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Silence hovered. Gilbert pressed a hand to his brow, his mind racing. He recalled every distant meal, every stiff word, and the way she avoided him after gatherings. He recalled how the rumor-laden Season in London had ground her spirit. Still, the abruptness of her departure stung.

He shot Leopold a glare. “You kept her secret about leaving. Are you keeping anything else from me?”

Leopold’s mouth tightened. “She only asked for my discretion. I believe you two must speak directly. It is not my place to betray what she might wish to keep private.”

“So thereismore,” Gilbert snapped as his ire flared anew. “But you refuse to share it.”

“Yes,” Leopold stood firm. “I told her she must speak with you in time. I cannot say more.”

Gilbert’s heart pounded. The unspoken hint of something deeper than mere unhappiness gnawed at him.

“Your loyalty is misplaced,” he growled. “I am your brother. She is my wife.”

Leopold’s gaze did not waver.

“And she is my sister-in-law. I am trying to protect her, just as you once protected me. Perhaps you should reflect on how she came to be so distressed.”

The words struck Gilbert like a blow. He inhaled sharply, his rage ebbing into a hollow ache. His shoulders sagged in a spasm of helplessness.

“She was distressed, yes, and I have failed her,” he muttered. “But that does not excuse you for aiding her escape without so much as a warning to me.”

“I accept your anger,” Leopold nodded gravely. “I only ask you to recognize that she left because she saw no other remedy. If you would find her again, do not do so in anger.”

Gilbert could muster no response to that. He turned aside, his gaze sweeping the quiet shelves and the subdued lamplight. Every detail of the room grated on him; a reminder of how weak his control over his own household felt. At length, he spoke, his voice raw.

“She is at Crayford Manor, then.”

Leopold nodded once. “Yes. She took a minimal retinue, but she is safe. She asked that no fuss be made, to spare you public embarrassment.”

“She spares me embarrassment while leaving me powerless,” he said bitterly. He pivoted, crossing the distance to the door in quick strides.

Leopold called after him, his tone regretful. “Gilbert.”

Gilbert stopped without turning. “What?”

Leopold’s breathing sounded unsteady.

“She does not hate you,” he said. “She is… hurt, and something weighs heavily on her. If you go to her in anger, you may lose what remains of her trust.”

“She gave me precious little trust if she would vanish thus,” he said. Gilbert let out a ragged scoff, yet the edge in his tone vacillated, and he hastened to leave the sitting room, a thousand thoughts tearing at him simultaneously.

He stalked down the corridor, his footsteps echoing in ominous repetition. A maid spotted him and ducked quickly into a side passage, no doubt reading the fury on his face. He had no desire for an audience. Reaching the foot of the main staircase, he paused, raking a hand through his hair.

A swirl of memories assailed him: her quiet pleas for him to discuss children, his vow to never father heirs. The nights they had barely touched, the moments he glimpsed her pallor or heard her catch her breath in distress. Had she been ill all this time, and he let jealousy blind him to it?

He forced himself to climb the staircase, aiming for his study; somewhere he could pace without prying eyes. Yet once he was there he found the air too stifling, the note she had penned still on the desk, mocking him with its brevity. He tried reading it again, searching for some clue to explain her sudden departure.

…I do not wish to burden you while you attend your obligations…

The words seared him. Did she see herself as a burden? Did he give her that impression? He recalled their last argument, how she insisted she could not share intimacy when he refused to consider fatherhood. His heart beat painfully. Perhaps she believed him incapable of comforting her.

Perhaps she is correct.

He dropped into his chair, burying his face in his hands. The hush of the study offered no solace. All he could hear was Leopold’s assertion that she was deeply unhappy, and that something weighed on her. He lifted his head, his gaze falling on the neat stacks of estate papers. None of them held meaning now. He felt unmoored, his carefully ordered world undone by the absence of one woman.

He had never faced such a sense of helplessness. His mind whispered that she might never return if he refused to alter his stance. He clenched his jaw, recalling the weight of the tragedy that shaped his vow.

I cannot risk losing a child as I lost my sister.