“Oh!” Tiggle’s hand flew to her mouth. “I’m sorry, my lady. I don’t know what came over me to say that.”

George couldn’t help but giggle. “Is that what they talk about in the kitchen? Gentlemen’s bottoms?”

Tiggle’s face reddened, but her eyes twinkled. “Too much of the time, I’m afraid.”

“Maybe I should visit the kitchen more often.” George leaned forward to peer into the mirror as she put on an earring. “Several people, including Lady Violet, say they’ve heard rumors about Mr. Pye.” She stepped back and turned her head from side to side to study the earrings. “Have you heard anything?”

“Rumors, my lady?” Tiggle slowly folded the gown. “I haven’t been down to the kitchens yet this stay. But I did hear something while at my pa’s. There was a farmer traveling through who lived on Granville land. Said as how the Woldsly steward was doing mischief. Hurting animals and playing pranks at the Granville stables.” Tiggle met George’s eyes in the mirror. “Is that what you mean, my lady?”

George took a breath and let it out slowly. “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”

THAT AFTERNOON, HARRY HUNCHED OVER his saddle in the relentless drizzle. He’d expected to be summoned to the manor almost from the moment they’d driven onto the Woldsly estate. Surprisingly, it had taken a full day and night for Lady Georgina to send for him. He nudged his mare into a trot up the long, winding drive to Woldsly Manor. Perhaps it was because she was a lady.

When he’d first learned that the owner of the multiple estates he would be managing was a woman, he’d been taken aback. A woman didn’t usually own land by herself. Normally, if she did have an estate, there was a man—a son or husband or brother—in the background, the real power in how the lands were run. But although Lady Georgina had three brothers, it was the lady herself who was in control. And what was more, she’d come by the lands through inheritance, not marriage. Lady Georgina had never wed. An aunt had left everything to her and apparently stipulated in the will that Lady Georgina would have the reins of her holdings and their income.

Harry snorted. Plainly the old woman hadn’t had much use for men. Gravel crunched beneath the bay mare’s hooves as he entered the vast courtyard before Woldsly Manor. He crossed to the stable yard, swung down from his horse, and tossed the reins to a boy.

They dropped to the cobblestones.

The mare stepped back nervously, the reins trailing. Harry stilled and raised his gaze to meet the eyes of the stripling boy. The lad stared at him, chin up, shoulders back. He looked like a young St. Stephan readying himself for the arrows. When had his reputation gotten this bad?

“Pick them up,” Harry said softly.

The boy wavered. The arrows were looking sharper than he’d expected.