"Usually."
"Then tell me which I am."
I wanted to say disaster; it would have been safer. I wanted to say Duke, employer, impossible man, liar, patient, danger, hope. Instead, I said the truth: "Both."
He smiled, and that was worse.
Bramble stamped. Bramble cut through the moment: Kiss later. Walk now. Villains first. Romance after oats.
I laughed before I could stop myself. Rowan looked toward the horse.
"I suspect I have been insulted."
"Managed," I said.
The day of the tenants' race dawned bright, windy, and full of people pretending not to stare at the Duke's legs under his lap rug. Booths lined the meadow. Children chased hoops. Farmers argued about whose horse had the better chest. Lady Beatrice wore feathers large enough to influence weather. Silas drifted at Rowan's side, smiling like a man who had already counted his winnings.
Bramble stood near the viewing platform, groomed until he shone like polished night. I held his lead rope. He had eaten four carrots, rejected one apple for softness, and informed me that Lord Wexham smelled of debt.
Rowan sat on the platform in his chair. Wexham stood nearby with a leather folder. Silas placed himself behind Rowan, one hand resting lightly on the chair handle. That hand mattered.
Our plan was simple in the way falling off a roof is simple: Rowan would publicly refuse to sign the canal transfer; Wexham and Silas, believing him helpless and fearing Evelyn's papers had survived, would try to force the issue or reveal enough to trap themselves; Bramble would create distraction if needed. Bramble's version of distraction involved hooves; I had argued for less hoof.
The race began with cheers and immediate confusion: a gray pony ran the wrong direction; a farmer lost his hat and chose to chase it instead of his horse; one young gentleman shouted "Tally-ho!" and fell before reaching the first marker. The crowd loved him for it. Rowan watched with a faint smile; for a moment, he looked almost young.
Then Wexham opened the folder.
"Your Grace," he said under the noise, "the transfer papers. A public day is good for public confidence. Sign now, and we announce stability."
Rowan did not look at the papers. "No."
Silas leaned closer. "Cousin, not here."
"Precisely here. I will not transfer the Northern Canal shares. I will instead request a full audit of every loan, lien, and signature attached to them."
Wexham's face reddened. "You cannot afford delay."
"I can afford many things. Fraud is not one of them."
Silas's hand tightened on the chair handle. Bramble's thought snapped into my head: Rowan angry.
Wexham lowered his voice. "You found something?"
Rowan looked at him then. "Yes."
Silas bent until his mouth was near Rowan's ear. "You should have stayed broken."
It was soft. Almost no one heard it. I did. Rowan did. Bramble did.
The horse screamed—not in my head, out loud. The crowd turned. Bramble reared: not enough to strike me, just enough to become the entire county's main concern.
I released the rope as planned. Bramble plunged toward the platform. People scattered. Lady Beatrice shrieked, "My feathers!" as if they were family.