She seemed to read his silence as deliberation. "Imagine how benevolent it would make you look if, for the sake of argument, you were to find it in your heart to let this go, Your Grace."

Benevolent? Him? He did not think so. Not for a quarter of a quarter second. As for imagining, he didn't do that either as a rule.

He stared at the remains of the complicated, swirling patterns on the rug. "Seventeen?" The word was rust on his tongue. A rust he wanted to spit ...