I found a seam. My fingers shook as I worked. Beneath the ripped padding was a flat oilskin packet, missed by the searcher because it had been sewn between layers, not under them.
Rowan took it from me as if it were alive. Inside were three letters, a ledger page, and a small brass token stamped with the emblem of the Wexham Canal Company.
Evelyn's handwriting slanted across the first letter:
Dear Rowan, If this reaches you, do not trust Silas with any document touching the northern canal. He and Wexham have borrowed against Alderwick land using your forged authority. I have names, payments, and a witness. I fear they know I have discovered it.
Rowan's hand trembled. I did not touch him. I wanted to; that was dangerous, too. He read the rest in silence. By the end, his face had gone beyond anger into something colder.
"They killed her," he said.
"Can you prove it?"
"Not yet. But this proves fraud. Enough to block the transfer. Enough to make them desperate."
Bramble's thought came softer: Sister smelled of apples. Brave human.
I told Rowan. He bowed his head for several minutes; only Bramble's breathing filled the stable.
Then Rowan folded the papers and placed them inside his coat. "We need one more thing," he said. "A confession, or a trap."
I looked at the wheelchair, the torn saddle, the smoke stains on the wall, and the Duke whose legs were stronger than his enemies knew.
"Your Grace," I said, "I have a terrible idea."
"How terrible?"
"It involves Bramble, Lord Wexham, your cousin, the annual tenants' race, and me pretending to be stupider than I am."
Bramble gave his approval: I approve. Begin with carrots.
The Alderwick tenants' race was less a sporting event than a controlled riot with ribbons. Every September, local farmers, grooms, and reckless sons of minor gentry raced around the meadow for a silver cup, bragging rights, and a chance to fall in the mud before witnesses.
Rowan had canceled it after his accident. Silas, eager to appear benevolent, had recently urged him to revive it. We let Silas believe the idea was his; that was important. Men like Silas trusted plans more when they had stolen them.
Rowan announced that Bramble would be shown at the race, but not ridden.
"A symbol of endurance," he said in the breakfast room, sounding tragic enough to make Lady Beatrice sniffle into ham.
Silas smiled. "Wise. The horse is dangerous."
Bramble, listening through the open window, sent me a thought so offended it nearly curdled my tea: Dangerous? I'm art with hooves.
I spilled cream. Lady Beatrice peered at me. "Are you unwell, girl?"
"No, my lady. The cream surprised me."
Rowan covered his mouth with a napkin.
For the next week, the house prepared for the race. Wexham returned, pretending friendship and watching Rowan's hands whenever documents appeared. Silas watched me. Lady Beatrice watched everyone because she enjoyed being frightened by information.
At night, Rowan trained harder—too hard.