Gavin entered Miss Swan’s room and stopped. The lady stood before the privacy screen in one of his cousin’s dressing gowns. The tapes were tied securely, but there was something altogether too intimate about the delicate lace at her throat and the sight of her bare pink toes peeping out from beneath the hem. She looked wholly incapable of stabbing a man to death.
 

He swallowed and reminded himself to remain objective. The truth was the truth, no matter how fetching its package. He placed his hat on a hook by the door and said, “You seem much improved today. To be sure, you’re more sprightly than the last time I saw you.”
 

“Constable,” she said with a bit of coolness to her tone. “Where is Leo?”
 

“And a good day to you, Miss Swan. Leo is in the Feather’s kitchen, being plied with biscuits, I presume.” She relaxed a fraction, and he entered the room more fully.
 

“And my things?” She moved to stand between Gavin and the hearth, and the fire outlined her form through the dressing gown. He swallowed, though he didn’t need the fire’s light to know the shape of her. He recalled clearly how small she’d felt in his arms as he carried her to his horse, the ship’s boy nipping at his heels.
 

“I’ve sent your gown to be laundered. You shall have it back shortly. Here,” he said, crossing to the small table. “Drink your tea before it grows cold.”
 

He poured a cup for her then held a chair, wincing only slightly at the movement. She eyed him uncertainly before her stomach made the decision for her with a low rumble. She sat, a faint blush staining her cheeks, and spread a napkin over her lap proper-like.
 

Gavin took the opposite chair and removed his pencil and notebook from his coat. “I have questions about what you saw and heard aboard the Destiny,” he said.

 

She eyed him for an overlong moment before giving him a short nod. Her manners must have made themselves known, for she indicated the pot. “Would you like tea?”

 

“I prefer something a bit stronger,” he said.

 

“At this hour?”

 

“Coffee, Miss Swan. I prefer coffee.” She buttered a triangle of toast. He waited until she took a bite before saying, “What is the nature of your relationship with Victor Kingsley?”

 

She coughed and he nudged her tea closer. She took a sip and swallowed. “I beg your pardon, Constable. My relationship?”

 

“Aye.”

 

“I have no relationship with Victor Kingsley.” She kept her eyes fixed on her tea cup so he waited, prompting her with his silence. Finally, she looked up. Her gaze met his, and she held it steady as she added, “He is my employer’s husband. That is all.”

​

Gavin made a notation in his notebook, though he knew her words to be a bold lie. He couldn’t put his finger on how he knew she was being untruthful, but he would bet his horse on it.

 

“The ship’s boy, Leo, saw you in conversation with Kingsley before the ship ran aground. What did you discuss?”

 

She tilted her head slightly. “I do not see how that is any of your concern.”

 

“Then per’aps you might explain the blood staining your gown,” he continued. “How did you come by that?”

 

“The blood—?” Her brow pitched low as if she tried to remember, then her expression cleared. “Why, I imagine it must be mine.”

 

Another lie. He closed his eyes briefly. Despite Victor Kingsley’s final plea—find her—and Miss Swan’s flight from the beach, he’d hoped for her sake she was innocent of any wrongdoing. Even when he saw the blood staining her sleeve, he’d thought there must be an explanation, but so far, she’d handed him nothing but falsehoods.

 

At his silence, she continued her defense, and he allowed her to go on. “Yes,” she said with a nod, “the blood must be mine. You’ll recall the ship I travelled on ran aground.”

 

Her tone carried a bit of prim derision that nearly had his lips curving in response. Still, he must not forget that a man was dead. “I don’t believe the blood is yours, Miss Swan.”

 

She set the remains of her toast on the plate and wiped the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “How can you be certain, Constable?”

 

“I checked your wrist for wounds and found none.”

 

“You checked my—when?”

 

“After you fainted.”

 

“I did not faint.”

 

“You did.” When it appeared she might argue the matter further, he added, “Per’aps you were overset by Kingsley's death.” He watched her for a reaction and was rewarded when her eyes widened in surprise. More pretense? He couldn’t be certain.

 

“Victor is dead?” Her breath came more rapidly now, her chest rising and falling beneath the dressing gown. There was an increased energy to her, as if she wanted nothing more than to stand and pace the room. She remained seated, though, and lifted a slender hand to her throat. He wasn’t certain whether the slight tremble in her fingers was genuine; if not, it was nicely done.

 

“He is.”

 

“And I gather from your questions you believe I had something to do with his demise.”

 

“Did you?”

 

She looked at him in confusion for a moment before responding. “Of course not!”

 

“Then I shall ask again: what was the nature of your relationship with your employer’s husband?”

 

“Constable, the nature of your question is insulting.”

 

“Apologies, Miss Swan, but I haven’t the time to be overly concerned with delicate sensibilities.”

 

“I would like you to leave,” she said primly. “And I would like my things returned posthaste.”

 

He made another notation, conscious of her watching his hand. When she leaned forward as if she might read his words, he closed the book with a snap and gave her a short nod. “You shall have your things just as soon as your gown has been laundered.”

 

Her eyes narrowed at his even tone. His Maid Marian was no fool. “Am I to be a prisoner then?” she asked, her chin tilted at a stubborn angle.

 

A quiet thing. That was how Henderson had described the lady. He must remember to doubt the captain’s opinion in the future. “‘Prisoner’ is a bit strong, don’t you think?”

 

“I can hardly go about in my nightclothes,” she said, drawing his eye once more to the lace at her throat. “So no, I think the term is rather apt.”

 

Gavin stood and reclaimed his hat. “You shall have your gown returned to you shortly,” he repeated, “but I insist you remain in Newford until this matter is sorted.”

 

She sank back against the chair, clearly displeased with his direction. It was his experience that few ladies appreciated his forthright manner, and Miss Swan, it seemed, was no exception. She had a pair of dimples that appeared in her cheeks, even when she frowned.

 

“How long do you anticipate this sorting will take?” she asked.

 

“I intend to see the matter resolved as expeditiously as possible.”

 

“You are eager to find your coffee, I presume.”

 

“I am eager to find the truth.”

 

She snorted softly and he lifted a brow in question. “A constable eager for the truth?” she said. “That’s rich.”

 

“You’ve some prior experience with the constabulary, Miss Swan?”

 

“More than I would like to claim.”