And he was gone.
George slowly unclasped her fist and looked again at the elfin hedgehog. “And what if what I have to say can’t wait until tomorrow?”
GODDAMN HARRY PYE and that haughty bitch as well! Silas Granville kicked his black gelding into a gallop as he left the Woldsly Manor gates. The animal tried to shy at the sting of the spurs, but Silas was having none of it. He yanked viciously on the reins, driving the bit into the soft sides of the horse’s mouth until the animal tasted the copper of its own blood. The gelding subsided.
To what end did Lady Georgina protect Harry Pye? It wouldn’t be long before Silas returned, and when he did, he’d be sure to bring a small army. She wouldn’t be able to prevent him from dragging Pye away.
The gelding hesitated at the ford in the stream that divided Granville land from the Woldsly estate. The stream was wide and shallow here. Silas spurred the horse, and it splashed into the water. Bright drops of blood swirled and mixed with the current and were swept away downstream. The hills rolled up from the stream, hiding the approach to Granville House. A man on foot, carrying baskets on a yoke across his shoulders, was in the lane. He scrambled to the side at the sound of the gelding’s hoofbeats. As Silas rode by, the man doffed his cap. Silas didn’t bother acknowledging him.
His family had held these lands since the time of the Tudors. Granvilles had married, begot, and died here. Some had been weak and some had been intemperate in drink or women, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was the land. For the land was the foundation of their wealth and of their power—the foundation of Silas’s power. No one—especially not a baseborn land steward—was going to endanger that foundation. Not while the blood still beat in his veins. The loss of monies from the dead sheep on his lands was minimal, but the loss of pride—of honor—was too great to bear. Silas would never forget the sheer insolence on Pye’s young face nearly twenty years ago. Even as his finger was being cut off, the boy had stared him in the eye and sneered. Pye had never behaved as a peasant should. It was important that Silas make a show of punishing Harry Pye for his criminal affront.
The gelding turned in at the great stone gates, and Silas nudged the horse into another gallop. He topped a rise and Granville House appeared. Gray granite, four stories high, with wings that formed a square around an inner courtyard, Granville House loomed over the surrounding countryside. The building was imposing and stern, meant to signal here is authority to any who saw it.
Silas cantered to the front door. He pursed his lips in distaste as he saw the figure in crimson and silver on the steps.
“Thomas. You look like a sodomite in that rig.” He dismounted and threw the reins to a stable hand. “How much did that garment set me back at the tailor’s?”
“Hullo, Father.” His eldest son’s face blotched red. “It really wasn’t all that dear.” Thomas stared at the blood on the gelding’s heaving sides. He licked his lips.
“Gad, you’re blushing like a lass.” Silas brushed past the boy. “Come and sup with me, Miss Nellie.”
He smirked as his son hesitated behind him. The boy didn’t have much choice, did he? Not unless he’d grown a set of bollocks overnight. Silas stomped into his dining room, perversely pleased to see that the table wasn’t set.
“Where the hell’s my dinner?”
Footmen jumped, maids scurried, and the butler babbled out apologies. Too soon the table was ready and they sat down to dine.
“Eat some of that.” Silas pointed with a fork at the rare meat, lying in a pool of blood on his son’s plate. “Mayhap you’ll grow hair on your chest. Or elsewhere.”
Thomas hazarded a half smile at Silas’s baiting and shrugged one shoulder nervously.
Jesus! How had he ever thought this boy’s mother would make a good breeder? His offspring, the fruit of his loins—which he never doubted, because his late wife hadn’t the spirit to cuckold him—sat across from him and poked at his meat. His son had inherited Silas’s height and brown eyes but that was all. His overlong nose, lipless mouth, and puling nature were all his mother’s. Silas snorted in disgust.
“Were you able to see Lady Georgina?” Thomas had taken a bite of the beef and was chewing it as if he held dung in his mouth.
“Oh, aye, I saw the arrogant bitch. Saw her in the library at Woldsly. And Harry Pye, damn his green eyes.” He reached for a roll.
Thomas stopped chewing. “Harry Pye? The same Harry Pye who used to live here? Not a different man with the same name? Her steward, I mean.”
“Aye her steward.” Silas’s voice rose on the last word to a mincing falsetto. His son flushed again. “It’s not like I’m apt to forget those green eyes any time soon.”
“I suppose not.”
Silas looked hard at his son, his eyes narrowed.
“You’ll have him arrested?” Thomas spoke quickly, one shoulder up.
“As to that, I’ve run into a slight problem.” Silas curled his upper lip. “Seems Lady Georgina doesn’t want her steward arrested, stupid wench.” He took another swig of ale. “Doesn’t think the evidence is damning enough. Probably doesn’t care one way or the other about dead livestock—my dead livestock—seeing as she’s from London.”
“The carved figurine didn’t convince her?”
“No, it did not.” Silas picked a bit of gristle from between his front teeth. “Ridiculous to let a woman have that much land, anyway. What’s she want it for? Probably cares more for gloves and the latest dance in London than she does for her estate. The old woman should have left it to a man. Or made her get married so she’d have a husband to run it.”
“Perhaps…” Thomas hesitated. “Perhaps I could talk to her?”
“You?” Silas flung back his head and laughed until he began to choke. Tears appeared in his eyes, and he had to take a drink.
Thomas was silent on the other side of the table.
Silas wiped his eyes. “It’s not as if you have a way with the ladies, now, is it, Tommy, my boy? Not like your brother, Bennet. That lad had his first cream jug while still in the schoolroom.”
Thomas’s head was bowed. His shoulders twitched up and down.
“Have you ever even bedded a wench?” Silas asked softly. Slyly. “Ever felt soft, fat titties? Ever smelled the fishy odor of eager twat?” He leaned back, balancing his chair on two legs, and watched his son. “Ever plunged your pud into a willing woman and fucked her until she screamed?”