She frowned at her pickle, and then popped it into her mouth. “Did you go alone, or were there other boys in the area to accompany you?” She squinted over his shoulder. Was that a horseman coming up the road?

“I usually had a mate.”

Definitely a horseman. “I wonder who that is.”

He twisted to look behind him. His back stiffened. “Damn.”

“Do you know who it is?”

The rider was nearing, and by the narrowness of his shoulders, it wasn’t Lord Granville.

“Maybe.” Mr. Pye still stared.

The rider was now below the hill. He glanced up at them.

“Goddamn,” Mr. Pye said.

George knew she should be shocked, but he didn’t seem to realize that he’d sworn—twice—in front of her. Slowly she put down the pickle jar.

“Hullo,” the man called. “Do you mind if I join you?”

She had a feeling Mr. Pye was about to reply in the negative to this friendly greeting, so she answered, “Not at all.”

The man dismounted, tethered his horse, and began to climb the slope. George couldn’t help but notice that, unlike when Mr. Pye had climbed the hill, the man was puffing by the time he reached them.

“Whew! A bit of a climb, what?” He brought out a handkerchief and wiped his sweating face.

George stared at him curiously. He dressed and spoke like a gentleman. Tall and long-boned, he had an ingratiating smile on thin lips, and his brown eyes were familiar.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I noticed the carriage and thought I’d introduce myself.” He bowed. “Thomas Granville at your service. And you are . . .?”

“Georgina Maitland. This is—”

But Mr. Granville interrupted, “Ah, I thought so . . . or rather, I hoped so. May I?” He gestured at the throw.

“Please.”

“Thank you.” He lowered himself carefully. “Actually, I wanted to apologize for my father’s behavior yesterday. He told me that he’d visited you and that you’d disagreed. And knowing my father—”

“That’s nice of you.”

“Neighbors and all.” Mr. Granville waved his hand vaguely. “I thought there must be a way we can settle this peacefully.”

“How?” Mr. Pye’s one word dropped onto the conversation, flattening it.

George glanced sharply at him.

Mr. Granville turned to speak, looked Mr. Pye in the face, and coughed.

Mr. Pye handed him a glass of wine.

“Harry,” Mr. Granville gasped when he could draw breath. “I didn’t realize that was you until I saw—”

“How,” Harry Pye inquired, “do you plan to settle the problem without bloodshed?”

“It’ll have to stop, of course—the sheep poisoning, I mean. And the other mischief.”

“Plainly. But how?”

“You’ll have to leave, I’m afraid, Harry.” Mr. Granville shrugged one shoulder jerkily. “Even if you repaid the cost of the livestock and the damage to Father’s stable, he’s not going to let it go. You know what he’s like.”