“Maybe. But Violet has always been such a cheerful, open girl, and we’ve been very close. With Mother the way she is, well, I’ve had to step in. We’re closer than most sisters.” She smiled mischievously at him. “It’s why I’m so sure of the reason she distrusts you.”
“No doubt you’re right about that.” They’d come to a gate, and he pulled the horse to a stop. “But you’re wrong on one other thing.”
“What is that?”
He tied the reins and stood in preparation to swing down from the gig. “I never disliked you, my lady.”
THE KEY TO A SUCCESSFUL alfresco picnic was in the packing. George peered into the wicker basket and hummed in approval. Squishy foods, like cream cakes, for instance, were bound to come to grief no matter how carefully the hamper was handled. She lifted out some smoked ham and placed it on a cutting board next to the cheese and crusty bread. If one forgot important utensils, one was likely to end up having to tear things apart with one’s bare hands. She handed the corkscrew to Mr. Pye. It was also most imperative that the foods not spoil during the day. A pear tart followed. And the little details should not be forgotten in order to have a really splendid picnic. She took out a small jar of pickled gherkins and sighed in satisfaction.
“I just adore picnics.”
Mr. Pye, wrestling with the cork in a bottle of white wine, looked up and smiled at her. “So I see, my lady.”
For a moment, George felt lost in that smile, the first full one she’d ever seen on his face.
The cork let go with a soft pop. Mr. Pye poured a glass of the translucent liquid and handed it to her. She took a sip, savoring the tart bite on her tongue, and then set the glass down on the throw where they sat. A white butterfly that had been resting on the throw took off.
“Look.” George gestured to the insect. “I wonder what kind it is?”
“It’s a cabbage butterfly, my lady.”
“Oh.” She wrinkled her nose. “What an awful name for such a pretty thing.”
“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.