The mention of her father struck harder than the steward could have known, although his satisfaction suggested that perhaps he knew exactly what he was doing. Edward Hale had once been head riding master at Eastmere, respected across the county for his understanding of difficult horses. Four years earlier he had been dismissed in disgrace, accused of altering the estate's breeding accounts and concealing money from a sale. He spent the rest of his life maintaining that he had done nothing dishonest, and he died the previous winter with the stain still attached to his name.
Eleanor had not come to Eastmere to seek a quarrel. Lady Marianne Harcourt, Alexander's widowed aunt, had invited her to advise on a riding lesson for the younger ladies, a small act of courtesy offered to a woman whose circumstances had narrowed painfully since her father's dismissal. Eleanor accepted because she needed work and because some part of her still wanted to look upon the old place without bitterness. She had not expected to find Blackthorn strapped beneath a saddle that made every movement torture.
"Take off the saddle," she said. Vane gave a short, humorless laugh. "Certainly not. You imagine you can cure seven years of bad blood with a little female sympathy?" Eleanor ignored him and looked directly at Alexander. "Give me two minutes with him. If I'm wrong, I shall leave without another word. If I'm right, you will see what your men have overlooked."
Alexander hesitated. Behind him, Lady Marianne moved closer, her gloved hands folded against her pale-blue gown. "My nephew," she said softly, "Edward Hale was the finest horseman I ever knew. His daughter learned from him." Alexander remembered a distant afternoon when a much younger Eleanor had led a terrified pony across a stream while he stood safely on the opposite bank. The memory was unwelcome because it contained a trust he had never offered her father when it mattered. "Two minutes," he said at last. "And everyone else moves away."
The grooms obeyed reluctantly. Eleanor approached Blackthorn from the side, giving him room to see her face and hear the familiar low sound of her voice. "Easy, old friend," she murmured. "I know. I know it hurts." She did not snatch at the reins or try to prove her courage by standing directly before him. She waited until his ears turned toward her, then rested one hand lightly against his neck and spoke the name his father had given him as a foal: "Little Shadow."
The change was small, but it was unmistakable. The stallion lowered his head an inch and released a long, shaking breath. Eleanor stroked his shoulder, then looked at the leather running beneath his body. The girth had been fastened too tightly, but it was not the tightness alone that troubled her. A narrow section of leather sat at the wrong angle, as though something had been added beneath the padding. "Mr. Harcourt," she said, using his surname rather than his title, "come here. Look before anyone touches it."