The Leopard Prince (Princes #2)(85)

Behind them, the water hemlocks danced gracefully.

“THERE CERTAINLY HAS BEEN a lot of traveling of late,” Euphie murmured, smiling benignly around the carriage. “Back and forth between Yorkshire and London. Why, it seems that everyone barely draws breath before they rush off again. I don’t believe I remember so much coming and going since, well, since ever.”

Violet sighed, shook her head slightly, and gazed out the window. Tiggle, sitting with Violet, looked puzzled. And George, scrunched next to Euphie on the same seat, closed her eyes and gripped the tin basin she’d brought along just in case. I will not cast up. I will not cast up. I will not cast up.

The carriage lurched around the corner, jostling her against the rain-streaked window. She decided abruptly that her stomach was better with her eyes open.

“This is ridiculous,” Violet huffed, and folded her arms. “If you’re going to marry, anyway, I simply do not see what is wrong with Mr. Pye. He likes you, after all. I’m sure we can help him if he has trouble with his Hs.”

His Hs? “You were the one who thought he was a sheep murderer.” She was getting tired of the almost universal disapproval aimed at her head.

One would think Harry a veritable saint from the shocked reaction of her servants at her decampment. Even Greaves had stood on the Woldsly steps, the rain trickling off his long nose, staring mournfully at her as she climbed into the carriage.

“That was before,” Violet said with unarguable logic. “I haven’t thought him the poisoner for at least three weeks.”

“Oh, Lord.” “My lady,” Euphie exclaimed. “We should, as gentle-women, never take the good Lord’s name in vain. I am sure it was a mistake on your part.”

Violet stared at Euphie in exaggerated astonishment while beside her Tiggle rolled her eyes. George sighed and rested her head on the cushions.

“And besides, Mr. Pye is quite handsome.” Violet wasn’t going to let go of this argument. Ever. “For a land steward. You aren’t likely to find a nicer one.”

“Land steward or husband?” George asked nastily. “Are you contemplating marriage, my lady?” Euphie inquired. Her eyes opened wide, like an interested pigeon.

“No!” George said.

Which was almost drowned out by Violet’s “Yes!” Euphie blinked rapidly. “Marriage is a hallowed state, becoming to even the most respectable of ladies. Of course, I myself have never experienced that heavenly communion with a gentleman, but that is not to say that I do not wholeheartedly endorse its rites.”

“You’re going to have to marry someone,” Violet said. She gestured crassly toward George’s abdomen. “Unless you intend to take a protracted tour of the continent.”

“Broadening the mind by travel—” Euphie started. “I have no intention of touring the continent.” George cut Euphie off before she could gather wind and babble about traveling until they reached London. “Perhaps I could marry Cecil Barclay.”

“Cecil!” Violet gaped at her sister as if she’d announced her intention of wedding a codfish. One would think Violet would be a little more sympathetic, considering her own near predicament. “Have you gone raving mad? You’ll trample Cecil as if he were a fluffy bunny rabbit.”

“What do you mean?” George swallowed and pressed her hand to her belly. “You make me sound like a harpy.”

“Well, now that you mention it…”

George narrowed her eyes. “Mr. Pye is quiet, but at least he never backed down from you.” Violet’s eyes widened. “Have you considered what he’ll do when he finds out you’ve run away from him? It’s the silent ones who have the worst tempers, you know.”

“I don’t know where you get these melodramatic ideas. And besides, I haven’t run away.” George ignored her sister, pointedly glancing around the carriage, which was presently bumping out of Yorkshire. “And I don’t think he will do anything.” Her stomach rolled at the thought of Harry finding her gone.

Violet looked doubtful. “Mr. Pye didn’t strike me as the kind of man to just sit back and let his woman find another man to marry.”

“I am not Mr. Pye’s woman.” “I’m not sure what else you would call it—” “Violet!” George clutched the tin basin under her chin. I will not cast up. I will not cast up. I will no—

“Are you feeling quite the thing, my lady?” Euphie piped. “Why, you look almost green. Do you know, your mother bore that exact same face when she was”—the companion leaned forward and hissed as if a gentleman might somehow hear her inside the moving carriage—“increasing with Lady Violet.” Euphie sat back and blushed a bright pink. “But of course that can’t be your problem.”

Violet stared at Euphie as if mesmerized.

Tiggle buried her face in her hands.

And George groaned. She was going to die before she made it to London.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN SHE’S GONE?” Harry tried to keep his voice even. He stood in the front hall of Woldsly. He’d come here to see his lady, only to have the butler tell him that she’d left over an hour ago.

Greaves backed up a step. “Exactly that, Mr. Pye.” The butler cleared his throat. “Lady Georgina accompanied by Lady Violet and Miss Hope left quite early this morning for London.”