"Then I meant your horse looks worried."
He looked toward Bramble. The stallion's head was high, nostrils wide.
"He always looks dramatic," the Duke said.
Bramble's thought came dry as old hay: He dyes grief black and calls it dignity.
I bit my tongue. The Duke saw it.
"Miss Finch, how did you know I was here?"
There are lies one can tell easily. Then there are lies that must cross a Duke's gaze and arrive breathing hard.
"I heard something," I said.
"From your attic room?"
"I have excellent hearing."
"Apparently through three floors, a courtyard, and rain."
"It is a village skill."
He stared at me. I stared back.
At last, he said, "If you tell anyone, you will put yourself in danger."
"From you?" I answered at once. "No. Then from whom?"
He tried to straighten and winced. I tightened my grip on his waist before he could fall again. He smelled of rain, clean linen, and bitter liniment.
"Three months ago," he said, "Bramble bolted on the North Lane. The carriage road had been tampered with; a rope was strung low between two trees. I was thrown. Everyone believes my spine was damaged beyond recovery."
"Was it?"
"Badly injured, not destroyed. My physician believes I may recover enough to walk in private, perhaps ride one day. But if whoever arranged the accident learns that, they may try again before I know who paid them."
The cold moved through me. "Why pretend complete paralysis?"
"Because people speak freely around a helpless man."
"Do they?"
His mouth tightened cruelly. "Usefully."
I thought of the way his servants lowered their voices, the way visitors might pity him while plotting near his chair, the way his own house could turn into a theater of careless truth.
"And have you learned anything?" I asked.
"Not enough."
Bramble struck the stall door. Bramble pushed a thought at me: Tell her about the cousin with wet hands.
I flinched. The Duke felt it.