“That bit about arsenic being a sort of seashell.” She lowered her voice on the last words to mimic him.

“I assure you”—Harry kept his tone bland—“it’s a pinkish seashell found only in the Adriatic Sea. The local villagers harvest the shells with long rakes and sieves. There is a yearly festival to celebrate the catch.” He fought to prevent his lips from twitching. “The Annual Adriatic Arsenic Assail.”

Silence—and, he was fairly certain—stunned silence at that. Harry felt a surge of pride. It wasn’t just any man who could make Lady Georgina lose her power of speech.

Not that it lasted long.

“I shall have to watch you, Mr. Pye.”

“My lady?”

“Because you are evil.” But her words shook as if she barely held in the laughter.

He smiled. He hadn’t felt so light in a very, very long time. He slowed the horse as they came to the stream that separated her estate from Granville’s land. He scanned the horizon. Theirs was the only vehicle on the road.

“Surely Lord Granville wouldn’t be so rash as to attack us here.”

He glanced at her, brows raised.

She frowned impatiently. “You’ve been watching the hills since we neared the stream.”

Ah. She’d been aware. He reminded himself not to underestimate her, even when she played the aristocratic ninny. “Granville would be insane to try an attack.” Which didn’t mean he wouldn’t.

Reapers harvested barley to their right. Usually reapers sang as they worked, but these labored in silence.

“Lord Granville has his workers out on a misty day,” Lady Georgina said.

He pressed his lips together to forestall a comment on Granville’s agricultural practices.

A sudden thought occurred to her. “I haven’t noticed anyone in my fields since I’ve arrived at Woldsly. Are you worried they might get the ague?”

Harry stared at her. She didn’t know. “The grain is still too damp to store. Only a fool would order the reapers out on a morning like this.”

“But”—she knitted her brows—“don’t you need to harvest it before frost?”

“Yes. But if the grain is wet, it’s worse than useless to harvest it. It would merely spoil in the storage bins.” He shook his head. “Those workers are wasting their strength on grain that will rot, anyway.”

“I see.” She seemed to think about that for a minute. “What will you do with the Woldsly harvest, then?”

“There’s nothing to do, my lady, except pray for a break in the rain.”

“But if the harvest is ruined . . .”