“He raped her?”
“Maybe, at the beginning. I dunno.” Dick stared off. His hand was stopped on top of his head, still holding the cloth. “I didn’t know about it, see, not for a long time. She was living with me, like she does now, but Janie’s ten years the younger of me. Our da had passed years before, and Janie’s mum died when she were born.” The big man swallowed from his mug.
Harry didn’t say anything for fear of stopping the flow of the story.
“Janie’s more like a niece or a daughter to me than a sister,” Dick said. He took his hand away from his head and looked at the cloth blankly. “And by the time I noticed that she was sneaking out at night, it’d been going on a while.” He gave a bark of laughter. “When I found out and told her to stop, she said he was going to marry her.” He was silent a moment.
Harry took another drink to wash away the bile gathering in his throat. Poor, poor Janie.
“Can you see it?” Dick looked up, and Harry saw tears glittering in his eyes. “He was widowed, so she thought Lord Granville would marry her. Nothing I said could keep her from creeping out and meeting him at night. Went on for weeks and I thought I’d go mad. Then, of course, he dropped her. Like a dirty rag he’d wiped his spunk on.”
“What did you do?”
Dick gave another bark of laughter and finally put away his cloth. “Nothing. Wasn’t aught I could do. She came back and stayed to herself like a good girl. I spent a couple months worried I’d have to house another of Granville’s bastards, but she was lucky.” He lifted his mug to drink, noticed it was empty, and set it down again. “Probably the only time she ever lucked out in her whole life, Janie. And not much luck at that, was it?”
Harry nodded. “Dick, do you think—”
A tug at his elbow interrupted him. Will had returned so silently that the two men hadn’t noticed.
“Just a moment, Will.”
The boy tugged again. “She’s dead.”
“What?” Both men looked at the boy.
“She’s dead. Me gran. She’s dead.” He spoke in a dull tone that worried Harry more than the news.
“How do you know?” he asked.
“They found her on the heath. A farmer and his boys out looking for a stray. In a sheep pasture.” Will suddenly focused on Harry’s face. “They said the sheep poisoner killed her.”
Harry closed his eyes. Christ, why did the dead woman have to be Will’s gran, of all people?
“No.” Dick was shaking his head. “Can’t be. The sheep poisoner couldn’t have killed her.”
“They found false parsley by her, and she was all twisted…” Will’s face screwed up.
Harry put his arms around Will’s shoulders and drew the boy close. “I’m sorry.” The boy must still love the old witch, even after she’d thrown him out like the slops. “There, there, lad.” He patted the boy’s back and felt stupidly angry at Will’s gran for letting herself get killed.
“You best be going,” Dick’s voice broke in.
Harry glanced up, puzzled. The big man was looking thoughtful—and worried.
He met Harry’s eyes. “If folks think you’re the poisoner, they’re going to believe you did this, too.”
“For God’s sake, Dick.” All Will needed was to believe Harry had killed his grandmother.
Will lifted his wet face from Harry’s shirt.
“I didn’t kill your gran, Will.”
“I know, Mr. Pye.”
“Good.” He took out a handkerchief and gave it to the boy. “And call me Harry.”
“Yes, sir.” Will’s lower lip began to tremble again.
“Dick’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 passed, but he might have imagined it after Dick’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 Cock and Worm.
Quickly, he found his mare and boosted Will onto her back. Mounting, Harry looked around. A drunk was pissing 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 passed 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 cocked 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 Dick, 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 damning 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.
