if the lad followed his order, and strode to the manor, leaping the steps two at a time to the front doors.

“Inform Lady Georgina Maitland that I am here,” he said to Greaves. He thrust his tricorn into the hands of a footman and entered the library without waiting to be shown in.

Tall windows draped in moss-green velvet lined the far side of the room. Had the day been sunny, the windows would have bathed the library in light. But it wasn’t sunny. The sun hadn’t shone in this patch of Yorkshire for weeks.

Harry walked over and stared out the window. Rolling fields and pastures stretched as far as the eye could see, a patchwork quilt in green and brown. The drystone walls dividing the fields had stood for centuries before he was born and would stand for centuries after his bones had crumbled to dust. It was a beautiful landscape to his mind, one that made his heart tighten every time he saw it, but something was wrong. The fields should have been full of reapers and wagons, harvesting the hay and wheat. But the grain was too wet to harvest. If the rain didn’t let up soon… He shook his head. The wheat would either rot in the field or they’d have to reap it damp. In which case it would rot in the barns.