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“You are very kind,” she said slowly. “I do not know how to thank you.”

“Nothing could be easier. Allow me to see to that bruise.” He leaned forward and took her chin gently between his finger and thumb and turned her face toward the light. “Nothing here, at least. Thank heaven they spared your face.”

Spared, she thought.

“What did they want?” she asked.

“Your purse, I imagine. Or a ransom, if they knew who you were. There has been a good deal of talk in London about your engagement, and a duke’s intended is a very tempting prize.” He released her chin and sat back. “I sent a man to Glenhaven at once, so the household knows you are safe. His Grace will no doubt ride over as soon as he can.”

“Today?”

“I should think so. Unless the roads detain him.”

The roads were dry. She had ridden them that morning. She said nothing about it. “How kind,” she said and watched his eyes.

She told herself she was being unfair for suspecting he had something to do with the entire thing. He was her mother’s friend, one of the oldest Rose had, and by his own account he had pulled her out of a ditch and nursed her with his own hands.

Any sensible woman would be grateful. Gratitude was what she owed him.

But she could not make herself feel it. Everything he said was kind, and every kind thing sat a little wrong, like a shoe half a size too small, and the harder she argued herself out of it, the louder it grew. She could not shake it. She had no proof, and for now she did not need any. She would follow her instinct, play the grateful guest, and deal with whatever it was once she was out of this house.

“I have been thinking about our conversation,” he said, and she looked up. He was watching her closely. “At the shop. I wondered whether anything more had come back to you. A letter, perhaps, or the name of someone who knew her toward the end.” He paused, very delicately. “Anyone at all, in the years after she left.”

For one wild moment she wanted to tell him everything, to say that her mother was alive and well. To watch what his face did and settle the matter. Her mouth was already open. Then she saw how still he had gone. His smile was fixed, and his whole body leaned a fraction toward her, the way a cat leans toward a hole in the wainscot.

If she was wrong, nothing would be lost by keeping quiet. If she was right, and she told him, Rose was lost.

“No,” she said. She let her shoulders drop. “Nothing. I think I have been looking in the wrong places for too long. You were right to tell me, my lord, even if it was hard to hear. She is gone. I think I should stop chasing her and let her rest.”

His breath left him. It was a very small breath, and he disguised it with a nod, but she heard it. The tension went out of his face like water out of a basin.

“That is wise. Very wise.” He rose and smoothed his coat. “Some things are better left where they lie. Now you must rest. I shall have broth sent up, and when you are stronger we shall see about getting you home.”

“Oh, there’s no need, My Lord, I have somewhere to be,” she said.

“I insist that you rest, Leonora.”

“Truly, there is no need, she said, forcing herself to sit up. “My horse…”

“It’s in the stables. It’s hurt, so it needs to be tended to. Rest, Leonora.” He smiled, and he went out.

She listened. His footsteps went along the corridor and stopped, just outside her door.

A key turned in the lock.

Leonora stared at the door.

Why would he lock it? The footsteps started up again, steady and unhurried, and went away down the corridor.

Leonora waited a full minute before she moved and crossed the carpet. She tried the door, though she already knew. The handle turned and the door did not. She put her shoulder to it. It did not so much as shiver in its frame.

The window was next. She dragged the curtain aside, and the light struck her full in the face. The room was on the second floor. Below lay a long gravel sweep and a lawn running down to a stand of elms, and beyond the elms there was nothing, no steeple and no road. She tried the latch. It would not lift. Someone had painted over the catch, and the paint had been laid on thick and fresh, and it was still tacky under her thumbnail.

So it had not been a spur of the moment affair. Somebody had prepared this room.

She looked around her. The grate was lit, and the bed had been aired. A gown lay folded across the chair by the wardrobe, plain gray wool, and she knew without trying it that it would fit her. A hairbrush and a basin had been set out on the washstand, and a small bell stood on the mantel. She picked up the bell and found the clapper missing. Someone had unscrewed it.

Is Matthew, Lord Brighton?