Harry held his breath.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her squint at him. “You’re making that up.”
“My lady?”
“That bit about arsenic being a sort of seashell.” She lowered her voice on the last words to mimic him.
“I assure you”—Harry kept his tone bland—“it’s a pinkish seashell found only in the Adriatic Sea. The local villagers harvest the shells with long rakes and sieves. There is a yearly festival to celebrate the catch.” He fought to prevent his lips from twitching. “The Annual Adriatic Arsenic Assail.”
Silence—and, he was fairly certain—stunned silence at that. Harry felt a surge of pride. It wasn’t just any man who could make Lady Georgina lose her power of speech.
Not that it lasted long.
“I shall have to watch you, Mr. Pye.”
“My lady?”
“Because you are evil.” But her words shook as if she barely held in the laughter.
He smiled. He hadn’t felt so light in a very, very long time. He slowed the horse as they came to the stream that separated her estate from Granville’s land. He scanned the horizon. Theirs was the only vehicle on the road.
“Surely Lord Granville wouldn’t be so rash as to attack us here.”
He glanced at her, brows raised.
She frowned impatiently. “You’ve been watching the hills since we neared the stream.”
Ah. She’d been aware. He reminded himself not to underestimate her, even when she played the aristocratic ninny. “Granville would be insane to try an attack.” Which didn’t mean he wouldn’t.
Reapers harvested barley to their right. Usually reapers sang as they worked, but these labored in silence.
“Lord Granville has his workers out on a misty day,” Lady Georgina said.
He pressed his lips together to forestall a comment on Granville’s agricultural practices.
A sudden thought occurred to her. “I haven’t noticed anyone in my fields since I’ve arrived at Woldsly. Are you worried they might get the ague?”
Harry stared at her. She didn’t know. “The grain is still too damp to store. Only a fool would order the reapers out on a morning like this.”
“But”—she knitted her brows—“don’t you need to harvest it before frost?”
“Yes. But if the grain is wet, it’s worse than useless to harvest it. It would merely spoil in the storage bins.” He shook his head. “Those workers are wasting their strength on grain that will rot, anyway.”
“I see.” She seemed to think about that for a minute. “What will you do with the Woldsly harvest, then?”
“There’s nothing to do, my lady, except pray for a break in the rain.”
“But if the harvest is ruined…”
He straightened a bit in the seat. “Your revenue will be considerably lessened from the estate this year, I’m afraid, my lady. If the weather clears, we might still get most of the crop in, maybe all of it. But every day that goes by lessens that chance. The tenants on your land need those crops to feed their families as well as pay you your share. The farmers won’t have much left over—”
“I don’t mean that!” Now she was frowning at him, looking insulted. “Do you think me such a… a fribble that I’d care for my income over a tenant’s ability to feed his children?”
Harry couldn’t think of anything to say. All the landowners in his experience did indeed have more concern for their income than the well-being of the people who worked their land.
She continued, “We will, of course, waive the rent monies due me for this year if the harvest fails. And I will make available loans to any farmer who might need one to see him through the winter.”
Harry blinked, startled by a sudden lightness in his heart. Her offer was more than generous. She’d removed a burden from his shoulders. “Thank you, my lady.”
She looked down at her gloved hands. “Don’t thank me,” she said gruffly. “I should have realized. And I’m sorry for being cross with you. I was embarrassed to know so little about my own estate. You must think me an idiot.”
“No,” he replied softly, “only a lady who is city bred.”
“Ah, Mr. Pye.” She smiled, and his chest seemed to warm. “Ever the diplomat.”
They crested a rise, and Harry slowed the gig to turn into a rutted lane. He hoped they wouldn’t lose a wheel in the potholes. The lane led to a crofter’s cottage, long and low, with a thatched roof. Harry pulled the horse to a halt and jumped from the gig.
“Who lives here?” Lady Georgina asked when he went to her side to help her down.
“Sam Oldson.”
A shaggy terrier ran out from around the building and began barking at them.
“Sam!” Harry shouted. “You there, Sam! Are you home?”
He wasn’t about to go nearer the cottage with that dog growling so seriously. It was a smallish dog, true, but the small ones were more apt to bite.
“Aye?” A burly man wearing a reaper’s straw hat came from the shed. “Shuddup, dog!” He roared to the still-barking terrier. “Get on with you!”
The dog tucked its tail under its rear and sat.
“Good morning.” Lady Georgina spoke brightly from beside Harry.
Sam Oldson snatched the hat from his head, baring a wild nest of black hair. “Ma’am. I didn’t see you there at first.” He ran a hand through his hair, making it stand up even more, and looked helplessly at the cottage. “My woman’s not home. Visiting her mum she is, otherwise she’d be out here offering you a drink and a bite to eat.”
“That’s quite all right, Mr. Oldson. We did arrive unexpectedly, I know.” She smiled at the man.
Harry cleared his throat. “This is Lady Georgina Maitland from Woldsly.” He thought it best not to introduce himself, though Sam was no fool. Already he was beginning to scowl. “We’ve come to ask you about the sheep you lost. The ones that were poisoned. Did you find them yourself?”
“Aye.” Sam spat into the dust at his feet, and the terrier cringed at his tone. “A little over a fortnight ago, it were. I’d sent my lad to bring them in and he come running back quick. Said I’d better come see myself. There they were, three of my best ewes, rolled on their sides with tongues sticking out and bits of green leaves still in their mouths.”
“Do you know what they’d eaten?” Harry asked.