“I heard.” Charles winced as he started sawing at the leather of his second-best pair of boots. His best had already been demolished by Ellie. “What happened?'

Thomas Leavey, who ran the stables and was, in Charles's opinion, one of the finest judges of horseflesh in the country, stepped forward and said, “We found this under the saddle.”

Charles sucked in his breath. Leavey held in his hand a bent, rusty nail. It wasn't very long, but Charles's weight on the saddle would have been enough to drive it into Whistler's back, causing the horse unspeakable agony.

“Who saddled my horse?” Charles demanded.

“I did,” Leavey said.

Charles stared at his trusted stablemaster. He knew that Leavey would never do anything to hurt a horse, much less a human. “Have you any idea how this might have happened?”

“I left Whistler alone in his stall for a minute or two before you came for him. My only guess is that someone sneaked in and put the nail under the saddle.”

“Who the hell would do something like this?” Charles demanded.

No one offered an answer.

“It wasn't an accident,” Leavey finally said. “That much I know. Something like this doesn't happen by accident.”

Charles knew he spoke the truth. Someone had deliberately tried to injure him. His blood ran cold. Someone had probably wanted him dead.

As he was digesting that chilling fact, Ellie stomped into the stables. “I am far too nice a person,” she announced to the room at large.

The stablehands just stared at her, clearly not sure how to reply.

She marched over to Charles. “Give me the knife,” she said. “I'll take care of your boot.”

He handed it to her without a word, still in shock over the recent attempt against his life.

She sat inelegantly at his feet and began to saw away at his boot. “Next time you compare me to a mule,” she hissed, “you had better find the mule wanting.”

Charles couldn't even manage a chuckle.

“Why was Whistler bleeding?” she asked.

He exchanged a glance with Leavey and James. He didn't want her to know about the attempt on his life. He would have to have a talk with the two men as soon as she left, for if they uttered one word about this to anyone, Ellie would learn the truth before nightfall. Gossip could be rampant on country estates. “It was just a scratch,” he told her. “He must have stuck himself on a branch while running home.”

“I don't know very much about horses,” she said, not looking up from her work on his boot, “but that sounds strange to me. Whistler would have had to hit that branch very hard to draw blood.”

“Er, I suppose he would.”

She eased the mutilated boot from his foot. “I can't imagine how he would have hit a branch while running along the main road or the drive. Both are kept very clear.”

She had him there. Charles looked over to Leavey for help, but the stablemaster just shrugged.