That one raised his hands. “Hold on! Hold on! We was only teaching him his manners!”

“Not anymore,” Harry whispered.

The man’s eyes flickered.

Harry ducked—in time to protect his head but not his shoulder—as a chair smashed across his side. He turned and stabbed. The man behind him howled, clutching a bleeding thigh. Another crash and the thwack of flesh hitting flesh. Harry realized that Bennet was standing back-to-back with him. The aristo wasn’t as pie-eyed as he’d thought. He was able to fight, at least.

Three men charged at once.

Harry leaned to the side, helping a man pass him with a punch and a shove. A yellow-haired man with a knife came at him. This man had some experience with knife fighting. He gripped a cloak in his free hand and tried to foil Harry’s dagger with it. But the yellow-haired man hadn’t fought in the places Harry had.

Or ever fought for his life.

Harry grabbed the cloak and yanked the man hard. The man stumbled, tried to recover his balance, and found that Harry had him by the hair. Harry pulled the man back, arching his neck, and pointed his knife tip at the man’s eye. Balls and eyes. Those were the two things men feared losing most. Threaten either, and you had a man’s full attention.

“Drop it,” Harry hissed.

Sweat and piss assaulted his nostrils. The yellow-haired man had lost control of his bladder. He’d also dropped his knife, and Harry kicked it. It skittered across the floor, sliding under a table. The tavern was quiet. The only sound was Bennet’s labored breathing and the sobbing of one of the sluts.

“Let him go.” Dick Crumb came out from the back.

“Tell them to back off.” Harry pointed with his chin at the three men still standing.

“Go on. You don’t want to be messing with Harry when he’s in a mood.”

No one moved.

Dick raised his voice. “Go on! There’ll be more ale for them that wants it.”

The mention of ale was magic. The men grumbled but turned away. Harry let his hand drop. The yellow-haired man fell to his knees, whimpering.

“Better get Granville out of here,” Dick muttered as he passed with mugs.

Harry took Bennet’s arm and shoved him toward the door. The younger man wobbled, but at least he kept upright. Outside, the air was chill and Bennet gasped. He put out a hand to steady himself against the tavern wall, and for a moment Harry thought the man would be sick. But then he straightened.

Harry’s bay mare stood beside a larger chestnut gelding. “Come on,” he said. “Best to be away before they finish their drinks.”

They mounted and started off. It had begun to drizzle again.

“Guess I should thank you,” Bennet spoke suddenly. “Didn’t think you’d come to the aid of a Granville.”

“Do you always start brawls without anyone at your back?”

“Nah.” Bennet hiccupped. “This was a spur-of-the-moment thing.”

They rode in silence. Harry wondered if Bennet had fallen asleep. The horses splashed through puddles in the road.

“Didn’t know you could fight like that.” Bennet’s slurred voice cut across the patter of the rain.

Harry grunted. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

“Where’d you learn?”

“The poorhouse.”

Harry thought he’d shut the other man up with his stark statement, but then Bennet chuckled. “My father’s a right sod, isn’t he?”

There was no need to reply to that. They crested a rise and came to the river.

“Better not come any farther. You aren’t safe on Granville land.” Bennet peered at him in the dark. “He wants to kill you, did you know?”

“Yes.” Harry turned the mare’s head.

“Will you never call me by my name again?” Bennet sounded wistful. Perhaps he’d entered the maudlin stage of drink.

Harry nudged his horse down the track.

“I’ve missed you, Harry.” Bennet’s voice floated on the night air behind him and melted away like a ghost.

Harry didn’t answer.

OUTSIDE THE COCK AND WORM, Silas peeled himself away from the shadows and watched bitterly as his beloved son rode away with the man he hated most in the world.

“Your boy be dead but for the Woldsly s-steward,” a drunken voice slurred nearby.

Silas whirled and peered into the dark alley between the Cock and Worm and the neighboring building. “Who are you? How dare you speak to me thus?”

“I’m juss a little bird.” A harsh feminine giggle.

Silas felt pressure building in his temple. “Come out of there or I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” the voice sneered. A face appeared, ghostly in the shadows. It was lined and worn and belonged to an old woman Silas couldn’t remember ever seeing before. “You’ll what?” she repeated, cackling like a demon. “He’s been killing your sheep for weeks and you’ve done naught. You’re juss an old man. Ol’ man Granville, lord of nothing! How’s it feel to be under the spur of the new cock?”

She turned and started staggering down the road, one hand held out to balance herself against the wall.

Silas was on her in two steps.

“MY, THE SOFT-BOILED EGGS are good this morning.” George mentally rolled her eyes at her own inanity.

She, Violet, and Euphie sat at the breakfast table. As per usual for the last several days, her sister refused to make any but the most desultory conversation, reducing George to commenting on the eggs.

“Mmm.” Violet shrugged one shoulder.

At least she was still alive. What had happened to her vivacious younger sister? The one who was constitutionally unable to refrain from exclaiming about every little thing?

“I do like soft-boiled eggs,” Euphie fluted from the other end of the table. “Of course, it is very important that they still be moist and not at all dried out.”

George frowned as she took a sip of tea. Hadn’t Euphie noticed the almost deathly quiet of her charge?

“Kidneys are nice as well,” Euphie continued. “If they’ve been prepared in butter. But I can’t abide gammon in the morning. I don’t know how anyone can, really.”

Perhaps it was time to find a younger companion for Violet. Euphie was a dear but a tad absentminded at times.

“Would you like to go riding today?” George asked. Maybe Violet just needed fresh air. “I saw a lovely vista the other day, and I thought if you brought your pencils, you could sketch it. Tony says—”

“I’m sorry.” Violet leaped from her seat. “I… I can’t go today.”

She ran from the room.

“Young people are so abrupt, aren’t they?” Euphie looked puzzled. “When I was a girl, I’m sure my mother told me a hundred times, ‘Euphemia, do not rush about. The true mark of a lady is her ability to be sedate.’ ”

“Very enlightening, I’m sure,” George said. “Do you know what is bothering Violet?”

“Bothering her, my lady?” Euphie cocked her head like a bird. “I don’t know that she is actually bothered. I think any little change from her normal behavior might be blamed on her youth and certain monthly happenings.” She blushed and hurriedly took a drink of tea.

“I see.” George studied the older woman thoughtfully. Perhaps she would be better employed as M’man’s companion. Her absentmindedness would certainly do no harm there. “Well, I thank you for your insight. And now if you will excuse me?” George stood and walked out of the breakfast room as Euphie was still murmuring her consent.

She hurried up the stairs to Violet’s room.

“Violet, dear?” George knocked at her door.

“What is it?” Her sister’s voice sounded suspiciously stuffy.

“I wanted to talk with you, if I may?”

“Go away. I don’t want to see anyone. You never understand.” The key turned in the lock.

Violet had locked her out.

George stared at the door. Fine, then. She was certainly not going to engage in an argument through solid wood. She stomped down the hallway. Euphie was in her own little world, Violet was sulking, and Harry… George opened the door to her bedroom so forcefully it banged against the wall. Harry wasn’t anywhere to be found. She’d had her gig at his cottage at seven this morning, and he’d already left. Coward! And men thought women faint of heart. He was probably out doing male things in the delusion that work needed being done, when in reality, he was simply avoiding her. Ha! Well, two could play at that game. She struggled out of her day dress and yanked on a riding costume. She turned in a complete circle, trying to fasten the hooks in the back before she conceded defeat and rang for Tiggle.

The maid arrived wearing the same half-mournful, half-consoling expression she’d worn since the previous disastrous night.

George nearly lost control at the sight. “Help me do this up, please.” She presented her back.

“You’re going riding, my lady?”

“Yes.”

“In this weather?” Tiggle looked doubtfully at the window. A wet tree branch lashed against it.

“Yes.” George frowned at the tree branch. At least there was no lightning.

“I see.” Tiggle bent behind her to reach the hooks at her waist. “It’s a pity about last night—that Mr. Pye turned down your invitation.”

George stiffened. Did all the servants feel sorry for her now? “He didn’t turn me down. Well, not precisely.”

“Oh?”

George could feel the heat stealing up her face. Drat pale complexions. “He asked me what I wanted from him.”

Tiggle, who was picking up the discarded day dress, stopped and stared at her. “And what did you answer, my lady? If you don’t mind me asking.”

George threw up her hands. “I didn’t know what to say. I mumbled something about never having done this before and he left.”

“Oh.” Tiggle frowned.

“What does he want me to say?” George paced to the window. “ ‘I want you naked, Harry Pye?’ Surely it’s usually done with more finesse than that? And why demand my intentions? I can’t imagine most affairs de coeur begin on such a lawyerly note. I’m surprised he didn’t ask for them in writing: ‘I, Lady Georgina Maitland, do request Mr. Harry Pye to make very fine love to me.’ Really!”

There was silence behind her. George winced. Now she’d shocked Tiggle. Could this day get any—

The maid started laughing.

George turned.

Her maid was doubled over, trying to catch her breath. “Oh, my lady!”

George’s mouth twitched. “It isn’t that funny.”

“No, of course not.” Tiggle bit her lip, plainly struggling. “It’s just, ‘I want you naked, Ha-Ha-Harry Pye.’ ” She went off again.

George plopped on the side of the bed. “What am I going to do?”

“I’m sorry, my lady.” Tiggle sat beside her, the dress still in her arms. “Is that what you want from Mr. Pye? An affair?”

“Yes.” George wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know. If I’d met him at a ball, I wouldn’t have asked him for an affair.”

She would’ve danced with him, then flirted and exchanged witty banter. He would’ve sent flowers the next morning and maybe asked her to drive in the park. He would’ve courted her.

“But a land steward wouldn’t be invited to the balls you attend, my lady,” Tiggle said soberly.

“Exactly.” For some reason this simple fact had George blinking back tears.

“Well, then”—Tiggle sighed and rose—“since there isn’t any other choice, maybe you should just tell him what you’ve told me.” She smiled without meeting George’s eyes and left the room.