The Leopard Prince (Princes #2)(63)

Oscar held up his hands as if surrendering. “I know, I know, Georgie. I meant I’ll go with you. See what I can do.” He turned to Cecil. “Can you ride and tell Tony what’s happened?”

Cecil nodded.

“Here.” Oscar pried the letter from George’s hand. “Give him this. He’ll need to come when he can.”

“Of course, old chap.” Cecil looked curious but took the letter.

“Thank you.” Tears began to run down George’s face.

“It’s all right.” Cecil started to say more, then shook his head and left.

“Well, I can’t say that I approve of all this, whatever it is.” Lady Beatrice had been quiet through the scene, but she rose now. “I do not like being kept in the dark. Not at all. But I will wait just this once to find out what you are all rushing about for.”

“Of course, Aunt.” George was already half out the door, not really listening.

“Georgina.” Lady Beatrice laid a palm on her niece’s tear-stained face, halting her. “Remember, dear, we cannot stay the hand of God, but we can be strong.” She looked suddenly old. “Sometimes it is the only thing we can do.”

“OLD MISTRESS POLLARD WAS MURDERED, plain and simple.” Silas sat back in his leather armchair and looked at his younger son with satisfaction.

Bennet paced the library like a young lion. In contrast, his brother cowered in a too-small corner chair, his knees drawn nearly to his chin. Why Thomas was in the library at all, Silas couldn’t fathom, but he didn’t really care either way. All his attention was on his younger son.

In the week since his men had brought in Harry Pye, Bennet had railed and raged against his father. But however much he tried, he couldn’t get away from that one fact: A woman had been murdered. An old woman, true, and a poor one at that. One that nobody had much cared about when alive. Nevertheless, she was human and so, no matter how decrepit, several steps up from a dead sheep.

At least in the popular estimation.

In fact, Silas had begun to wonder if he’d made a mistake in his haste to catch Pye. Local sentiment was running very high. No one liked a murderer on the loose. Had he simply left Pye to his own devices, someone might have taken matters into their own hands and lynched the bastard. He might already be dead by now. But in the long run it made very little difference. Dead now or dead in a week, either way, Pye would soon be very, very dead. And then his son would no longer be arguing with him.

“She may have been murdered, but it wasn’t Harry Pye who did it.” Bennet stood in front of his father’s desk, arms crossed, eyes blazing.

Silas felt impatience rise in him. Everyone else believed the land steward guilty. Why couldn’t his own son?

He sat forward and tapped on his desktop with a forefinger as if he could drill through the mahogany. “Hemlock killed her, same as the sheep. His carving was found by her corpse. The second carving, remember, discovered with these crimes.” Silas thrust his hands forward, palms upward. “What more do you want?”

“I know you hate Harry Pye, Father, but why would he leave his own carvings by the bodies? Why incriminate himself?”

“Mayhap the man is mad,” Thomas said quietly from the corner. Silas frowned at him, but Thomas was too intent on his brother to notice. “Pye’s mother was a slut, after all; perhaps he inherited her bad blood.”

Bennet looked pained. “Tom—”

“Don’t call me that!” Thomas said shrilly. “I’m your elder. I’m the heir. Give me the respect I deserve. You’re only a—”

“Shut up!” Silas roared.

Thomas shrank at the bellow. “But, Father—”

“No more!” Silas glared until his elder son flushed blotchily; then he sat back in the chair and turned his attention back to Bennet. “What would you have me do?”

Bennet shot an apologetic glance at Thomas, which the other ignored, before answering. “I don’t know.”

Ah, the first outward show of uncertainty. It was like balm to his soul. “I am the magistrate for this county. I must uphold the law as I see fit.”

“At least let me see him.”

“No.” Silas shook his head. “He’s a dangerous criminal. It would not be responsible of me to let you near him.”

Not until his men got a confession. The way Pye took a beating—absorbing blow after blow until he could no longer stand, until he staggered and fell, but still refused to talk—it might be several more days before he was broken. But break he would. And then Silas would hang him by the neck until dead, and no one, not the king nor God, would be able to gainsay him.

Aye, he could wait.

“Oh, for pity’s sake.” Bennet was pacing agitatedly now. “I’ve known him since we were lads. He’s my—” He broke off and dismissed the sentence with a wave. “Just let me talk to him. Please.”

It had been a long, long while since the boy had begged. He should know by now that begging only gave the opponent ammunition.

“No.” Silas shook his head regretfully.

“He is still alive?”

Silas smiled. “Yes. Alive, but not particularly well.”

Bennet’s face paled. He stared at his father as if he would hit him, and Silas actually braced himself for a blow.