The Leopard Prince by Elizabeth Hoyt Page A

boy’s body. To his soul.
    George closed her eyes. Oh, dear Lord. Don’t think of it. It’s in the past. Deal with the present. “So you do have a motive for killing the sheep on Lord Granville’s land.” She opened her eyes and focused on a badger.
    “Yes, my lady, I do.”
    “And is this story common knowledge in the district?
    Do others know you’ve such enmity for my neighbor?” She placed the badger in alliance with the stag. The little creature’s head was lifted, teeth bared. It made a formidable foe.
    “I didn’t hide my past and who I was when I returned as the Woldsly steward.” Mr. Pye rose and took the teapot to the door. He opened it and tossed the dregs into the bushes. “There are some who remember what happened eighteen years ago. It was a scandal at the time.” The dry tone was back.
    “Why did you return to this neighborhood?” she asked. Was he looking for revenge in some way? “It does seem a bit of a coincidence that you should be working on the estate neighboring the one you grew up on.”
    He hesitated with the teapot dangling from one hand. “No coincidence, my lady.” He walked deliberately to the cupboard, his back to her. “I pursued this position as soon as it opened. As you said, I grew up here. It’s my home.”
    “It had nothing to do with Lord Granville?”
    “Well”—Mr. Pye looked at her over his shoulder, a devilish gleam in his green eyes—“it didn’t hurt that Granville would be irked to see me here.”
    George felt her lips lift. “Does everyone know about your carvings?” She waved a hand at the menagerie.
    He’d brought out a dishpan and soap, but he paused to glance at the animals lining the mantelpiece.
    “Probably not. I’d only made a few carvings when I was a boy here.” He shrugged and began washing the tea things. “Da was known for his whittling. He taught me.”
    She took a cloth from the shelf, picked up a teacup Mr. Pye had rinsed, and began drying it. He glanced sideways at her, and she thought she detected surprise. Good.
    “Then whoever put the hedgehog by the dead sheep either knew you before or had been in this cottage since your residence.”
    He shook his head. “The only visitors I’ve had are Mr. Burns and his wife. I pay her a bit to tidy for me and make me a meal once in a while.” He pointed his chin at the empty crock that had held his dinner.
    George felt a rush of satisfaction. He’d not brought a woman here. But then she frowned. “Perhaps you confided in a woman you’ve been walking out with?”
    She winced. Not the most subtle of inquiries. Good Lord, he must think her a widgeon. Blindly, she put out her hand for another teacup and collided with Harry Pye’s hand, warm and slippery with soap. She looked up and met his emerald eyes.
    “I haven’t walked out with a lass. Not since entering your employ, my lady.” He picked up the crock to wash it.
    “Ah. Well. Good. That narrows it down a bit.” Could she sound any more a ninny if she tried? “Then do you know who could have stolen the hedgehog? I presume it was taken from above your fireplace?”
    He rinsed the crock and picked up the basin. Carrying it to the door, he threw out the washing water. He caught the open door. “Anyone could have taken it, my lady.” He pointed to the door handle.
    There was no lock.
    “Oh,” George muttered. “That doesn’t narrow it down.”
    “No, my lady.” He sauntered back to the table, the firelight illuminating one side of his face and throwing the other half into darkness. His lips curved. Did he think her funny?
    “Where did you go this morning?” she asked.
    “I went to question the farmers who found the dead sheep and my carving.” He stopped only a foot away from her.
    She could feel the warmth of his chest not quite touching hers. Was he staring at her mouth?
    He was. “I wondered if one of them had left the hedgehog. But they were men I didn’t know, and they seemed honest enough.”
    “I see.” Her