They trudged up the road in silence. A nasty, damp mist hovered off the ground, smelling faintly of rot. It seeped beneath her gown and crept up her legs. George shuddered. She dearly wished for a cup of hot tea and perhaps a scone with honey and butter dripping off the sides. She almost moaned at the thought and then realized there was a rumbling coming from behind them.

Mr. Pye raised his arm to hail a farmer’s wagon rounding the curve. “Hi! Stop! You there, we need a ride.”

The farmer pulled his horse to a standstill. He tipped the brim of his hat back and stared. “Mr. Harry Pye, isn’t it?”

Mr. Pye stiffened. “Yes, that’s right. From the Woldsly estate.”

The farmer spat into the road, narrowly missing Mr. Pye’s boots.

“Lady Georgina Maitland needs a ride to Woldsly.” Harry Pye’s face did not change, but his voice had grown as chill as death. “It was her carriage you saw back there.”

The farmer switched his gaze to George as if noticing her for the first time. “Aye, ma’am, I hope you weren’t hurt in the wreck?”

“No.” She smiled winningly. “But we do need a ride, if you don’t mind.”

“Glad to help. There be room in the back.” The farmer aimed a dirty thumb over his shoulder at the wagon bed.

She thanked him and walked around the wagon. She hesitated as she eyed the height of the boards. They came to her collarbone.

Mr. Pye halted beside her. “With your permission.” He hardly waited for her nod before grasping her about the waist and lifting her in.

“Thank you,” George said breathlessly.

She watched as he placed his palms flat on the bed and vaulted in with catlike ease. The wagon jolted forward just as he cleared the boards, and he was thrown against the side.

“Are you all right?” She held out a hand.

Mr. Pye disregarded it and sat up. “Fine.” He glanced at her. “My lady.”

He said no more. George settled back and watched the countryside roll by. Gray-green fields with low stone walls emerged and then were hidden again by the eerie mist. After last night, she should’ve been glad for the ride, bumpy though it might be. But something about the farmer’s hostility to Mr. Pye bothered her. It seemed personal.

They cleared a rise, and George idly watched a flock of sheep grazing on a nearby hillside. They stood like little statues, perhaps frozen by the mist. Only their heads moved as they cropped the gorse. A few were lying down. She frowned. The ones on the ground were very still. She leaned forward to see better and heard Harry Pye curse softly beside her.

The wagon jerked to a halt.

“What’s the matter with those sheep?” George asked Mr. Pye.

But it was the farmer who answered, his voice grim. “They’re dead.”

Chapter Two