"Said to you?" Spencer Merrifield, earl of Hardstaff, had the most endearing way of lifting one eyebrow so that it resembled a gray question mark. Sitting in his grand tester bed, his thin frame propped against pillows and bolsters, he was bathed in the early-evening light that streamed through the oriel window. "You spoke to him?"

"Yes. I—at the safe hold." She cringed inwardly at the small lie and studied the pattern of lozenge shapes that tiled the floor. Spencer would object to her being present for the hanging. But the safe hold was run by godly folk whose goals matched Spencer's own.

"I see. Well, then. What did Oliver de Lacey say to you?"

She frowned and plopped down onto a stool by the bed, tucking her soft, kerseymere skirts between her knees. "I thought his name was Oliver Lackey."

"That is one of his names. In sooth he is Lord Oliver de Lacey, Baron Wimberleigh, son and heir to the earl of Lynley."

"He? A noble?" The man had been wearing a stained shirt and plain fustian jerkin over torn and ragged canions and hose. No shoes; those were always appropriated by prison wardens. He had looked as common as a mongrel dog—until he had smiled at her.

Spencer watched her closely as if seeking to peer into her mind. She was familiar with the look. When she was very small, she used to liken Spencer to the Almighty Himself, with all the powers of His station.

"Betimes he goes about incognito," Spencer explained, "I suppose to spare his family from embarrassment.