"Yes, sir." Will's lower lip began to tremble again.

"d.i.c.k's right, we best be going. It's getting late anyway." Harry studied the boy. "Are you ready?"

Will nodded.

They made their way to the tavern entrance. Already men were gathering in knots and talking. Some seemed to look up and glare at him as they pa.s.sed, but he might have imagined it after d.i.c.k's comment. If Will's gran had truly been murdered by the same man who'd been killing the sheep, it did not bode well. The people hereabouts were worried about their livestock. How much more fearful would they be if they now had to worry about their children, their wives, maybe themselves?

As they neared the entrance, someone shoved him. He stumbled but had his knife in his hand almost instantly. When he turned, a wall of hostile faces stared back.

Someone whispered, "Murderer." But no one moved.

"Come on, Will." Harry slowly backed out of the c.o.c.k and Worm.

Quickly, he found his mare and boosted Will onto her back. Mounting, Harry looked around. A drunk was p.i.s.sing against the tavern wall, but otherwise the darkening street was deserted. News of a murder would travel fast, but maybe night falling would delay it a bit. He should have until morning to figure out how to deal with this.

Harry chirruped to the mare and set out into the gathering dusk, Will clinging to his back. They turned onto the road home. The road pa.s.sed through Granville land before going over the river to Woldsly. The lights of the town faded, leaving the dark to shroud them. No moon was out to light the road. Or to give them away.

Harry urged the mare into a trot.

"Are they going to hang you?" Will's voice sounded scared in the dark.

"No. They need more evidence than a bunch of gossip to hang a man."

Hoofbeats came from behind them.

Harry c.o.c.ked his head. More than one horse. And coming up on them fast. "Wrap your arms around me, Will."

He nudged the mare into a gallop as soon as he felt the clench around his waist. The mare thundered down the road. But she was carrying two, and he knew the riders behind would soon overtake them. They were in open pasture land. Nowhere to hide. He could take the mare off the road, but in the dark she'd have a fair chance of putting her hoof in a hole and killing them all. And he had Will to think of. The boy's small hands clung to his waist. Foam flew from the mare's mouth, and Harry leaned low over her sweating neck, muttering words of encouragement. If they could make it to the ford, there were places along the bank to hide. Or they could even go into the stream if necessary and follow the water downstream.

"We're almost to the ford. We'll be all right there," Harry shouted to the boy.

Will must have been afraid, but he never made a sound. Another turn. The mare's lungs heaved like bellows. The riders behind them were growing closer, their hoofbeats louder. There! The mare raced down the track to the stream. Harry almost sighed in relief. Almost. Then he saw and realized there had never been any hope at all. On the stream's far side, shadows shifted in the gloom. More men on horseback were waiting for him there.

They were herding him into a trap.

Harry glanced over his shoulder. He had maybe half a minute before the riders were upon them. He hauled on the reins, cutting the poor mare's mouth. There was no help for it. The mare half reared, skidding to a stop. Harry pried Will's hands from his waist. He grabbed the boy's wrist and flung the crying child to the ground.

"Hide. Now!" Harry shook his head as the boy sobbed a protest. "There isn't time for that. You have to stay hidden-no matter what they do. Go back to d.i.c.k, tell him to get Bennet Granville. Now run!"

Harry kicked the mare and drew his knife. He didn't look back to see whether Will had done as instructed. If he could draw the attackers far enough away from Will, maybe they wouldn't bother going back for one small boy. He charged full gallop into the stream. Harry felt a grin stretch his lips just before the mare slammed into the first horse.

He was surrounded by plunging horses and foaming water. The man nearest raised his arm, and Harry drove his knife into the exposed armpit. The man didn't even groan when he fell into the stream. Around him, the horses whinnied and the men shouted. Hands grabbed for him and Harry swung his knife viciously. Desperately. Another man fell into the stream, screaming. Then they pulled him from his horse. Someone caught his knife hand. Harry closed his right hand, the one with the missing finger-into a fist and hammered at any flesh near enough to hit. But there were many of them and only one of him, and they were raining down a storm of kicks and blows.

In the end, it was only a matter of time before he went under.

Chapter Fourteen.

"Men do have their uses," Lady Beatrice Renault said as if conceding a dubious point of debate, "but giving advice on affaires de coeur is not one of them." She raised the dish of tea to her lips and took a small sip.

George repressed a sigh. She'd been in London over a week and up until this morning had successfully managed to avoid Aunt Beatrice. This was all Oscar's fault. If he hadn't been so careless as to leave a letter from Violet laying around, their Aunt Beatrice would never have found out about Harry and would never have felt compelled to come and lecture George on the proper way to conduct an affair. True, Oscar had placed the d.a.m.ning letter in the drawer of his desk, but any fool knew that would be the first place Aunt Beatrice would start browsing when the butler left her alone in the study when she'd come to call.Definitely Oscar's fault.

"They are much too sentimental, poor dears," Aunt Beatrice continued. She bit into a piece of cake and then frowned down at it. "Is this a prune filling, Georgina? I've specifically told you that prunes do not agree with me."

George glanced at the offending slice of cake. "I believe it is chocolate cream, but I can ring for a different pastry."

Aunt Beatrice had invaded George's London town house, settled into a gilt chair in her pretty blue and white sitting room, and all but demanded tea. George thought Cook had done an outstanding job, considering she'd had no notice of potential guests.

"Humph." Lady Beatrice poked at the cake on her plate, disemboweling it. "It looks like prunes, but if you are quite sure." She took another bite, masticating thoughtfully. "As a result, they are competent-barely-at running the government but a complete wash at domestic doings."

George was at a loss for a second before remembering that her aunt had been discussing men before prunes. "Quite."

Perhaps if she feigned an attack of the vapors . . . But knowing Aunt Beatrice, she'd probably throw cold water in her face until George admitted consciousness and then continue with her lecture. Best to sit it out.

"Now, contrary to what men will tell you," her aunt continued, "an affair or two or more is good for a lady. Brings a certain mental alertness and, naturally, roses to the cheeks."

Lady Beatrice touched her own cheek with one manicured fingernail. It was indeed rosy, but more from rouge than nature. It was also decorated by three black velvet patches: two stars and a crescent moon.

"The most important thing for a lady to remember is to be discreet." Aunt Beatrice sipped her tea. "For instance, I have found that if one is engaged with two or more gentlemen over the same period of time, it is imperative they not find out about each other."

Aunt Beatrice was the youngest of the Littleton sisters. Aunt Clara, who'd left George her fortune, had been the eldest, and George's own mother, Sarah, the middle sister. The Littleton sisters had been considered beauties in their day, cutting a devastating swath through London society. All three sisters had married unhappily. Aunt Clara had wed an insanely religious man who had died young, leaving her childless but wealthy. Aunt Beatrice had married a much older man who had kept his wife constantly pregnant while he lived. Tragically, all her babies had died in miscarriages or stillbirth.

As for Sarah, her own mother . . . George took a sip of her tea. Who knew what exactly was wrong with her parents' marriage? Maybe only that her mother and father had not cared for each other. In any case, Lady Maitland was bedridden with imagined ills and had been for years.

"Even the most sophisticated man becomes like a little boy unable to share his toys," Lady Beatrice continued now. "No more than three is my motto, and really with three one has to do a fine balancing act."

George choked.

"Whatever is the matter with you, Georgina?" Lady Beatrice looked at her with annoyance.

"Nothing," George gasped. "A bit of crumb."

"Really, I do worry about the English as a race with-"

"What luck to find not one, but two examples of womanly pulchritude." George's sitting room door was flung open to reveal Oscar and a fair young man who bowed to the ladies.

Lady Beatrice frowned and lifted her cheek for Oscar's buss. "We are busy, dear. Go away. Not you, Cecil." The other man had started to back out the door. "You may stay. You are the only man I know with any sense, and that should be encouraged."

Cecil Barclay smiled and bowed again. "Your ladyship is kind indeed."

He quirked an eyebrow at George, who patted the settee cushion next to her. She'd known Cecil and his younger brother, Freddy, since they'd all been in leading strings.

"But if Cecil stays, then I beg leave to do so also." Oscar sat down and helped himself to a slice of cake.

George glared at her brother.

Oscar mouthed What? at her.

She rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Will you take tea, Cecil?"

"Yes, please," Cecil said. "Oscar dragged me all over Tattersall's this morning to look at horses. He wants a matched set for his new carriage and claims none in London will do."

"Gentlemen spend entirely too much money on horseflesh," Lady Beatrice p.r.o.nounced.

"What other type of flesh would you have us spend our blunt upon?" Oscar opened his wicked brown eyes wide.

Lady Beatrice tapped him overhard on the knee with her fan.

"Ow!" Oscar rubbed the spot. "I say, is this a prune filling in the cake?"

George repressed another sigh and looked out her town house windows. It wasn't raining here in London, but there was a kind of gray mist that covered everything and left behind a sticky grime. She'd made a mistake. She knew that now after more than a week away from Harry and Yorkshire. She should've stuck it out and made him talk. Or talked herself until he broke down and told her . . . what? His fears? Her faults? Why he didn't care for her? If it was the last, at least she would know. She wouldn't be stuck here in this limbo, not able to return to her old life and yet unable to go on with what might be a new one.

"Can you come, George?" Cecil was speaking to her.

"What?" She blinked. "I'm sorry, I'm afraid I didn't catch that last bit."

Her aunt and the gentlemen exchanged a look that said they had to make allowances for her mental state.

George grit her teeth.

"Cecil said he was going to the theater tomorrow night and wanted to know if he could escort you," Oscar explained.

"Actually, I-" George was saved from making an excuse by the entrance of her butler. She knit her brows. "Yes, Holmes?"

"I beg your pardon, my lady, but a messenger has just arrived from Lady Violet." Holmes proffered a silver plate on which lay a rather muddy letter.

George took it. "Thank you."

The butler bowed and exited.

Had Wentworth pursued Violet north? They'd thought it best to leave Violet at Woldsly in the a.s.sumption that she was safest there away from society, but perhaps they'd been wrong.

"If you don't mind?" George didn't wait for her guests' permission but used a b.u.t.ter knife to break the seal on the letter. Violet's handwriting sprawled frantically across the page, obliterated here and there by inkblots.

My Dear Sister . . . Harry Pye beaten and arrested . . . in Granville's custody . . . denied access . . . please come at once.

Beaten.

George's hand shook. Oh, dear Lord, Harry. A sob caught in her throat. She tried to remember Violet's fondness for melodrama. Perhaps she'd overstated or otherwise exaggerated. But, no, Violet didn't lie. If Lord Granville had Harry in his hands, he might already be dead.

"Georgie." She looked up to find Oscar kneeling directly in front of her. "What is it?"

Mutely, she turned the letter so he could read it.

He frowned. "But there was no concrete evidence of his culpability, was there?"

George shook her head and drew a ragged breath. "Lord Granville has a grudge against Harry. He doesn't need evidence." She closed her eyes. "I should have never left Yorkshire."

"There's no way you could have foreseen this."

She rose and started for the door.

"Where are you going?" Oscar caught her elbow.

George shook him off. "Where do you think? To him."

"Wait, I-"

She turned on her brother savagely. "I cannot wait. He may already be dead."

Oscar held up his hands as if surrendering. "I know, I know, Georgie. I meant I'll go with you. See what I can do." He turned to Cecil. "Can you ride and tell Tony what's happened?"

Cecil nodded.

"Here." Oscar pried the letter from George's hand. "Give him this. He'll need to come when he can."

"Of course, old chap." Cecil looked curious but took the letter.

"Thank you." Tears began to run down George's face.

"It's all right." Cecil started to say more, then shook his head and left.

"Well, I can't say that I approve of all this, whatever it is." Lady Beatrice had been quiet through the scene, but she rose now. "I do not like being kept in the dark. Not at all. But I will wait just this once to find out what you are all rushing about for."

"Of course, Aunt." George was already half out the door, not really listening.

"Georgina." Lady Beatrice laid a palm on her niece's tear-stained face, halting her. "Remember, dear, we cannot stay the hand of G.o.d, but we can be strong." She looked suddenly old. "Sometimes it is the only thing we can do."

"OLD MISTRESS POLLARD WAS MURDERED, plain and simple." Silas sat back in his leather armchair and looked at his younger son with satisfaction.

Bennet paced the library like a young lion. In contrast, his brother cowered in a too-small corner chair, his knees drawn nearly to his chin. Why Thomas was in the library at all, Silas couldn't fathom, but he didn't really care either way. All his attention was on his younger son.In the week since his men had brought in Harry Pye, Bennet had railed and raged against his father. But however much he tried, he couldn't get away from that one fact: A woman had been murdered. An old woman, true, and a poor one at that. One that n.o.body had much cared about when alive. Nevertheless, she was human and so, no matter how decrepit, several steps up from a dead sheep.

At least in the popular estimation.

In fact, Silas had begun to wonder if he'd made a mistake in his haste to catch Pye. Local sentiment was running very high. No one liked a murderer on the loose. Had he simply left Pye to his own devices, someone might have taken matters into their own hands and lynched the b.a.s.t.a.r.d. He might already be dead by now. But in the long run it made very little difference. Dead now or dead in a week, either way, Pye would soon be very, very dead. And then his son would no longer be arguing with him.

"She may have been murdered, but it wasn't Harry Pye who did it." Bennet stood in front of his father's desk, arms crossed, eyes blazing.

Silas felt impatience rise in him. Everyone else believed the land steward guilty. Why couldn't his own son?

He sat forward and tapped on his desktop with a forefinger as if he could drill through the mahogany. "Hemlock killed her, same as the sheep. His carving was found by her corpse. The second carving, remember, discovered with these crimes." Silas thrust his hands forward, palms upward. "What more do you want?"

"I know you hate Harry Pye, Father, but why would he leave his own carvings by the bodies? Why incriminate himself?"