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Nor was it her current company she was worried after. “Your eyes look better, Mr. Bram,” she lauded as she tugged off her gloves.

He flashed a crooked grin. “And they doesn’t sting anymore, either.”

“That is splendid news, indeed,” she said, giving him a cheerful pat on the back. “There’s still the matter of your limp.”

The brutish-looking man who’d met Verity and Malcom in the kitchens a fortnight ago marched forward, his left leg dragging slightly behind him as if the muscles had ceased to work. He blocked them at the bottom of the stairwell. “North ain’t wanting visitors.”

“Yes.” She flashed him her most winning smile, the same one she’d donned when she’d asked to be admitted. “But surely His Lordship will accept one.” Verity directed that at the only hope she had.

Bram grinned back, but a sharp glare from the other fellow killed that smile and her hopes.

A mask descended over the sentry’s scarred face. “He don’t go by ‘’is Lordship.’”

Not for the first time, a question reared itself: Who were these old, scarred men who dwelled here? Nor did that question come from the story she sought to write, but rather from a genuine need to know about the enigmatic figure that was the Earl of Maxwell.

“No,” she murmured, beating her gloves together lightly. “He doesn’t prefer to go by his title. That is true, is it not?”

“Just said as much,” he said with an absolute absence of the rhetorical. “Now, Oi think ya need to leave.”

I think, notYou must.And it was that which confirmed he’d never be able to comfortably toss her out. Verity stuffed her tattered gloves inside the pocket sewn along the front of her gown. “I’m afraid I can’t leave.”

He paused. Narrowing his eyes, he looked her over. “You can’t?”

And she wouldn’t. Not until she spoke with Malcom.

“There are matters I need to discuss with Malcom.” Once again, she did a sweep of the darkened halls. She knew he was here, and she wasn’t leaving until she had an audience. Verity opened her mouth to say as much.

Just then, the resolute guard shifted his weight. His face pulled in a grimace.

His leg pained him. “I’ve something that can help with that.”

“I told ya she did,” Bram piped in on a loud whisper.

Encouraged by the angry fellow’s silence, she went on to explain. “I grew up in Epsom Common. Have you ever heard of it?”

There was a beat of silence. “No,” the older man said grudgingly.

“Some years back there was a cow herder who stopped to allow his cattle a drink from a nearby pool. The animals could not drink it—”

“Why?” Bram cut in.

“It was bitter tasting,” she explained before looking back to the more stoic guard. “That same day Mr. Wicker allowed his livestock to wander into the water, and the ones who were injured? They saw their wounds healed.” Both men stared on with wide eyes as she shared the telling. “Tales of the healing properties spread, and from then on, visitors would come to the pool. People suffering from gout and stomach upsets all were cured.”

There was silence. And then—

“Impossible.”

“Moi eyes are clear,” Bram reminded the other white-haired fellow.

“You can find Epsom salt for purchase. Add a liberal dose to a hot bath, and soak your hurt limbs. I trust that should help greatly.”

Some of the tension left his frame, and he took a step away from the stairwell, abandoning his spot.

“You’ve also been with Mr. North for some time.”

He grunted. “Aye,” he allowed, unwittingly confirming that bit of information she’d sought. Just as she’d intended when she’d tacked that statement onto the idea that he should somehow know her.

It was a knack she’d perfected in the work she’d done over the years. Subtle questions that people didn’t know they’d been asked, which resulted in them revealing information they had never intended to share.