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The answer clearly surprised her.

Baines continued before she could speak. “I can guarantee that if anyone attempts to confuse what you did with what our listener has done, he will first have to convince Renforth, then me, and I should warn you that I become exceedingly unpleasant when deprived of my usual charm.”

“I have difficulty imagining you without it.”

“That is because you have known me only during my best weeks.” The absurdity did what he intended, easing the strain around her mouth, although her eyes remained thoughtful as she studied him. He had the unsettling sensation that she was once again looking beyond the words he offered and examining whatever lay beneath them, an activity he had spent years teaching people not to attempt.

Before she could discover anything else inconvenient, there was another knock at the door.

Simmons entered again, the faint contraction between his iron-grey brows suggesting that Blackthorn had already provided more excitement that morning than he considered desirable. “Miss Finch, Will Fletcher has asked whether he might speak with you.”

Judith straightened. “Will?”

“Yes, miss. He is waiting in the stable yard.”

Baines and Judith exchanged a glance.

“We shall come directly,” she informed the stately retainer.

“Very good, miss.” He withdrew.

Baines reached for his coat.

Judith looked at him. “He asked for me.”

“Earlier he mentioned Newcastle.”

“That does not alter the pronoun.”

“No, but it greatly improves my interest.”

She folded Renforth’s message and handed it to him. “Very well.”

They left the muniment room together and crossed the great hall, where Blackthorn had settled into the peculiar disorder it considered normal. A footman carried a tray towards the drawing room, two maids were arguing in whispers beside the stairs over a missing warming pan, and somewhere beyond the dining room Lady Dunsmore’s unmistakable voice had risen in objection to the marmalade.

“It is too solid,” she declared to someone unfortunate enough to be present. “Marmalade should yield to the spoon. One should not be required to excavate it.”

Sir Lionel’s voice followed, genial and entirely untroubled. “Try the honey.”

“I do not want honey.”

“Then I have exhausted my expertise.”

Baines glanced at Judith. “Your uncle possesses remarkable instincts for survival.”

“He has spent sixty years developing them.”

Outside, the morning was one of those clear northern days when sunlight offered considerably more beauty than warmth. The earlier damp still darkened the cobbles of the stable yard, while the roofs shone faintly beneath a sky washed pale blue by the departing clouds. Horses shifted within stalls, harness jingled somewhere inside the stable, and the clean scents of hay and leather mingled with damp earth and smoke drifting from the kitchen chimneys.

Will Fletcher stood near the harness room door with his cap twisted between his hands. The sight of him removed the last of Baines’ amusement.

Will was not nervous by nature but this morning he looked frightened.

“Miss Finch.” Will glanced towards Baines. “Major.”

“What has happened?” Judith asked.

Will looked past them towards the stable entrance, where a groom was leading a bay gelding into the yard.