Chapter Eighteen
Marcus stood near the library’s tall windows, a folio of site drawings open in his hands, though his eyes remained fixed not on the diagrams but on the figure of Harold Fitzwilliam across the room.
The man leaned over a display table with exaggerated interest, speaking animatedly to Charles about Roman military insignia.
But the gesture lacked its usual polish. His charm had frayed at the edges.
“He is repeating himself,” Catherine said quietly beside him. “That is the third time he has brought up the mosaic fragments from York.”
Marcus glanced down at her notes. She had recorded every conversation Harold had initiated that morning, the times, the topics, even the names of artefacts discussed. Her handwriting was neat, methodical. Efficient.
“He is slipping,” Marcus said.
“And quickly,” Catherine said. “Look there. He has asked William the same question about preservation wax that he asked Sophia an hour ago.”
They exchanged a look, the silent agreement passing effortlessly between them. There was no panic. There was only vigilance.
Marcus had always respected intelligence in others, but this precise coordination of purpose and ability to think with someone as though their minds moved on a shared current was something else entirely. Catherine did not merely understand his reasoning; she anticipated it.
He watched as she crossed the room calmly, intercepting a junior footman who had just entered with a tray of refreshments. She redirected him with a nod, ensuring he passed near enough to Harold that they could observe his reaction. Harold barely noticed.
A moment later, Catherine was back at Marcus’s side.
“He is not hungry,” she said. “I believe that is very telling.”
Marcus nodded.
“He seems nervous,” he said. “Though I am not sure he senses something amiss. He did not notice you speaking quietly with the footman.”
Catherine nodded with a pleased smile.
“Then we must ensure he continues to remain absorbed in the design he thinks he directs,” she said.
She turned toward the table where Eleanor and James were comparing artefact labels.
Her expression held no hint of tension, only mild interest. But Marcus could see the subtle calculation in her posture. She was listening to everything.
“Marcus,” Harold said suddenly, startling him. “I was wondering if you had any other pieces hidden away that you might be willing to share with us.”
Marcus froze. This was unexpected.
He could not decide whether Harold was asking out of greed or with the intent to try to bluff Marcus into a reaction to give away what they knew.
He might have floundered for a response a little too long, but he met Catherine’s steadying gaze.
She gave him a warm smile, and he instantly knew what to say.
“I have been considering just that,” he said, surprised at how calm he sounded. “I do have some recent procurements from Italy that I thought might be of interest to our fellow scholars. However, I have only recently unpackaged them, and I must give the matter further thought before I decide.”
Harold’s expression change would not have been obvious to everyone.
However, Marcus noticed how his eyes became a little brighter and his mouth struggled to resist a broad smile.
He nodded slowly, a gesture Marcus had once thought was just contemplative and thoughtful, but he now realised was merely a conscious effort to compose himself before reacting.
“That would be marvellous,” he said. “Not to be too bold, but I believe I speak for everyone here when I say that we would be most interested in these pieces.”
Marcus nodded as Beatrice looked with gentle chastisement at him.
“I am insulted that you did not mention these pieces to us before,” she said.
Marcus chuckled, again impressed by how genuine it sounded.
“It was not until the day before yesterday that I found any relevance to showing them in this context,” he said.
“And truthfully, I also think they might be best introduced at another symposium that focuses more on Italian and Indian culture and history. As I said, I am as yet undecided. I will give it some more thought.”
There was a general murmur of agreement, and Marcus felt relieved.
From the edge of his vision, he saw Edmund give him a small smile and nod of approval. He had done well avoiding raising suspicion, at least for the moment.
Still, he hoped that Edmund could find the evidence he needed and see Harold punished quickly. Marcus was not a man for lies and deception. Even though it was to protect his peers and family, he did not know how long he could keep up the charade.
Later, in the drawing room, Marcus reviewed the new catalogue entries Rosalind and Sophia had completed under Catherine’s supervision.
Several artefacts had been shifted earlier that morning under the guise of documentation updates.
Replicas now stood in place of the originals with such exactness that even a seasoned scholar might fail to discern the difference without careful study.
“Are all the pieces secure?” he asked.
Catherine nodded.
“Every item on Edmund’s priority list has either been moved or thoroughly documented with enough scrutiny to discourage immediate theft,” she said. “If Harold attempts anything tonight, he will have to choose from what we want him to find.”
Marcus frowned.
“I thought we were going to lock away all of them?” he asked.
Catherine nodded, her expression briefly falling.
“Henry brought one piece that is a little too large to fit,” she said.
“As did Beatrice. I had to think quickly to avoid questions, as everyone received the notion of a mock museum with such delight that no alarm was raised. I have, however, engaged a second servant, promising him additional wages, to make quiet rounds through the passages at night to ensure that no one slips out of their rooms unnoticed while we all sleep.”
Marcus smiled. He was ceaselessly amazed by Catherine’s ability to think and act so well under pressure. Her confidence steadied him, and her cleverness was a constant reassurance.
“Very well done, Catherine,” he said softly.
His wife smiled, blushing.
“I am merely doing what I must to help us help Edmund and protect our esteemed guests,” she said quietly.
With a nod, Marcus returned to his study briefly to retrieve a new sheaf of papers, then lingered by the door, watching as Catherine conferred with Henry about the provenance of a recently uncovered seal.
She tilted her head as she listened, then made a quiet remark that caused Henry to laugh. She smiled in return.
There was no tension in her posture, no self-consciousness in her manner. And yet she was watching everything. Marcus had never seen such balance between warmth and vigilance. Her mind worked ceaselessly even as she played the perfect hostess.
By late afternoon, the strain on Harold became impossible to miss.
He had dropped a volume of compiled field notes during a conversation with Edmund and failed to retrieve it for several long seconds.
He laughed too loudly at one of James’s jokes and misidentified a coin that Marcus knew he had catalogued correctly just days earlier.
Catherine approached Marcus by the corridor archway.
“Do you think he is unravelling?” she asked.
Marcus gave a slight shrug.
“I cannot say. He appears too preoccupied to mark anything amiss. I believe his mind is fixed either upon seizing another prize, or upon slipping away with what he has already taken.”
Catherine nodded, her brow beginning to wrinkle.
“We do not have much time left before our event concludes,” she said.
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.