Violet sighed, realizing there was no way she could get away without accepting Euphie’s help. “That’s sweet of you. Perhaps you can give it to my maid when you find it?”
Euphie nodded, and after further detailed instructions on how to deal with that, Violet was mercifully able to escape. In her room, she closed and locked the door, and then crossed to sit on the window seat. Her room was one of the prettiest in Woldsly, although it was by no means the biggest. Faded yellow and blue striped silk hung on the walls, and the carpet was an ancient Persian in blues and reds. Normally, Violet adored the room. But now it had begun to rain again outside, the wind spitting drops against the window and rattling the panes. Had the sun shone at all since she’d come to Yorkshire? She leaned her forehead against the glass and watched as her breath fogged the window. The fire had died on the grate, and her room was dim and cold, perfectly suiting her mood.
Her life was in utter shambles, and it was all her fault. Her eyes burned again, and she swiped at them angrily. She’d cried enough in the last two months to float a fleet of ships, and it hadn’t done a lick of good. Oh, if only one could go back and have a second chance to do things over. She’d never do it again, not if she had a second chance. She’d know that the feelings—so desperate and urgent at the time—would fade soon enough.
She hugged a blue silk cushion to her chest as the window blurred before her eyes. It hadn’t helped to run away. She’d thought that, surely, if she left Leicestershire, she’d soon forget. But she hadn’t, and now all her problems had followed her to Yorkshire. And George—staid George, funny older sister so firmly on the shelf with her flyaway hair and love of fairy tales—George was acting strange, hardly noticing Violet at all and spending all her time with that dreadful man. George was so naïve, it probably never occurred to her that nasty Mr. Pye was after her fortune.
Or worse.
Well, that at least she could do something about. Violet tumbled off the window seat and ran to her escritoire. She pulled out drawers and rummaged through them until she found a sheet of writing paper. Uncapping her ink bottle, she sat down. George would never listen to her, but there was one person she had to obey.
She dipped her quill in the ink and began to write.
“WHY HAVE YOU NEVER MARRIED, Mr. Pye?” Lady Georgina stressed his surname just to irritate him, Harry was sure.
Today, she wore a yellow dress printed with birds like none he’d ever seen—some of them had three wings. She did look fetching in it, he had to admit. She had one of those scarf things that women wore tucked into her bodice. It was almost transparent, giving him a teasing hint of her titties. That irritated him as well. And the fact that she was beside him in the gig again, despite his strong objections, pretty much put a cap on things. At least the relentless rain had let up for a bit today, although the sky was an ominous gray. He hoped they could reach the first cottage before they were soaked.
“I don’t know.” Harry spoke curtly, a tone he would never have taken with her a week ago. The horse seemed to sense his mood and jogged sideways, jolting the gig. Harry tightened the reins to bring the nag back on the track. “I haven’t met the right woman yet, likely.”
“Who would be the right woman?”
“I don’t know.”
“You must have some idea,” she stated with aristocratic certainty. “Do you fancy a golden-haired girl?”
“I—”
“Or do you prefer black-haired maidens? I once knew a man who would only dance with short, black-haired ladies, not that any of them wanted to dance with him, mind you, but that never seemed to occur to him.”
“I’m not particular as to hair,” he muttered when she paused to take a breath. Lady Georgina opened her mouth again, but he’d had enough. “Why haven’t you married, my lady?”
There. Let her stew on that a bit.
She didn’t miss a beat. “It is rather hard to find a promising gentleman. I sometimes think it would be easier to find a goose that really did lay golden eggs. So many of the gentlemen in society haven’t a thought to their head, truly. They consider being knowledgeable about hunting or hounds sufficient and don’t worry with anything else. And one must make conversation about something at the breakfast table. Wouldn’t it be awful to be in a marriage with a lot of awkward pauses?”
He’d never thought about it. “If you say so.”
“I do. Nothing but the clicking of the silverware against the china and the slurping of tea. Horrible. Then there are the ones who wear corsets and use rouge and patches.” She scrunched up her nose. “Have you any idea how unappetizing it is to kiss a man wearing rouge on his lips?”
“No.” Harry frowned. “Have you?”
“Well, no,” she admitted, “but I have it on good authority that it’s not an experience one would want to repeat.”
“Ah.” That was about the only thing he could think to say, but it seemed to do.
“I was engaged once.” She gazed idly at a herd of cows they were passing.
Harry straightened. “Really? What happened?” Had some lordling jilted her?
“I was only nineteen, which, in my opinion, is a rather dangerous age. One is old enough to know quite a bit but not wise enough to realize there are many things that one doesn’t know.” Lady Georgina paused and looked around. “Where, exactly, are we going today?”
They had crossed into Granville land.
“To the Pollard cottage,” he said. What had happened with her engagement? “You were talking about when you were nineteen.”
“I found myself engaged to Paul Fitzsimmons; that was his name, you know.”
“I understand that part,” he nearly growled. “But how did you get engaged, and how did it end?”
“I’m a trifle fuzzy about how I got engaged.”
He looked at her, brows raised.
“Well, it’s true.” She sounded defensive now. “One moment I was strolling on the terrace with Paul at a dance, discussing Mr. Huelly’s wig—it was pink, can you imagine?—and then suddenly, boom! I was engaged.” She looked at him as if this made perfect sense.
He sighed. That was probably the best he would get out of her. “And it fell through how?”
“Not long afterward, I discovered that my bosom beau, Nora Smyth-Fielding, was in love with Paul. And when I saw that, it was a short step to realizing that he was in love with her. Although”—Lady Georgina frowned—“I still don’t understand why he asked me to marry him when he so obviously doted on Nora. Perhaps he was confused, poor man.”
Poor man, my arse. This Fitzsimmons sounded like a half-wit. “What did you do?”
She shrugged. “I broke the engagement off, of course.”
Of course. Too bad he hadn’t been around to show the bastard proper manners. The fellow sounded like he could do with a bloody nose. Harry grunted. “Makes sense that you’d have trouble trusting a man after him.”
“I hadn’t thought of it like that. But you know, I think it’s Aunt Clara’s inheritance that is the bigger barrier to finding a husband.”
“How could an inheritance be a barrier?” he asked. “I would have thought it would bring the men flocking like crows to a carcass.”
“What a delightful simile, Mr. Pye.” Lady Georgina had narrowed her eyes at him.
He winced. “What I meant—”
“What I meant was that due to Aunt Clara’s inheritance, I don’t ever have to marry because of financial reasons. Thus, it becomes much less pressing to think about gentlemen in terms of marriage.”
“Oh.”
“Which doesn’t stop me from thinking of gentlemen in other terms.”
Other terms? He looked at her.
She was blushing. “Than marriage, that is.”
He tried to work out that convoluted statement, but he had already turned the gig into a rutted lane. Now he pulled the horse to a stop beside a wretched cottage. Had he not been told otherwise, he would never have guessed anyone lived here. Built in the same shape as the Oldson cottage, this one was much different. The thatched roof was black and rotten, and one part had fallen in. Weeds grew along the walk, and the door hung at an angle.
“Perhaps you should stay here, my lady,” he tried. But she was already climbing down from the gig without his help.
He gritted his teeth and held out his arm pointedly. She took it without protest, wrapping her fingers around him. He could feel her warmth through his coat, and it soothed him somehow. They walked to the door. Harry knocked on it, hoping he wouldn’t bring the whole place down.
Sounds of movement came from within, and then stopped. No one answered the door. Harry banged on the door again and waited. He was raising his arm to try a third time, when the old wood creaked open. A boy of about eight stood mutely in the doorway. His hair, greasy and overlong, hung in his brown eyes. He was barefoot and wore clothes gray with age.
“Is your mother at home?” Harry asked.
“Who is it, lad?” The voice was harsh, but it held no malice.
“Gentry, Gran.”
“What?” A woman appeared behind the boy. She was nearly as tall as a man, rawboned and strong-looking despite her age, but her eyes were bewildered and fearful, as though angels had come calling at her doorstep.
“We’ve some questions to ask you. About Annie Pollard,” Harry said. The woman simply continued to stare. He might’ve been speaking French. “This is the Pollard cottage, isn’t it?”
“Don’t like to talk about Annie.” The woman looked down at the boy, who hadn’t taken his gaze away from Harry’s face. Abruptly, she cuffed him across the back of the head. “Go on! Go find something to do.”
The boy didn’t even blink, just walked past them and around the corner of the cottage. Maybe that was how his grandmother always spoke to him.
“What about Annie?” she asked.
“I’ve heard that she was involved with Lord Granville,” he started cautiously.
“Involved? Aye, that’s a pretty word for what it was.” The woman curled her lip to reveal dark gaps where her front teeth had been. Her pink tongue poked through. “Why do you want to know about that?”
“Someone’s killing sheep,” Harry said. “I’ve heard that Annie or perhaps someone close to her might have a reason for doing it.”
“I don’t know nothing about those sheep.” She started to close the door.
Harry stuck his boot in the crack. “Does Annie?”
She shook.
Harry thought at first that he might have driven her to tears, then she raised her head, and he saw her face was split by a grotesque smile.
“Maybe she does, does Annie,” she wheezed. “If they know about the doings of the living in the fires of hell.”
“Then she’s dead?” Lady Georgina spoke for the first time.
Her crisp accent seemed to sober the woman. “Either that or might as well be.” She leaned tiredly against the door. “Her name was Annie Baker, you know. She was married. At least she was until he came sniffing after her.”
“Lord Granville?” Lady Georgina murmured.
“Aye. The devil hisself.” The woman sucked in her upper lip. “Annie threw over Baker. She was Granville’s whore for as long as he wanted her, which wasn’t long. Came back here with her belly big and stayed just long enough to whelp. Then she took off again. Last I heard she was spreading her legs for a cup of gin.” She looked suddenly wistful. “A lass don’t last long as a gin slut, do she?”
“No,” Harry said quietly.
Lady Georgina looked stunned, and he was sorry he hadn’t been able to talk her into staying behind at Woldsly Manor. He’d dragged her into a cesspit.
