“You what?” Adrian’s voice dropped, quiet and dangerous.
“She wrote to me in Rome. Said she was concerned for you, that you’d become even more withdrawn after... whatever happened between you.” Catherine twisted her napkin, unableto meet their eyes. “She seemed genuinely worried. We exchanged perhaps a dozen letters over two years.”
“What did you tell her?” Adrian’s tone was sharp enough to cut.
“Nothing improper! Only talk of Rome, of childhood memories—hopes of reconciliation with you.” Catherine’s chin lifted, a spark of defiance in her eyes. “I was lonely, Adrian. She seemed kind, interested in my welfare. She said she cared for our family.”
“She was gathering intelligence,” Marianne said quietly. “Learning your habits, your weaknesses, your relationships. Information she might use later.”
The colour drained from Catherine’s face. “You think she was using me?”
“I know she was.” Adrian rose abruptly, his chair scraping the floor. “Venetia doesn’t have friends—only assets. And you, dear sister, were perfectly placed to be useful.”
“Adrian, don’t—” Marianne began, but he was already striding to the door.
“I need to think. Do not accept that invitation until we discuss this further.”
The door closed behind him with controlled violence, leaving the two women in uncomfortable silence.
“I didn’t know,” Catherine murmured, tears threatening. “She seemed so sincere in her letters—so concerned about Adrian’s wellbeing.”
“She probably was concerned,” Marianne said, surprising them both. “Just not in the way you thought. She feared losing her position—her influence over him. Your letters allowed her to track his movements, his state of mind, his vulnerabilities.”
“Goodness, I’m such a fool.”
“No, you were lonely, seeking connection in a difficult time. She took advantage of that. There’s no shame in being deceived by an expert.”
Catherine wiped her eyes with her napkin, smearing the delicate fabric with tears. “Will he forgive me?”
“He already has. His anger is for Venetia, not for you.” Marianne rose and came around the table to sit beside her sister-in-law. “But we need to know—what precisely did you tell her?”
For the next hour, Catherine recalled the correspondence as best she could. What emerged was a portrait of calculated manipulation: Venetia’s questions had seemed harmless, yet each one drew out more about Adrian—his habits, his temper, his sleepless nights, his reliance on brandy, his tendency to withdraw when troubled. She had learned of his fierce protectiveness of family, his guilt over Catherine’s exile, his relentless need for control.
“She knows him,” Marianne said at last, a sick heaviness settling in her stomach. “Perhaps better than he knows himself.”
“What do we do?”
“We attend the house party. But we go prepared.”
The remainder of the morning passed in brisk activity. Marianne summoned her lady’s maid, Sarah, and began issuing instructions that widened the girl’s eyes to near circles.
“Court dress, Your Grace?” Sarah squeaked. “But that’s only for—”
“Presentation at court or the most formal occasions, yes. And if the future Duchess of Worthington wishes to play games of precedence, we shall remind her precisely what a duchess can do when properly motivated.” Marianne unlocked her jewel case, appraising its contents with strategic coolness. “We’ll take the sapphire parure for the first evening—it matches my wedding ring, a subtle reminder of my station. The diamonds for formal dinners. And…” She paused, struck by inspiration. “Send to my father. Ask him to lend me Mother’s emeralds.”
“The merchant’s emeralds, Your Grace?”
“Exactly. Let Venetia try to sneer at my origins when I wear jewels that could buy her entire wardrobe twice over.”
Sarah bobbed a curtsey and hurried off, already calculating how many trunks they’d need for a fortnight’s worth of warfare disguised as fashion.
***
Adrian returned at luncheon, calmer but still tight with tension. He’d changed into riding clothes and his hair was windswept, suggesting he’d been galloping off his anger—a habit Marianne was beginning to recognise.
“We’re going,” he said without preamble, taking his seat at the head of the table.
“What changed your mind?” Marianne asked, though she suspected she knew.
