Steadman peered sidelong at her and tucked his chin. “Why do you ask?”
His coy response drew her nearer. “Because at the mention of his name, a look came over you, and decidedly unlike the one you showed me on the road.”
He turned his face back to the lane, the grit of his square jaw practically creating sparks. “Oh? What kind of look?”
She recalled his expression and how it had unsettled her. How she briefly experienced a desire to flee. “Like a hunter. A wolf on the prowl. You know this man personally, don’t you? You dislike this man.”
“I don’t dislike Cecil Dunwoody.”
“Is that so? I was well fooled, then.”
Steadman peered at her again, his eyes disappearing beneath his brows. “I do not dislike Cecil Dunwoody. Rather, I despise Cecil Dunwoody with the fire of the sun. Dislike is too bland a description.”
He faced the road again, apparently finished speaking on the matter. Morgan raced her mount ahead and spun it in theroad, forcing Steadman to pull up his horse. He frowned at her, his face granite.
“You wish to say something?”
“If I am to help you with this investigation, I require your confidence. An explanation of your animosity towards this Dunwoody character would be a wonderful start. Don’t you think?”
He continued watching her, as if sifting her soul, until she grew uncomfortable and looked away for fear he would identify the woman beneath the bluster.
“Very well,” he said. “You are right. Again.”
He prodded his horse forward and she fell in beside him. He watched the clouds for nearly a minute, a man lost in memory. Then, before she realized, he was speaking.
“Dunwoody is a snake, but one with a powerful friend. Lord Atwood, baron and otherwise blight of Prescombe Manor.”
“The local baron?”
“The very one. Dunwoody attached himself to Atwood decades ago, sucking and feeding. The baron is only happy to be bled. To be poisoned.”
“The baron is no better, then?”
Steadman chuckled primally. “No. Perhaps worse. But he is behind this extortion, I am convinced.”
Her curiosity mounted. “How do you know? Are you a seer?”
“No. Only a minor prophet, unhappy to be correct in this case.”
“Might you explain your prophecy, then? I am a mere mortal with poor foresight, as evidenced by my agreeing to accompany you here.”
Her plan to soften his mood paid dividends when he smiled. “Every prophet requires his acolyte, I suppose. I will deign to enlighten you.”
“I sit humbly at your feet, oh wise one.”
Steadman swept his arm to the west. “Atwood’s estate sprawls beyond Broad Chalke as he gobbled up land from small farms over the years. However, his reputation as a landowner is poor. He has mismanaged his lands and lost a fortune in Dunwoody’s schemes. I believe he is using Dunwoody to grab more land by forcing farmers into insolvency.”
The theory sounded plausible to Morgan. Greed was a powerful motivator. She had seen it happen in her parish and understood the process well. “But how could he guarantee acquiring the insolvent farms? Are those farms not re-allotted by a local commission?”
He flashed her a wicked smile. “Exactly. And do you know who constitutes this area’s local commission?”
“Lord Atwood and Cecil Dunwoody?”
“Clever lad.”
He turned away again to fume. His vitriol for both men was too personal to leave unaddressed, though. She inhaled a pair of deep breaths to find the pluck to ask what she must. “How do you know these men?”
“What makes you think I know them?”
