The Leopard Prince (Princes #2)(66)

Oscar frowned. “But a woman wouldn’t be so stupid as to eat poison weeds like a sheep.”

“There was a cup by her.” Violet shuddered. “With some kind of dregs in it. They think he—the poisoner—forced her to drink it.” She looked uneasily at her sister.

“When was this?” George asked. “Surely someone would have told us had they found her before we left.”

“Well, it appears they didn’t,” Violet replied. “The local people found her the day before you left, but I only heard the day after you’d gone. And there was a carving, an animal of some sort. They say that Mr. Pye made it, so he must have done it. Murdered her, that is.”

Oscar darted a glance at George. Violet hesitated, anticipating a reaction from her sister, but George merely raised her eyebrows.

So Violet soldiered on. “And the night you left they arrested Mr. Pye. Only no one will tell me much about his arrest, except that it took seven men to do it and two were very badly wounded. So,” she inhaled and said carefully, “he must have put up quite a fight.” She gazed expectantly at George.

Her sister stared off into space, worrying her lower lip with her teeth. “Mistress Pollard was killed the day before I left?”

“Well, no,” Violet said. “Actually, they’re saying it might’ve been three nights before.”

George suddenly focused on her.

Violet hurried on. “She was seen alive in West Dikey four nights before you left—some people at a tavern saw her—but the farmer swears she wasn’t there the morning after she’d been seen in West Dikey. He distinctly remembers moving his sheep to that pasture the next morning. It was several days before he went back again to the pasture where she was found. And they think, by the condition of the body, because of the… uh”—she wrinkled her nose in disgust—“the deterioration, that it had been on the heath more than three nights. Ugh!” She shuddered.

The tea was brought in, and Violet looked at it queasily. Cook had seen fit to include some cream cakes oozing a pink filling, which under the circumstances were quite disgusting.

George ignored the tea. “Violet, this is very important. You are sure it was three nights before the morning I left that she is thought to have been killed?”

“Mmm.” Violet swallowed and dragged her eyes from the ghastly cream cakes. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“Thank the Lord.” George closed her eyes.

“Georgie, I know you care for him, but you can’t.” Oscar’s voice held a warning. “You simply can’t.”

“His life is at stake.” George leaned toward her brother as if she could infuse him with her passion. “What sort of a woman would I be if I ignored that?”

“What?” Violet looked from one to the other. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s quite simple.” George finally seemed to notice the steaming teapot and reached to pour. “Harry couldn’t have killed Mistress Pollard on that night.” She handed a cup to Violet and met her eyes. “He spent it with me.”

HARRY WAS DREAMING.

In the dream there was an argument going on between an ugly ogre, a young king, and a beautiful princess. The ugly ogre and the young king looked more or less as they should, considering it was a dream. But the princess didn’t have ruby lips or raven black hair. She had ginger hair and Lady Georgina’s lips. Which was just as well. It was his dream after all, and he had a right to make his princess look like anyone he wanted. In his opinion, springy ginger hair was far more beautiful than smooth raven locks any day of the week.

The young king was nattering on about the law and evidence and such in an upper-crust accent so refined it made your teeth ache. Harry could quite understand why the ogre was bellowing in reply, trying to drown out the young king’s monologue. He’d bellow at the blighter if he could. The young king seemed to want the ogre’s tin stag. Harry suppressed a laugh. He wished he could tell the young king that the tin stag wasn’t worth anything. The stag had long ago lost the better part of its rack and stood on only three legs. And besides, the animal wasn’t magic. It couldn’t talk and never had.

But the young king was stubborn. He wanted the stag, and he was going to have the stag, by God. To that end, he was badgering the ogre in that overbearing way the aristocracy had, as if everyone else was put on this earth merely for the joy of licking his lordship’s boots clean. Thank you, m’lord. It’s been a pleasure, it really has.

Harry would have sided with the ogre, just on principle, but something was wrong. Princess Georgina seemed to be weeping. Great drops of liquid rolled down her translucent cheeks and slowly turned to gold as they fell. They tinkled as they hit the stone floor and rolled away.

Harry was mesmerized; he couldn’t take his eyes away from her sorrow. He wanted to yell at the young king, Here is your magic! Look to the lady beside you. But, of course, he couldn’t speak. And it turned out he was wrong: It was actually the princess, not the young king, who wanted the tin stag. The young king was merely acting as the princess’s agent. Well, here was an entirely different matter. If Princess Georgina desired the stag, she should have it, even if it was a ratty old thing.

But the ugly ogre loved the tin stag; it was his most precious possession. To prove it, he threw the stag down and stamped on it until the stag groaned and broke into pieces. The ogre stared at it, lying there at his feet, bleeding lead, and smiled. He looked into the princess’s eyes and pointed. There, take it. I’ve killed it, anyway.