The constable gave a slow nod, as though waiting for Marcus to grasp a truth that refused to take hold.
“The letters, the documents, her absence—”
“I do not care,” Marcus snapped. “You do not know her.”
Constable Neal regarded him with a patronising patience that set Marcus’s blood alight.
“I understand it is painful to consider—”
“You understand nothing,” Marcus cut in. “She would never have harmed him. And she would never have betrayed me so.”
The constable gave a slow, measured nod.
“The appearance of guilt does not always reveal intent,” he said evenly. “But the case must be pursued as it stands. Even if she is innocent, she must be found.”
Marcus turned away. His gaze fell upon the shawl folded over the chair, then the unused candle on the bedside table. He had seen her wear that shawl but a day before. He had spoken with her only hours ago. Nothing in her manner had suggested duplicity. No one—not least a stranger—could persuade him that Catherine was secretly some master-thief.
The letters trembled faintly in his hands. He traced the indent where her name had been signed, and every instinct rebelled. She had never lied to him—not once. She was no dissembler, though she softened hard truths with gentleness. Kind, orderly, adept in every duty as countess, wife, and companion—but not a liar.
Still, a doubt crept in. Had he misjudged? She had adapted to her new station with startling ease, as though accustomed to abrupt change. There had been moments, too, when her insight and manner left him wondering how much she chose to reveal, and how much she kept to herself.
While he still agreed that something was amiss with Harold, it occurred to him that he might have been misreading the behaviours of those around him. If that were true, perhaps he had mistaken conniving actions and hidden skill for Catherine’s natural adeptness. He stared at the letters in his hands, considering what the constable had said. Was it possible the man had been right?
He stepped back, breath unsteady. The constable said nothing further, his men moving quietly through the chamber with professional care, their presence giving shape to the shadow of betrayal.
Hours passed thus. The house roused to whispers and unease, yet Marcus remained, one hand resting upon the chair where her shawl still hung, stricken with the certainty that something had gone terribly—impossibly—amiss.
***
Rosalind stood at the foot of the staircase with her arms crossed over her bodice and a furrow between her brows that had deepened steadily since morning. The murmurs of servants moved faintly through the hall, but she heard none of it. Her attention was fixed only on the door to Marcus’s study. She entered without knocking.
He sat behind the desk, unmoving, a half-folded paper clenched in one hand. His shoulders were too still. His gaze had fixed itself on a point far beyond the window behind her.
“Rosalind,” said Alexander from the doorway as he stepped in behind her. “He has scarcely spoken all morning.”
Rosalind nodded, her heart falling.
“I can see that,” she said quietly.
She advanced slowly and sat across from Marcus.
“We have come because we will not allow this silence to become belief,” she said.
He blinked once. His expression did not change.
Rosalind leaned forward.
“I have seen you doubt her, Marcus,” she said. “I have seen you hold those letters, turn them over in your hands as if they might explain something. But they do not explain her.”
At last, he lifted his head.
“This is all very odd,” he said.
Rosalind folded her arms tightly.
“You are not a fool,” she said. “And neither am I. But if you truly believe Catherine capable of murdering a man and fleeing into the night with a satchel of stolen artefacts, then you never truly knew the woman you married.”
Marcus’s jaw tensed.
