“He had excellent references,” George muttered.
Lord Granville swung in her direction. She recoiled, but Mr. Pye moved smoothly with the larger man, keeping his shoulder always between them. His show of protectiveness only enraged Lord Granville further.
“Enough, I say. I demand you dismiss this… this scoundrel!” Lord Granville spat the word. “Blood always shows. Like his father before him, he’s the lowest form of criminal.”
George inhaled.
Mr. Pye didn’t speak, but a soft noise came from between his drawn-back lips.
Good Lord, it sounded like a snarl. Hastily, she broke into speech. “Now, Lord Granville, I think you’re being rather rash in your condemnation of Mr. Pye. After all, have you any reason to suppose it is my steward instead of someone else doing the damage?”
“Reason?” Lord Granville hissed the word. “Reason? Aye, I’ve got reason. Twenty years ago this man’s father attacked me. Nearly killed me, he was so insane.”
George lifted her eyebrows. She darted a look at Mr. Pye, but he’d controlled his face into its customary impassivity. “I don’t see why—”
“He assaulted me as well.” Lord Granville speared a finger at the land steward’s chest. “Joined his father in trying to murder a peer of the realm.”
“But”—she looked from one man to the other, the first the very embodiment of rage, the other showing no expression at all—“but he could hardly have been full grown twenty years ago. Wouldn’t he be a boy of… of—”
“Twelve.” Mr. Pye spoke for the first time since he’d uttered the other man’s name. His voice was quiet, almost a whisper. “And it was eighteen years ago. Exactly.”
“Twelve is plenty old enough to murder a man.” Lord Granville batted aside the objection with the flat of his hand. “It’s well known that the common rabble mature early—the better to breed more vermin. At twelve, he was as much a man as he is now.”
George blinked at this outrageous statement, said with a perfectly straight face and apparently believed as fact by Lord Granville. She glanced again at Mr. Pye, but if anything, he appeared bored. Obviously, he’d heard this sentiment or ones very like it before. She wondered briefly how often he’d listened to such drivel in his childhood.
She shook her head. “Be that as it may, my lord, it does not sound as if you have concrete evidence of Mr. Pye’s culpability now. And I really do feel—”
Lord Granville threw something down at her feet. “I have evidence.” His smile was quite odious.
George frowned and looked at the thing by her embroidered shoe tip. It was a little wooden figure. She bent to pick it up, a small, treacle-colored figurine, no larger than the ball of her thumb. Its features were partially obscured by dried mud. She turned it over, rubbing the dirt off. A hedgehog carved in exquisite detail emerged. The artist had cleverly taken advantage of a dark spot in the wood to highlight the bristles on the tiny animal’s back. How sweet! George smiled in delight.
Then she became aware of the silence in the room. She looked up and saw the dreadful stillness with which Mr. Pye stared at the carving in her hand. Dear Lord, surely he hadn’t really—
“That, I think, is evidence enough,” Lord Granville said.
“What—?”
“Ask him.” Granville gestured at the hedgehog, and George instinctively closed her fingers as if to protect it. “Go on, ask him who made that.”
She met Mr. Pye’s eyes. Was there a flicker of regret in them?
“I did,” he said.
George cradled the carving in her two hands and brought them to her breast. Her next question was inevitable. “And what does Mr. Pye’s hedgehog have to do with your dead sheep?”
“It was found next to the body of a ram on my land.” Lord Granville’s eyes bore the unholy light of triumph. “Just this morning.”
“I see.”
“So you must dismiss Pye at the very least. I’ll have the charges written up and a warrant for his arrest drawn. In the meantime, I’ll take him into my custody. I am, after all, the magistrate in this area.” Lord Granville was almost jovial in his victory. “Perhaps you can lend me a brace of strong footmen?”
“I don’t think so.” George shook her head thoughtfully. “No, I’m afraid that just won’t do.”
“Are you out of your mind, woman? I offer to solve the problem for you—” Lord Granville cut himself off impatiently. He marched to the door, waving his hand. “Fine. I’ll just ride back to my estate and bring my own men to arrest the fellow.”
“No, I think not,” George said. “Mr. Pye is still in my employ. You must let me handle this matter as I see fit.”
Lord Granville stopped and turned. “You’re insane. I’ll have this man by sundown. You have no right—”
“I have every right,” George interrupted him. “This is my steward, my house, my land. And you are not welcome upon it.” Striding swiftly, she took both men by surprise, moving past them before they could object. She threw open the door and continued into the hall. “Greaves!”
The butler must have been hovering nearby because he appeared with amazing speed. He was accompanied by the two biggest footmen in her service.
“Lord Granville will be leaving now.”
“Yes, my lady.” Greaves, a perfect example of his kind, showed no satisfaction as he hurried forward to offer Lord Granville his hat and gloves, but his step was bouncier than usual.
“You’ll regret this.” Lord Granville shook his head slowly, heavily, like an enraged bull. “I’ll make sure of it.”
Mr. Pye was suddenly at George’s side. She fancied she could feel his warmth even though he touched her not at all.
“The door is this way, my lord,” Greaves said, and the footmen moved to flank Lord Granville.
She held her breath until the big oak doors banged shut. Then she blew it out. “Well. At least he is out of the manor.”
Mr. Pye brushed past her.
“I haven’t finished talking to you,” George said, irritated. The man could at least thank her before leaving. “Where are you going?”
“I have some questions that need answering, my lady.” He bowed briefly. “I promise to present myself to you by tomorrow morning. Anything you have to say to me can be said then.”