So, thinking the tavern keeper would come back for the money if nothing else, Harry and Bennet had lurked in the dark tavern. They had coughed and spit up black phlegm once or twice, but they hadn’t talked. Thomas’s death had stunned Bennet. He stared into space, his eyes far, far away. And Harry had considered his future life with a wife and a child and a whole new way of living.

As the dawn gave light to the dim room and it became evident that Dick wasn’t going to show up, Harry remembered the cottage. The Crumb cottage, the hovel where Dick and his sister had been raised, had long ago fallen into ruin. But maybe Dick might use it as temporary shelter? Far more likely he was in the next county by now, but they might as well check it.

Now as they neared, the cottage looked deserted. The thatched roof had mostly fallen in, and one wall was crumbled, leaving the chimney pointing nakedly to the sky. They dismounted and Harry’s boots sank into mud, no doubt the reason for the cottage having been abandoned. The river behind the tiny house spread over her banks here, making a marshy area. Every spring the cottage probably flooded. It was an unhealthy place to live. Harry couldn’t think why anyone would build here.

“Don’t know if we should even try the door,” he said. They looked at the door, tilting inward under a leaning lintel.

“Let’s check around back,” Bennet said.

Harry walked as quietly as he could in the mud, but his boots made a squishing sound as the muck sucked at them with each step. If Dick was here, he was already warned.

He was in the lead when he rounded the corner and stopped short. Plants as tall as a man grew in the boggy ground behind the cottage. They had delicate, branching fronds, and some still bore flat seed heads.

Water hemlock. “Jesus,” Bennet breathed. He’d come around Harry, but it wasn’t the plants he looked at.

Harry followed the direction of his gaze and saw that the entire back wall of the cottage was gone. From one of the remaining rafters a rope was tied and a pathetic bundle dangled at its end.

Janie Crumb had hung herself.

Chapter Nineteen

“She didn’t know what she was doing.” Dick Crumb sat with his back against the decayed stone of the cottage. He still wore his stained tavern apron, and one hand clutched a crumpled handkerchief.

Harry looked at Janie’s body, swaying only feet away from where her brother sat. Her neck was grotesquely elongated, and her blackened tongue protruded from swollen lips.

Nothing could be done for Janie Crumb now. “She was never right, poor lass, not after what he did to her,” Dick continued.

How long had he been sitting there? “She used to slip away at night. Wander the fields. Maybe do other things I didn’t want to know about.” Dick shook his head. “It took me a while to realize she might be up to something else. And then Mistress Pollard died.” Dick looked up. His eyes were bloodshot, his eyelids reddened. “She came in after they took you, Harry. She was wild, her hair all flying away. Said she hadn’t done it. Hadn’t killed Mistress Pollard like she killed the sheep. Was calling Lord Granville the devil and cursing him.” The big man knit his brows like a puzzled little boy. “She said Lord Granville killed old woman Pollard. Janie was crazy. Just plum crazy.”

“I know,” Harry said.

Dick Crumb nodded, as if relieved by his agreement. “I didn’t know what to do. She was my little sister, crazy or no.” He wiped the dome of his head with a shaking hand. “The only family I had left. My baby sister. I loved her, Harry!”

The body on the rope seemed to twist in horrible reply. “So I did nothing. And last night, when I heard that she’d fired the Granville stables, I came a running down here. The old place had always been her hidey-hole. Don’t know what I would’ve done. Only I found her like this.” He threw his hands out to the corpse as if in prayer. “Like this. I’m so sorry.” The big man began to cry, great heaving sobs that shook his shoulders.

Harry looked away. What could one do in the face of such overwhelming grief?

“You have no reason to apologize, Mr. Crumb,” Bennet spoke from beside Harry.

Dick raised his head. Snot shone beneath his nose. “The blame lies with my father, not you.” Bennet nodded curtly and walked back around the cottage.

Harry took out his knife. Dragging a chair over beneath the corpse, he climbed up and cut the rope. Janie slumped, suddenly freed from her self-imposed punishment. He caught the body and gently lowered her to the ground. As he did so, he felt something small and hard fall out of Janie’s pocket. He bent to look and saw one of his own carvings: a duck. Quickly, he palmed the little bird. Had Janie been placing his carvings at the poisonings all along? Why? Had she meant to set him against Granville? Perhaps she’d seen Harry as her instrument of revenge. Harry darted a glance at Dick, but the older man was simply staring into the face of his dead sister. It would only grieve Dick further to tell him Janie had meant for Harry to take the blame for her crimes. Harry pocketed the duck.

“Ta, Harry,” Dick said. He took off his apron and covered his sister’s distorted face.

“I’m sorry.” Harry laid his hand on the other man’s shoulder.

Dick nodded, grief overtaking him again.

Harry turned to join Bennet. The last sight he had of Dick Crumb was the big man bending, a mountain of sorrow, over the slight form of his sister’s body.

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.”

“The hell you say.” Had she received urgent news about a relative, maybe one of her brothers?

“Mr. Pye.” The butler drew himself up in offense. “I’ve had a very hard night, Mr. Greaves.” And a harder morning. Harry passed a hand over his aching forehead. “Was a letter brought to my lady? Or a rider? Did a rider come bearing some kind of news?”

“No. Not that it is any concern of yours, Mr. Pye.” Greaves stared down his thin nose. “Now, if I may show you the door?”

Harry took two quick steps and grabbed the butler by the shirtfront. One step more and he slammed the man against the wall, cracking the plaster. “As it happens, what my lady does is my concern.” Harry leaned close enough to smell the powder on Greaves’s wig. “She’s carrying my child and will soon be my wife. Is that understood?”

The butler nodded, sending a fine dusting of powder onto his shoulders.

“Good.” Harry released the other man.

What would make her leave so suddenly? Frowning, he took the curving main stairs two at a time and headed down the long hall to his lady’s room. Had he missed something? Said the wrong thing? The problem with women was that it could be damn near anything.