The Leopard Prince (Princes #2)(10)

“I’ll see her now, damn your eyes!” The door flew open, and a ruddy-faced man stormed in.

Greaves followed, panting, his wig crooked. “My lady, I am so sorry—”

“That’s all right,” Lady Georgina said. “You may leave us.”

The butler looked like he wanted to protest, but he caught Harry’s eye. “My lady.” He bowed and shut the door.

The man wheeled and looked past Harry to Lady Georgina. “This cannot go on, ma’am! I have had enough. If you cannot control that bastard you employ, I will take matters into my own hands and have great pleasure in doing so.”

He started forward, his heavy face flushed red against his white powdered wig, his hands balled threateningly at his sides. He looked almost exactly the same as he had that morning eighteen years ago. The heavy-lidded brown eyes were handsome even in age. He had the shoulders and arms of a strong man—thick, like a bull. The years had brought closer the gap in their heights, but Harry was still half a head shorter. And the sneer on the thick lips—yes, that was certainly unchanged. Harry would carry the memory of that sneer to his grave.

The man was abreast of him now, paying no attention to him, his gaze focused solely on Lady Georgina. Harry shot out his right hand, his arm a solid bar across the other man’s path. The intruder made to barrel through the barrier, but Harry held firm.

“What th—” The man cut himself off and stared down at Harry’s hand. His right hand.

The one with the missing finger.

Slowly, the other man raised his head and met Harry’s eyes. Recognition flamed in his gaze.

Harry bared his teeth in a grin, though he had never felt less amused in his life. “Silas Granville.” Deliberately he left off the title.

Silas stiffened. “Goddamn you to hell, Harry Pye.”

Chapter Three

No wonder Harry Pye never smiled. The expression on his face at that moment was enough to scare little children into fits. George felt her heart sink. She’d rather hoped that all the gossip about Mr. Pye and Lord Granville was just that: stories made up to entertain bored country folk. But judging from the filthy looks the two men were exchanging, not only did they know each other, but they did indeed have a nasty past.

She sighed. This complicated matters.

“You cur! You dare show your face to me after the -criminal damage you’ve done on my land?” Lord Granville shouted directly in Mr. Pye’s face, spittle flying.

Harry Pye did not reply, but he had an incredibly irritating smirk on his lips. George winced. She could almost sympathize with Lord Granville.

“First the tricks in my stable—the cut halters, the ruined feed, the vandalized carriages.” Lord Granville addressed George but never took his eyes from Mr. Pye. “Then sheep killing! My farmers have lost over fifteen good animals in the last fortnight alone. Twenty, before that. And all of it began when he returned to this district, employed by you, madam.”

“He had excellent references,” George muttered.

Lord Granville swung in her direction. She recoiled, but Mr. Pye moved smoothly with the larger man, keeping his shoulder always between them. His show of protectiveness only enraged Lord Granville further.

“Enough, I say. I demand you dismiss this… this scoundrel!” Lord Granville spat the word. “Blood always shows. Like his father before him, he’s the lowest form of criminal.”

George inhaled.

Mr. Pye didn’t speak, but a soft noise came from between his drawn-back lips.

Good Lord, it sounded like a snarl. Hastily, she broke into speech. “Now, Lord Granville, I think you’re being rather rash in your condemnation of Mr. Pye. After all, have you any reason to suppose it is my steward instead of someone else doing the damage?”

“Reason?” Lord Granville hissed the word. “Reason? Aye, I’ve got reason. Twenty years ago this man’s father attacked me. Nearly killed me, he was so insane.”

George lifted her eyebrows. She darted a look at Mr. Pye, but he’d controlled his face into its customary impassivity. “I don’t see why—”

“He assaulted me as well.” Lord Granville speared a finger at the land steward’s chest. “Joined his father in trying to murder a peer of the realm.”

“But”—she looked from one man to the other, the first the very embodiment of rage, the other showing no expression at all—“but he could hardly have been full grown twenty years ago. Wouldn’t he be a boy of… of—”

“Twelve.” Mr. Pye spoke for the first time since he’d uttered the other man’s name. His voice was quiet, almost a whisper. “And it was eighteen years ago. Exactly.”

“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—”