The Leopard Prince

What did she see? What did this little cottage look like to her? In his mind’s eye, he reviewed the inside of his cottage: a wooden table and chairs, well made but hardly the cushioned luxury of the manor’s sitting rooms. A desk where he kept the record books and ledgers of his job. A set of shelves with some coarse pottery dishes—two plates, two cups, a bowl, a teapot, forks and spoons, and an iron cooking pot. A door off to one side that was no doubt open, so she could see his narrow bed, the hooks that held his clothes, and the dresser with the earthenware washbasin and pitcher.



He stood and turned.



Lady Georgina was peering into his bedroom.



He sighed silently and walked to the table. On it sat a crock covered with a plate. He lifted the plate and looked inside the pot. Mutton stew left by Mrs. Burns, cold now, but welcome nonetheless.



He went back to the hearth to fill the iron kettle with water and swing it over the fire. “Do you mind if I eat, my lady? I haven’t had my supper yet.”



She turned and stared at him as though her mind has been elsewhere. “Please. Do go ahead. I wouldn’t want you to accuse me of withholding food.”



Harry sat at the table and spooned some of the stew onto a plate. Lady Georgina came and looked curiously at his supper and then moved to the fireplace.



He watched her as he ate.



She examined the animal carvings lining his mantel. “Did you make all these?” She gestured to a squirrel with a nut between its paws and glanced back at him.



“Yes.”



“That’s how Lord Granville knew you’d made the hedgehog. He’d seen your work before.”



“Yes.”



“But he hadn’t seen you, at least not for a very long time.” She pivoted fully to look at him.



A lifetime. Harry served himself some more stew. “No.”



“So he hadn’t seen your figurines for a very long time, either? In fact, not since you were a boy.” She frowned, fingering the squirrel. “Because I don’t care what Lord Granville says, twelve years old is still just a boy.”



“Maybe.” The kettle started steaming. Harry got up, took down the brown teapot from his cupboard, and put in four spoonfuls of tea. He grabbed a cloth to lift the kettle from the fire. Lady Georgina moved aside and watched as he poured the boiling water.



“Maybe what?” She knit her brow. “Which question were you really answering?”



Harry set the teapot on the table and looked over his shoulder at her. “Which were you really asking?” He sat down again. “My lady.”



She blinked and seemed to consider. Then she replaced the squirrel and crossed to the shelves. She picked up the two cups and a packet of sugar and brought them back to the table. She sat down across from him and poured the tea.



Harry stilled.



Lady Georgina was fixing him his tea, in his own house, at his own table, just like a country woman would, tending to her man after he’d had a hard day of work. It didn’t feel at all like this morning in her sitting room. Right now it felt wifely. Which was a daft thought because she was the daughter of an earl. Only she didn’t look like a lady at the moment. Not when she was adding sugar to his cup and stirring it in for him. All she looked like was a woman—a very desirable woman.



Damn. Harry tried to will his cock back down, but that part of his body had never listened to reason. He tasted the tea and grimaced. Did other men get cockstands over a cup of tea?



“Too much sugar?” She looked worriedly at his cup.



The tea was rather sweet for his taste, but he wasn’t about to say that. “It’s fine, my lady. Thank you for pouring.”



“You’re welcome.” She took a sip of her own tea. “Now, as to what I’m really asking. How exactly did you know Lord Granville in the past?”



Harry closed his eyes. He was too weary for this. “Does it matter, my lady? You’ll be letting me go soon enough, anyway.”



“Whatever gave you that idea?” Lady Georgina frowned. Then she caught his look. “You don’t think that I believe you murdered those sheep, do you?” Her eyes widened. “You do.”



She put her cup back on the table with a sharp click. Some of the tea sloshed over the edge. “I know that I don’t always seem very serious, but please acquit me of being a complete nincompoop.” She scowled at him as she stood, arms akimbo like a red-haired Boadicea. All she needed was a sword and chariot.



“Harry Pye, you no more poisoned those sheep than I did!”



Chapter Four



As grand gestures went, it rather flopped.



Mr. Pye quirked a single eyebrow upward. “Since it boggles the mind,” he said in that awful, dry tone, “that you, my lady, would ever poison livestock, I must be innocent.”



“Humph.” Gathering her dignity about her, George marched to the fireplace and pretended interest in the figurines again. “You haven’t yet answered my question. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”



Normally this would be the point where she’d say something flippant and silly, but somehow she just couldn’t with him. It was hard to put away the mask, but she didn’t want to play the ninny with him. She wanted him to think better of her.



He looked so tired; the lines around his mouth had deepened and his hair was windblown. What had he been doing all afternoon to make him so exhausted? She hadn’t missed the way he’d entered the cottage, suddenly and in a crouch, his green eyes defiant. He’d reminded her of a cornered feral cat. But then he’d straightened and shoved something in his boot and was once again her phlegmatic steward. She might have imagined the violence she’d seen in his eyes, but she didn’t think so.



Harry Pye sighed and pushed away his plate. “My father’s name was John Pye. He was Silas Granville’s gamekeeper when I was a boy. We lived on Granville land, and I grew up there.”



“Really?” George turned to him. “How did you go from being a gamekeeper’s son to a land steward?”



He stiffened. “You have my references, my lady. I assure you—”



“No, no.” She shook her head impatiently. “I wasn’t maligning your credentials. I’m just curious. You must admit it’s a bit of a leap. How did you do it?”



“Hard work, my lady.” His shoulders were still bunched.



George raised her eyebrows and waited.



“I got work as a gamekeeper on a big estate when I was sixteen. The land steward there discovered I could read and write and do sums. He took me on as sort of an apprentice. When a position on a smaller, neighboring estate became open, he recommended me.” He shrugged. “From there I worked my way up.”



She tapped her fingers against the mantelpiece. There had to be more to the story than that. Few men of Mr. Pye’s age managed estates as large as hers, and how had he gotten an education, anyway? But that matter could wait until later. She had more pressing questions at the moment. She picked up a rabbit and rubbed its smooth back.



“What happened when you were twelve?”



“My father had a falling out with Granville,” Mr. Pye said.



“A falling out?” George replaced the rabbit and chose an otter. Dozens of the little wood carvings crowded the mantelpiece, each in exquisite detail. Most were of wild animals, although she spied a shepherd’s dog. They fascinated her. What kind of a man would carve such things? “Lord Granville said your father tried to kill him. That sounds like much more than a falling out.”



“Da struck him. Merely that.” He spoke slowly, as if choosing his words with care. “I sincerely doubt he meant to kill Granville.”



“Why?” She placed the otter next to the rabbit and made a little circle with a turtle and a shrew. “Why did he attack his employer and lord?”



Silence.



George waited, but he didn’t answer. She touched a stag, standing on three legs, the fourth lifted as if to flee. “And you? Did you mean to kill Lord Granville at the age of twelve?”



The silence stretched again, but finally Harry Pye spoke. “Yes.”



She let her breath out slowly. A commoner, child or not, could be hung for trying to kill a peer. “What did Lord Granville do?”



“He had my father and me horsewhipped.”



The words fell into the stillness like pebbles into a pond. Emotionless. Simple. They belied the violence a horsewhipping would do to a young boy’s body. To his soul.



George closed her eyes. Oh, dear Lord. Don’t think of it. It’s in the past. Deal with the present. “So you do have a motive for killing the sheep on Lord Granville’s land.” She opened her eyes and focused on a badger.



“Yes, my lady, I do.”



“And is this story common knowledge in the district? Do others know you’ve such enmity for my neighbor?” She placed the badger in alliance with the stag. The little creature’s head was lifted, teeth bared. It made a formidable foe.



“I didn’t hide my past and who I was when I returned as the Woldsly steward.” Mr. Pye rose and took the teapot to the door. He opened it and tossed the dregs into the bushes. “There are some who remember what happened eighteen years ago. It was a scandal at the time.” The dry tone was back.



“Why did you return to this neighborhood?” she asked. Was he looking for revenge in some way? “It does seem a bit of a coincidence that you should be working on the estate neighboring the one you grew up on.”



He hesitated with the teapot dangling from one hand. “No coincidence, my lady.” He walked deliberately to the cupboard, his back to her. “I pursued this position as soon as it opened. As you said, I grew up here. It’s my home.”



“It had nothing to do with Lord Granville?”



“Well”—Mr. Pye looked at her over his shoulder, a devilish gleam in his green eyes—“it didn’t hurt that Granville would be irked to see me here.”



George felt her lips lift. “Does everyone know about your carvings?” She waved a hand at the menagerie.



He’d brought out a dishpan and soap, but he paused to glance at the animals lining the mantelpiece.



“Probably not. I’d only made a few carvings when I was a boy here.” He shrugged and began washing the tea things. “Da was known for his whittling. He taught me.”



She took a cloth from the shelf, picked up a teacup Mr. Pye had rinsed, and began drying it. He glanced sideways at her, and she thought she detected surprise. Good.



“Then whoever put the hedgehog by the dead sheep either knew you before or had been in this cottage since your residence.”



He shook his head. “The only visitors I’ve had are Mr. Burns and his wife. I pay her a bit to tidy for me and make me a meal once in a while.” He pointed his chin at the empty crock that had held his dinner.



George felt a rush of satisfaction. He’d not brought a woman here. But then she frowned. “Perhaps you confided in a woman you’ve been walking out with?”



She winced. Not the most subtle of inquiries. Good Lord, he must think her a widgeon. Blindly, she put out her hand for another teacup and collided with Harry Pye’s hand, warm and slippery with soap. She looked up and met his emerald eyes.



“I haven’t walked out with a lass. Not since entering your employ, my lady.” He picked up the crock to wash it.



“Ah. Well. Good. That narrows it down a bit.” Could she sound any more a ninny if she tried? “Then do you know who could have stolen the hedgehog? I presume it was taken from above your fireplace?”



He rinsed the crock and picked up the basin. Carrying it to the door, he threw out the washing water. He caught the open door. “Anyone could have taken it, my lady.” He pointed to the door handle.



There was no lock.



“Oh,” George muttered. “That doesn’t narrow it down.”