She had not thought he was listening. She had thought he was being polite to a companion in the way that great men sometimes are to people who do not matter. He had been listening. He had remembered where to stand.
"Miss Renbury," said the Duke of Hensley.
She did not lift the veil. It was easier to speak to him through it. "Your Grace," she said. "You should not have come."
"Probably not."
His voice was exactly as she remembered it: low and a little rough, as if he did not use it much. On the terrace that one night, he had spoken like a man for whom words cost something, who meant to get his money's worth. He still did.
She made herself look at him. He was thinner than he had been. The gray at his temples had spread a little. He had a year's worth of weather in his face, and dust to the knees of his boots. His eyes, which were hazel and very steady, had found her through the net at once, and had not moved since.
"How did you find me?"
"The bell." He turned his head toward the valley. "You said it hung in a yew."
"There must be a great many churches in England."
"There are." Something moved at the corner of his mouth—not quite a smile, though almost. "Most of them have towers."
She wanted to ask how many he had gone to. She wanted to ask how long he had been riding up and down the country looking into churchyards. She did not ask. If she asked, he would tell her, and then she would have to know.