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Her curtsy was faultless: graceful, exact, giving away nothing. Her expression was composed, and a little guarded, as though she had not yet decided whether he was a man to be trusted.

"Lady Colbourne." He inclined his head. "I was glad to hear from you."

She did not smile. "I confess my willingness to accept your aid in this is somewhat reluctant, Your Grace."

"Oh?"

Her brows lifted a fraction, gently, weighing whether he would take her plainness ill. "Indeed. Why should Lady Warrington press upon you a matter that has nothing whatever to do with you? I cannot for my life understand it. I fear there has been some dreadful mistake."

"Perhaps." He let a small quirk touch the corner of his mouth. "But my aunt was, in all things, determined and clear. Her reasons may be clouded to us for the present — but I do not doubt for a moment that she had them."

He saw the lady's lips press, and put out both hands, palms open, before she could answer. "And I will own that I was, mayhap, too forward yesterday. I should not have asked Braithwaite for the note before I had so much as spoken with you. I should not have taken it for granted that you would wish to step back from a thing that is, after all, entirely your own."

She blinked. "No," she agreed, "you should not." And Benedict felt the edge of his mouth pull up in earnest. "Though I am grateful for the apology, Your Grace." She glanced toward the path. "Shall we walk? I can tell you of the note as we go."

He fell into step at her side, thinking that the steadiness of her, the plain confidence with which she carried herself, spoke of a woman already some way into the hard work of building a life of her own, free now, whether she had wished it or not, of a husband's company. For a moment he thought to say something of the late Lord Colbourne, some word of condolence, and decided against it. It was not the matter at hand, and he did not think she had brought him to the park to be for sympathy.

"From what I understand, Your Grace, you were nephew to Lady Warrington."

"Lord Warrington was my father's brother." He offered it simply. "Might I ask how you came to know my aunt?" He knew the answer already, from Braithwaite, but it seemed only right to let her speak for herself.

"I did not know her." Her smile was sad, and brief. "I wish that I had, given her generosity to me." She glanced at him, then away again, her gaze going out ahead of her along the path.

"My late husband was her godson. They met often, I am told — before Edward and I were married. She trusted his judgment, particularly in the ordering of her affairs with the estate." Her shoulders lowered a little. "She was without her husband to guide her, as I am now without mine. Edward was able to fill that place for her, a little."

The urge to say some soft, comfortable thing rose in Benedict so sharply that he half lifted a hand toward her arm before he mastered it. Instead he clasped both hands behind his back and only nodded. "I did not know your husband. But then my aunt's connections were so wide it was not possible to be acquainted with all of them."

Lady Colbourne said nothing, gave him another glance, and looked away.

"Might I ask you now of the note from the other solicitors?" He pushed, but gently, feeling his way. "Was there any substance to it?"

A long breath escaped her, and she shook her head. "I hardly know. It said very little, no more than Braithwaite had already told me. That a solicitor, this Mr. Wells, had written to suggest there might be some concern over my endowment. He did not say where the concern had come from, nor whether he had been able to prove any part of it. Only that he thought it right to share it."

"Which is a great deal of caution built upon very little," Benedict said. "Braithwaite will not go looking behind it. He has his duty, to be certain all is as it should be, but he will not trouble himself to learn who first breathed the concern into Mr. Wells's ear. And that, it seems to me, is precisely the question worth the asking."

For answer she opened her reticule, drew out a folded paper, and handed it to him. He took it, unfolded it, and read. It said no more than she had said, which told him only that she had been entirely honest with him, and he found the small proof of it pleased him more than it ought. He nodded his thanks and gave it back.

"Perhaps I ought to —" He caught the flicker of her eyes, the swift sharpening of them, and corrected himself before the sentence could take the wrong shape. "Forgive me. Perhaps we ought to consider calling upon Mr. Wells together, and ask him plainly where his concern was got."

"A wise consideration," she allowed, as they walked on. "I should be glad to call upon him at your earliest convenience. After all" — a small, quick smile turned his way — "I am quite certain this is not what you had planned for your London Season, Your Grace. The sooner the matter is settled, the sooner you may return to the enjoyment of it."

Benedict fought down the absurd urge to ask whether she had been talking with Woodley, knowing full well she could not have been. "I will not pretend it is what I looked for. And I will own it surprised me to be asked at all." His shoulders rose and fell. "But there is a puzzle in it that stirs my curiosity, I confess. Let us hope we find our answers soon, for both our sakes."

She nodded slowly, then tilted her face up toward his. "We are barely acquainted, Your Grace, and yet you take this on for me without a single condition. I think that speaks well of your character."

The compliment warmed him more than its small size warranted. "I am a man given to duty," he said, and meant it lightly, though he found he wished to be more to her than dutiful. "I am sure we shall come to know one another better as the search goes on."

She nodded again — and then her lips pressed flat, as though she weighed some further thing and could not decide the giving of it. Benedict held his tongue and waited, watching her search his face as if for a thing he had not yet thought to offer.

"Since you are a man Lady Warrington trusted," she said at last, "I shall trust you with something, in the hope you will not dismiss it out of hand."

He slowed his steps. "I can assure you, Lady Colbourne, I have no intention of dismissing anything you say to me. Please. Whatever it is, I shall be glad to hear it."

She caught her lip between her teeth, drew a breath, and spoke. "I hesitate for fear I have made a great deal out of nothing. I have told myself a dozen times that I am being foolish. But after yesterday I —" She broke off, frowning at the path. "When I called at the solicitor's some days ago, and again yesterday, I marked a man standing across from my carriage. Watching the building. Or — watching me."

A cold prickle went down Benedict's spine. He kept his face as still as he could make it.

"At first I thought nothing of it," she went on, faster now, as though she must get it all out before her courage failed, "for the streets of London are full of strangers. But when my carriage drew away, I saw him again. It was as though he followed me."