“Yes, my lady.” His tone was grave. Was he laughing at her?
The last farmer they’d visited hadn’t been home, and as they’d driven away from the lonely cottage, she’d insisted that they stop for luncheon. Mr. Pye had found a grassy hill beside the road. The view from the top of the hill was glorious. Even on a cloudy day like this one they could see for miles, maybe all the way into the next county.
“How did you know of this place?” she asked as she fished for pickles with a fork.
“I used to come here as a boy.”
“All alone?”
“Sometimes. I had a little pony as a lad, and I used to go wandering. Packed a picnic, not as grand as this one, of course, but enough to satisfy a boy for the day.”
George listened with her pickle, speared on a fork, held in midair. “That sounds lovely.”
“It was.” He looked away.
She frowned at her pickle, and then popped it into her mouth. “Did you go alone, or were there other boys in the area to accompany you?” She squinted over his shoulder. Was that a horseman coming up the road?
“I usually had a mate.”
Definitely a horseman. “I wonder who that is.”
He twisted to look behind him. His back stiffened. “Damn.”
“Do you know who it is?”
The rider was nearing, and by the narrowness of his shoulders, it wasn’t Lord Granville.
“Maybe.” Mr. Pye still stared.
The rider was now below the hill. He glanced up at them.
“Goddamn,” Mr. Pye said.
George knew she should be shocked, but he didn’t seem to realize that he’d sworn—twice—in front of her. Slowly she put down the pickle jar.
“Hullo,” the man called. “Do you mind if I join you?”
She had a feeling Mr. Pye was about to reply in the negative to this friendly greeting, so she answered, “Not at all.”
The man dismounted, tethered his horse, and began to climb the slope. George couldn’t help but notice that, unlike when Mr. Pye had climbed the hill, the man was puffing by the time he reached them.
“Whew! A bit of a climb, what?” He brought out a handkerchief and wiped his sweating face.
George stared at him curiously. He dressed and spoke like a gentleman. Tall and long-boned, he had an ingratiating smile on thin lips, and his brown eyes were familiar.
“I’m sorry to bother you, but I noticed the carriage and thought I’d introduce myself.” He bowed. “Thomas Granville at your service. And you are…?”
“Georgina Maitland. This is—”
But Mr. Granville interrupted, “Ah, I thought so… or rather, I hoped so. May I?” He gestured at the throw.
“Please.”
“Thank you.” He lowered himself carefully. “Actually, I wanted to apologize for my father’s behavior yesterday. He told me that he’d visited you and that you’d disagreed. And knowing my father—”
“That’s nice of you.”
“Neighbors and all.” Mr. Granville waved his hand vaguely. “I thought there must be a way we can settle this peacefully.”
“How?” Mr. Pye’s one word dropped onto the conversation, flattening it.
George glanced sharply at him.
Mr. Granville turned to speak, looked Mr. Pye in the face, and coughed.
Mr. Pye handed him a glass of wine.
“Harry,” Mr. Granville gasped when he could draw breath. “I didn’t realize that was you until I saw—”
“How,” Harry Pye inquired, “do you plan to settle the problem without bloodshed?”
“It’ll have to stop, of course—the sheep poisoning, I mean. And the other mischief.”
“Plainly. But how?”
“You’ll have to leave, I’m afraid, Harry.” Mr. Granville shrugged one shoulder jerkily. “Even if you repaid the cost of the livestock and the damage to Father’s stable, he’s not going to let it go. You know what he’s like.”
Mr. Granville’s gaze dropped to Harry Pye’s mutilated right hand resting on his knee. George followed his eyes and felt a cold wave wash over her body when she saw Harry flex the remaining fingers.
“And if I don’t leave?” Mr. Pye replied in a deadly calm voice, as if he were inquiring the time.
“You don’t have a choice.” Mr. Granville looked to George, apparently for support.
She raised her eyebrows.
He turned back to Mr. Pye. “It’s for the best, Harry. I can’t answer for what will happen if you don’t.”
Harry Pye didn’t reply. His green eyes had grown stony.
Nobody spoke for an uncomfortable period of time.
Mr. Granville suddenly slapped his hand on the throw. “Disgusting things.” He lifted his hand, and George saw that he’d squashed the cabbage butterfly.
She must’ve made a sound.
Both men looked at her, but it was Mr. Granville who spoke. “The butterfly. They come from worms that devour leafy crops. Nasty things. All farmers hate them.”
She and Mr. Pye were silent.
Mr. Granville’s face reddened. “Well. I must be going. Thank you for the repast.” He stood and clambered back down the hill to his horse.
Harry Pye watched him go, eyes narrowed.
George looked down at the pickle jar beside her hand. She hadn’t the appetite for them anymore. She sighed mournfully. A perfect picnic ruined.
“YOU DON’T LIKE HIM.” Lady Georgina frowned, looking down at the picnic blanket. She was trying to fold it, but it was turning into a tangled mess.
“Who?” Harry took it from her and shook out the fabric, then handed her the corners on one end.
“Thomas Granville, of course.” She held her end of the blanket limply as if she didn’t know what to do. Hadn’t she ever folded a sheet before? “You swore when you saw him, you weren’t going to invite him to join us, and when he did, you were barely civil to him.”
“No, I don’t like Thomas Granville.” He backed up to draw the fabric taut, then brought his corners together so that a rectangle hung between them. She caught on. They folded the blanket once more, and then he walked toward her to take her corners from her. He met her eyes.
They were narrowed. “Why? What’s wrong with Mr. Granville?”
He’s his father’s son. “I don’t trust him.”
“He knew you.” Her head was cocked to the side, as if she were a curious thrush. “You knew each other.”
“Aye.”
She opened her mouth, and he expected more questions, but she simply pressed her lips together again. Silently they packed away the rest of the picnic. He took the basket from her, and they climbed down to the waiting gig. He stowed the basket under the seat, and then turned to her, steeling his features. It was harder to keep his emotions in check around her these days.
She watched him with thoughtful blue eyes. “Who do you think is poisoning the sheep?”
He put his hands around her waist. “I don’t know.” He felt the stiffness of her stays, and beneath that, warmth. He lifted her into the gig and let go before she could see the longing in his eyes. He jumped into the seat beside her and untied the reins.
“Maybe it’s Thomas Granville,” she said.
“Why?”
“To make it seem as if you were doing the crime? To enrage his father? Because he hates the smell of wet wool? I don’t know.”
He could feel her gaze on him, but he kept his eyes straight ahead as he guided the horse back to the road. The gelding liked to play games if the driver wasn’t paying attention. He thought about her words. Thomas? Why would Thomas—
A sound like steam escaping from a lidded pot came from her lips. “You needn’t blame me for his condescension, you know. I’ve already told you I don’t believe you killed the sheep.”
She was scowling at him. What had he done now? “I’m sorry, my lady. I was thinking.”
“Well, try to think out loud. I don’t handle charged silences well. They make me nervous.”
His lips twitched. “I’ll remember that.”
“Do.”
They rode another quarter mile in silence before she spoke again. “What else did you do when you were a boy?”
He glanced at her.
She caught the look. “Surely you can tell me that? All of your childhood can’t be a secret.”
“No, but it isn’t very interesting. I mostly helped my da.”
She leaned toward him. “And…?”
“We walked the land, checked traps, watched for poachers. That’s what a gamekeeper does.” A memory of his father’s strong, leathery hands delicately setting a trap came to him. Strange how he could remember the hands but not the face.
“And did you find any poachers?”
“Aye, of course.” He was pleased that his voice was steady. “There are always poachers, and Granville had more’n his fair share because he was so mean to his tenants. Many poached for food.”
“What did your father do?” Her hand, which had been lying on her lap, slipped, resting now alongside his thigh.
Harry kept his gaze ahead and shrugged. “Mostly he’d turn a blind eye. If they took too much, he’d tell them to do their hunting elsewhere.”
“But that would’ve put him in conflict with his employer, wouldn’t it? If Lord Granville found out he wasn’t arresting every poacher.”
“It might’ve. If Granville found out. Turned out he didn’t.” He’d been more interested in other things, hadn’t he?
“I would’ve liked to have known your father,” she mused. He could’ve sworn he felt her fingers press against his leg.
He looked at her curiously. “Would you? A gamekeeper?”
“Yes. What else did you do when you were a boy?”
What did she want from him? Why all these questions, and why the hand against his leg? Her fingers felt as if they burned straight through his breeches to his skin beneath. “That’s about it, my lady. Roaming the land, checking traps, looking for birds’ eggs—”
“Birds’ eggs?”
“Aye.” He glanced at her, then down at her hand. “Used to collect them as a boy.”
She was frowning and didn’t seem to notice his gaze. “But where would you find them?”
“In the nest.” She still looked puzzled, so he explained. “You watch the birds in spring. See where they go. Sooner or later, they all go back to their nests. Jackdaws in chimneys, plovers on the heath, pigeons in the crook of trees, and thrushes in a nest like a cup in the branches of hedges. You wait and you watch, and if you’re patient, you see where the eggs are. Then you can take one.”
“Just one?”
He nodded. “Never more than one, for my da said ’twas a sin to steal all the eggs from a nest. I’d watch the bird and slowly, slowly creep close until I could take an egg. Most of the time I’d have to wait until the bird left the nest. But sometimes if I was careful, I could reach right under the bird—”
“No!” She laughed up at him, her blue eyes crinkled at the corners, and suddenly his heart seemed to contract. Maybe he didn’t really care why she asked her questions—just so long as she asked them. “You’re teasing me now.”
“It’s true.” He felt his lips curve. “I’d reach right under the bird, feel its little downy body beating and warm on my fingers, and steal an egg straight from the nest it was sitting on.”
“Really?”
“A fact.”
“You’re probably bamming me again, Mr. Pye, but for some reason I believe you.” She shook her head. “But what did you do with the eggs after that? Eat them?”