The Leopard Prince (Princes #2)(16)

There was no lock.

“Oh,” George muttered. “That doesn’t narrow it down.”

“No, my lady.” He sauntered back to the table, the firelight illuminating one side of his face and throwing the other half into darkness. His lips curved. Did he think her funny?

“Where did you go this morning?” she asked.

“I went to question the farmers who found the dead sheep and my carving.” He stopped only a foot away from her.

She could feel the warmth of his chest not quite touching hers. Was he staring at her mouth?

He was. “I wondered if one of them had left the hedgehog. But they were men I didn’t know, and they seemed honest enough.”

“I see.” Her throat was dry. She swallowed. He was her steward, for goodness sake. What she was feeling wasn’t at all proper. “Well.” George folded the towel and put it away on the shelf. “We shall just have to do some more research tomorrow.”

“We, my lady?”

“Yes. I shall accompany you.”

“Just this morning Lord Granville threatened you.” Harry Pye wasn’t looking at her mouth anymore. In fact, he was frowning into her eyes.

George felt a twinge of disappointment. “You’ll need my help.”

“I’ve no need of your help, my lady. You shouldn’t be gadding about the countryside while…” He trailed off as a thought struck him. “How did you come to my cottage?”

Oops. “I walked?”

“You… It’s over a mile from here to Woldsly!” Mr. Pye stopped and breathed heavily in that way some men do when a female says something particularly foolish.

“Walking is good exercise,” George explained kindly. “Besides, I was on my own land.”

“Nevertheless, would you please promise me not to go strolling about on your own, my lady?” His lips tightened. “Until this is over with?”

“Very well, I promise to not go out alone.” George smiled. “And in return, you can promise to take me on your investigations.”

Harry Pye’s eyes narrowed.

George drew herself up straight. “After all, I am your employer, Mr. Pye.”

“Fine, my lady. I’ll take you with me.”

Not the most gracious acquiescence, but it would do.

“Good. We can start in the morning.” George swung her cloak around her shoulders. “About nine, I think? We’ll take my gig.”

“As you wish, my lady.” Mr. Pye advanced ahead of her to the cottage door. “I’ll walk you back to Woldsly.”

“No need. I asked that the carriage be brought round at nine. It should be here by now.”

And indeed, when Mr. Pye swung wide the door, a footman was waiting discreetly by the path. Her steward eyed the man. He must have approved, for he nodded. “Good night, my lady.”

“Until tomorrow morning.” George drew the hood up over her hair. “Good night.”

She walked to the footman and then glanced over her shoulder. Harry Pye stood in his doorway, silhouetted by the firelight behind him.

She couldn’t read his expression.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING up so early?” Violet stared at her sister, already dressed and hurrying down the stairs at—she stepped backward into her room to check the clock—eight in the morning.

“Oh, hullo, dear.” George did a little half-whirl on the stairs, peering up at her. “I’m just, uh, going for a drive.”

“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.