Of course. Too bad he hadn’t been around to show the bastard proper manners. The fellow sounded like he could do with a bloody nose. Harry grunted. “Makes sense that you’d have trouble trusting a man after him.”

“I hadn’t thought of it like that. But you know, I think it’s Aunt Clara’s inheritance that is the bigger barrier to finding a husband.”

“How could an inheritance be a barrier?” he asked. “I would have thought it would bring the men flocking like crows to a carcass.”

“What a delightful simile, Mr. Pye.” Lady Georgina had narrowed her eyes at him.

He winced. “What I meant—”

“What I meant was that due to Aunt Clara’s inheritance, I don’t ever have to marry because of financial reasons. Thus, it becomes much less pressing to think about gentlemen in terms of marriage.”

“Oh.”

“Which doesn’t stop me from thinking of gentlemen in other terms.”

Other terms? He looked at her.

She was blushing. “Than marriage, that is.”

He tried to work out that convoluted statement, but he had already turned the gig into a rutted lane. Now he pulled the horse to a stop beside a wretched cottage. Had he not been told otherwise, he would never have guessed anyone lived here. Built in the same shape as the Oldson cottage, this one was much different. The thatched roof was black and rotten, and one part had fallen in. Weeds grew along the walk, and the door hung at an angle.

“Perhaps you should stay here, my lady,” he tried. But she was already climbing down from the gig without his help.

He gritted his teeth and held out his arm pointedly. She took it without protest, wrapping her fingers around him.

He could feel her warmth through his coat, and it soothed him somehow. They walked to the door. Harry knocked on it, hoping he wouldn’t bring the whole place down.

Sounds of movement came from within, and then stopped. No one answered the door. Harry banged on the door again and waited. He was raising his arm to try a third time, when the old wood creaked open. A boy of about eight stood mutely in the doorway. His hair, greasy and overlong, hung in his brown eyes. He was barefoot and wore clothes gray with age.

“Is your mother at home?” Harry asked.

“Who is it, lad?” The voice was harsh, but it held no malice.

“Gentry, Gran.”

“What?” A woman appeared behind the boy. She was nearly as tall as a man, rawboned and strong-looking despite her age, but her eyes were bewildered and fearful, as though angels had come calling at her doorstep.

“We’ve some questions to ask you. About Annie Pollard,” Harry said. The woman simply continued to stare. He might’ve been speaking French. “This is the Pollard cottage, isn’t it?”