The Leopard Prince (Princes #2)(21)

“That’s nice of you.”

“Neighbors and all.” Mr. Granville waved his hand vaguely. “I thought there must be a way we can settle this peacefully.”

“How?” Mr. Pye’s one word dropped onto the conversation, flattening it.

George glanced sharply at him.

Mr. Granville turned to speak, looked Mr. Pye in the face, and coughed.

Mr. Pye handed him a glass of wine.

“Harry,” Mr. Granville gasped when he could draw breath. “I didn’t realize that was you until I saw—”

“How,” Harry Pye inquired, “do you plan to settle the problem without bloodshed?”

“It’ll have to stop, of course—the sheep poisoning, I mean. And the other mischief.”

“Plainly. But how?”

“You’ll have to leave, I’m afraid, Harry.” Mr. Granville shrugged one shoulder jerkily. “Even if you repaid the cost of the livestock and the damage to Father’s stable, he’s not going to let it go. You know what he’s like.”

Mr. Granville’s gaze dropped to Harry Pye’s mutilated right hand resting on his knee. George followed his eyes and felt a cold wave wash over her body when she saw Harry flex the remaining fingers.

“And if I don’t leave?” Mr. Pye replied in a deadly calm voice, as if he were inquiring the time.

“You don’t have a choice.” Mr. Granville looked to George, apparently for support.

She raised her eyebrows.

He turned back to Mr. Pye. “It’s for the best, Harry. I can’t answer for what will happen if you don’t.”

Harry Pye didn’t reply. His green eyes had grown stony.

Nobody spoke for an uncomfortable period of time.

Mr. Granville suddenly slapped his hand on the throw. “Disgusting things.” He lifted his hand, and George saw that he’d squashed the cabbage butterfly.

She must’ve made a sound.

Both men looked at her, but it was Mr. Granville who spoke. “The butterfly. They come from worms that devour leafy crops. Nasty things. All farmers hate them.”

She and Mr. Pye were silent.

Mr. Granville’s face reddened. “Well. I must be going. Thank you for the repast.” He stood and clambered back down the hill to his horse.

Harry Pye watched him go, eyes narrowed.

George looked down at the pickle jar beside her hand. She hadn’t the appetite for them anymore. She sighed mournfully. A perfect picnic ruined.

“YOU DON’T LIKE HIM.” Lady Georgina frowned, looking down at the picnic blanket. She was trying to fold it, but it was turning into a tangled mess.

“Who?” Harry took it from her and shook out the fabric, then handed her the corners on one end.

“Thomas Granville, of course.” She held her end of the blanket limply as if she didn’t know what to do. Hadn’t she ever folded a sheet before? “You swore when you saw him, you weren’t going to invite him to join us, and when he did, you were barely civil to him.”

“No, I don’t like Thomas Granville.” He backed up to draw the fabric taut, then brought his corners together so that a rectangle hung between them. She caught on. They folded the blanket once more, and then he walked toward her to take her corners from her. He met her eyes.

They were narrowed. “Why? What’s wrong with Mr. Granville?”

He’s his father’s son. “I don’t trust him.”

“He knew you.” Her head was cocked to the side, as if she were a curious thrush. “You knew each other.”

“Aye.”

She opened her mouth, and he expected more questions, but she simply pressed her lips together again. Silently they packed away the rest of the picnic. He took the basket from her, and they climbed down to the waiting gig. He stowed the basket under the seat, and then turned to her, steeling his features. It was harder to keep his emotions in check around her these days.

She watched him with thoughtful blue eyes. “Who do you think is poisoning the sheep?”

He put his hands around her waist. “I don’t know.” He felt the stiffness of her stays, and beneath that, warmth. He lifted her into the gig and let go before she could see the longing in his eyes. He jumped into the seat beside her and untied the reins.

“Maybe it’s Thomas Granville,” she said.

“Why?”

“To make it seem as if you were doing the crime? To enrage his father? Because he hates the smell of wet wool? I don’t know.”

He could feel her gaze on him, but he kept his eyes straight ahead as he guided the horse back to the road. The gelding liked to play games if the driver wasn’t paying attention. He thought about her words. Thomas? Why would Thomas—

A sound like steam escaping from a lidded pot came from her lips. “You needn’t blame me for his condescension, you know. I’ve already told you I don’t believe you killed the sheep.”

She was scowling at him. What had he done now? “I’m sorry, my lady. I was thinking.”

“Well, try to think out loud. I don’t handle charged silences well. They make me nervous.”

His lips twitched. “I’ll remember that.”

“Do.”

They rode another quarter mile in silence before she spoke again. “What else did you do when you were a boy?”