The Leopard Prince (27 page)

Oh, she knew he’d spoken in haste, that when Harry had said,
I don’t need you,
he’d feared Lord Granville might harm her. But she couldn’t help feeling that he had spoken a hidden truth in that moment of frantic hurry. Harry guarded his words so well, was always so careful not to offend her. Would he ever have told her that he just didn’t want to be with her had he not been driven to it?

She turned the little carved leopard in her hands. He looked back at her, his eyes blank inside his cage. Did Harry see himself in the animal? She hadn’t meant to cage Harry; she’d only wanted to love him. But no matter how she wished, she could not change the fact that she was an aristocrat and Harry a commoner. The very circumstance of their disparate ranks seemed to be the basis of Harry’s anguish. And that would never change.

She rose carefully from her bed, hesitating when her stomach gave an unpleasant roll.

“My lady!” Tiggle burst into the bedroom.

George looked up, startled. “What is it?”

“Mr. Thomas Granville is dead.”

“Good Lord.” George sat back down on the edge of the bed. She had almost forgotten the fire in her misery.

“The Granville stables burned last night,” Tiggle continued, oblivious to her mistress’s consternation. “They say it was set afire on purpose. And Mr. Thomas Granville ran in to save the horses, but he didn’t come out. Then Mr. Bennet Granville went in despite his father’s pleas not to.”

“Was Bennet killed as well?”

“No, my lady.” Tiggle shook her head, dislodging a pin. “But he was inside so long that everyone thought them both dead. And then Mr. Pye rode up. He ran inside right away—”

“Harry!” George leaped to her feet in terror. The room spun about her sickeningly.

“No, no, my lady.” Tiggle caught her before George could run to the door. Or fall down. “He’s all right. Mr. Pye is fine.”

George slumped with a hand over her heart. Her stomach was backing up into her throat. “Tiggle, for shame!”

“I’m sorry, my lady. But Mr. Pye, he pulled them both out, Mr. Thomas and Mr. Bennet.”

“He saved Bennet, then?” George closed her eyes and swallowed.

“Yes, my lady. After what Lord Granville did to Mr. Pye, no one could believe it. Mr. Pye, would have saved them both, but Mr. Thomas was already dead. Burned fearfully, he was.”

George’s stomach lurched at the thought. “Poor Bennet. To lose a brother in such a manner.”

“Aye, it must have been bad for Mr. Bennet. They say he held his brother’s body as if he’d never let go. But that Lord Granville didn’t turn a hair. Hardly looked at his dead son.”

“Lord Granville must be mad.” George closed her eyes and shuddered.

“There’s some who think so, indeed.” Tiggle frowned down at her. “Gracious, my lady, you’re that pale. What you need is a nice cup of hot tea.” She bustled to the door.

George lay back down, closing her eyes. Maybe if she was very still for a bit . . .

Tiggle returned, her heels tapping across the wood floor. “I thought that pale green gown would look very good when Mr. Pye comes to call—”

“I’ll wear the brown print.”

“But my lady.” Tiggle sounded scandalized. “It’s simply not the thing to see a gentleman in. At least not a special gentleman. Why, after last night—”

George swallowed and tried to summon the strength to battle her lady’s maid. “I won’t be seeing Mr. Pye again. We’ll be leaving for London today.”

Tiggle drew in a sharp breath.

George’s stomach gurgled. She braced herself.

“My lady,” Tiggle said, “just about every servant in this house knows who came to call last night in your private rooms. And then the brave thing he did at Granville House! The younger maids have been sighing over Mr. Pye all morning, and the only reason the older maids aren’t sighing as well is the look in Mr. Greaves’s eyes. You cannot leave Mr. Pye.”

The whole world was against her.
George felt a wave of self-pity and nausea well up in her. “I’m not leaving him. We’ve simply come to an agreement that we’re better off apart.”

“Nonsense. I’m sorry, my lady. I don’t usually speak my mind,” Tiggle said with apparent sincerity, “but that man loves you. He’s a good man, Harry Pye is. He’ll make a good husband. And you’re carrying his babe.”

“I’m well aware of that.” George belched ominously. “Mr. Pye may love me, but he doesn’t want to. Please, Tiggle. I can’t remain, hoping and clinging to him.” She opened her eyes wide in desperation. “Can’t you see? He’ll marry me out of honor or pity and he’ll spend the rest of his life hating me. I must go.”

“Oh, my lady—”

“Please.”

“Very well,” Tiggle said. “I think you’re making a mistake, but I’ll pack to leave if that’s what you want.”

“Yes, it’s what I want,” George said.

And promptly threw up into the chamber pot.

Dick Crumb and his sister both lived above the tavern in low-ceilinged rooms that were surprisingly tidy. Searching the rooms, his head grazing the lintels, Harry had thought that Dick must have to continuously stoop in his own house. Of course, neither Dick nor Janie had been there; in fact, the tavern had never opened that night, much to the disgust of several yokels hanging about the door. Dick and Janie had so few possessions, it was hard to tell if anything had been removed from the rooms. But Harry didn’t think they’d taken anything. That was odd. Surely if Dick had decided to run with his sister, he would have taken at least Janie’s things? But her few clothes—an extra dress, some chemises, and a pathetic pair of stockings riddled with holes—still hung from the pegs in her room beneath the eaves. There was even a small leather pouch with several silver coins hidden under Dick’s thin mattress.

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.

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.

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
H
s.”

His
H
s? “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 gentlewomen, 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—“
increas-ing
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.