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.

“Now,” Harry whispered. He turned on his heel, not bothering to see if the lad followed his order, and strode to the manor, leaping the steps two at a time to the front doors.

“Inform Lady Georgina Maitland that I am here,” he said to Greaves. He thrust his tricorn into the hands of a footman and entered the library without waiting to be shown in.

Tall windows draped in moss-green velvet lined the far side of the room. Had the day been sunny, the windows would have bathed the library in light. But it wasn’t sunny. The sun hadn’t shone in this patch of Yorkshire for weeks.

Harry walked over and stared out the window. Rolling fields and pastures stretched as far as the eye could see, a patchwork quilt in green and brown. The drystone walls dividing the fields had stood for centuries before he was born and would stand for centuries after his bones had crumbled to dust. It was a beautiful landscape to his mind, one that made his heart tighten every time he saw it, but something was wrong. The fields should have been full of reapers and wagons, harvesting the hay and wheat. But the grain was too wet to harvest. If the rain didn’t let up soon . . . He shook his head. The wheat would either rot in the field or they’d have to reap it damp. In which case it would rot in the barns.