Nothing.
At luncheon, while carrying bread past his chair, I murmured, "If His Grace reads lips too well, he should stop looking so innocent."
He buttered toast.
In the library, I faced a shelf and said without moving my lips much, "The blue atlas is upside down."
He reached for the atlas and turned it upright.
I nearly swallowed my own tongue. The Duke looked at his book. I looked at the ceiling and asked it for guidance; the ceiling offered plaster.
That evening, I was polishing the brass rail outside his study when Lady Portia and Lord Edmund entered without knocking. The door did not close fully; a slice of yellow lamplight fell across the hall. I should have left. Instead, I polished the same rail with the devotion of a woman determined to erase metal from existence.
Lady Portia spoke softly, knowing the Duke could not hear unless he saw her mouth. "Sebastian, Dr. Mowbray has written again. He believes your withdrawal grows worse."
The Duke sat behind his desk. He watched her mouth.
Lord Edmund stood near the fireplace. "We only want to protect you, cousin. The estate suffers when you refuse help."
Sebastian lifted a slate and wrote with chalk. Mrs. Kettle had taught us not to read his slates unless asked, but the angle betrayed him: What help?
Lady Portia sat before him and arranged her skirts. "A formal guardianship would spare you burdens. Temporary, of course. Edmund and I could manage accounts, tenants, legal matters. You would be free to rest."
The Duke's face did not change; my hand tightened on the rag.
Lord Edmund leaned over the desk, speaking more carelessly because Sebastian's eyes were on Portia. "You cannot attend Parliament. You cannot hear petitioners. You barely speak. Let's be honest: Ravensmere has no duke, only a portrait that signs slowly."
Sebastian looked at him. Lord Edmund smiled.
The Duke wrote again, his chalk moving with controlled precision: No.
Lady Portia's smile hardened. "Then we may need medical confirmation, for your own good."
Inside my own mind, I thought: For his estate, you pearl-wrapped vulture.
Sebastian's eyes flicked toward the door. Toward me.
I froze. He could not have heard my thought—of course not, I was not that cursed. But he had seen the shadow of my skirt, perhaps, or caught some motion in the polished brass. His gaze held the crack of the door for one beat too long.
Then he wrote again: Do what you think necessary.
Lady Portia brightened; Lord Edmund looked satisfied.
I knew then that the Duke was not surrendering. I did not know what he was doing, but surrender did not sit so straight.
The next morning, he summoned me. Mrs. Kettle delivered the message with narrowed eyes. "His Grace requires the second housemaid in the library."
I pointed at myself. "Which second housemaid?"
Mrs. Kettle read the slate: "The one who causes sheets to develop opinions."
I wiped my hands on my apron and followed her.