Marcus took a deep breath. She was right. They had only one more full day of activities planned.
“Do you think tonight will be the attempt?” he asked.
She did not answer immediately.
“He is running out of time,” she said. “I expect that he will do something very soon, and tonight does seem to be his best opportunity.”
They moved together toward the back corridor, speaking in low tones.
“If he tries it tonight, it will be between supper and the evening lecture,” Catherine said. “That is the window of least supervision.”
Marcus paused outside the west study, where Edmund had set up his authentication station.
“I trust that Edmund knows how to act accordingly,” he said.
Catherine nodded.
“And we make certain every entrance is observed by the servants who will be keeping watch at night,” she said. She touched his sleeve lightly, just once. “He is clever, Marcus. Possibly desperate. And desperation seldom abides by rules. We cannot dismiss the chance that he may act in some wholly unforeseen way.”
He covered her hand with his own.
“We shall not grant him the opportunity,” he said.
Together, they turned toward the main hall. The day was far from over; indeed, it felt to Marcus as though it had only just begun. Yet Catherine’s quiet steadiness lent him hope. Perhaps they could still forestall Harold’s schemes before another fell victim. Their plan seemed sound enough. And yet, as Catherine had reminded him, no plan could entirely predict how a man might act when the moment of exposure drew near.
***
Catherine paused just outside the study door, her hand resting on the polished brass handle. A thin line of golden lamplight spilled across the corridor, marking the only sign of wakefulness in an otherwise sleeping household. She had not expected to find Marcus still awake, yet something had drawn her here—some restless instinct that refused to be quieted.
She opened the door softly. The hinges did not creak, as if Penwood itself understood the gravity of what these hours held.
Marcus sat at his desk, surrounded by parchment and folios. His coat was slung over the back of a nearby chair; his cravat loosened at the throat. The warm lamplight threw his features into gentle relief, casting a glow over the furrow in his brow and the quiet tension in his jaw.
He looked up at the sound of her entrance.
“Catherine,” he said quietly, “you could not sleep either?”
She shook her head and stepped inside, drawing the door shut behind her.
“I tried,” she said. “But my thoughts would not be stilled.”
Marcus gestured toward the settee near the hearth.
“Please, sit,” he said softly. “The fire is nearly out, but the embers should still offer some warmth.”
Catherine complied, smoothing the skirt of her dressing gown as she sat. She glanced toward the open books on his desk.
“You are organising the authentication records again,” she said.
Marcus nodded, and Catherine noticed how gentle and kind his eyes were.
“It soothes me,” he said. “There is precision in cataloguing. A kind of order the rest of the world rarely affords.”
She clasped her hands in her lap.
“Do you think he suspects we are watching him?” she asked, at last allowing her worry to show.
He leaned back in his chair, the shadows shifting across his face.
