Chapter 6
“Tell me you are not truly marrying in a week.”
Roderick’s voice carried the sort of disbelief that was almost admiration, as though James had announced he intended to swim the Thames in winter for sport.
James did not look up from the decanter as he poured brandy into two glasses. “Alright, Roderick, I am not marrying in a week.”
His friend exhaled a visible deep breath, and James continued, “I am marrying in less than a week.”
Roderick Elkins, Duke of Wycliffe, lounged in the chair nearest the hearth with all the ease of a man who had never once been told no and had decided the world suited him better that way.
His coat was cut perfectly. His cravat had been tied with careless precision.
He held his glass as though it were an extension of his hand rather than something requiring attention.
“And,” Roderick continued, “you did not think to mention this in your letters?”
James handed him a glass. “It was not necessary.”
Roderick accepted it with a grin. “Not necessary. That phrase alone could be carved into your tombstone.”
James sat opposite him, the fire throwing light across the dark paneled library of Langford House.
Town life had never appealed to him, but the house served its purpose.
It provided proximity to Parliament, to Society, to information.
It allowed him to move without the long delay the country demanded.
And it allowed him to be seen.
Seen, but not examined too closely.
Roderick took a sip and winced appreciatively. “Excellent. You have always had good taste in liquor, even when you lack it in most other areas.”
James ignored the jab. “You came because you said you had news.”
Roderick’s brows rose. “You always do that. Drag the conversation back to business as though it might bite you if you let it wander.”
“It might,” James said dryly.
Roderick laughed, then tipped his head. “So. Who is she?”
James’s fingers tightened slightly around his glass. “Miss Eleanor Barker.”
Roderick’s expression sharpened with interest. “St. George’s ward?”
“His eldest daughter. By blood.”
“The pretty one, or the other one?” Roderick asked, immediately.
James’s gaze narrowed. “Do not speak of her that way.”
Roderick blinked, then burst into a grin. “Oh. Now that is fascinating. It is the pretty one.”
“It is irrelevant.”
“It is never irrelevant when you sound like you want to murder me for asking.”
James took a sip of brandy. He should not be having this conversation at all. Roderick was precisely the sort of man who turned anything into entertainment, and James had spent years ensuring his life was not entertaining.
Roderick leaned forward. “Tell me at least that you chose her. Do not tell me this is some last-minute effort to save a damsel’s reputation.”
James’s jaw tightened. “Her reputation is not my concern.”
Roderick’s smile turned sharp. “There it is again. Not your concern. And yet you are marrying her.”
James set his glass down with a soft clink. “It is practical.”
Roderick lifted his brows. “Practical?”
“It will serve a purpose,” James said.
“And what purpose,” Roderick asked, “requires a wife?”
James met his gaze, expression flat. “Normalcy.”
Roderick laughed outright. “You?”
James did not smile.
Roderick sobered slightly, though amusement still glinted in his eyes. “You mean to be seen.”
“I mean,” James corrected, “to stop being watched for the wrong reasons.”
Roderick held his gaze for a moment. Then his tone shifted, lighter but not careless. “So you are still hunting?”
James did not answer immediately. He did not need to. Roderick knew him too well.
Roderick swirled his brandy. “I have been asking around.”
“And?” James prompted.
“Nothing definitive yet,” Roderick said. “But the ton is a well-dressed swamp. Things rot beneath the surface, and someone always knows where the stink comes from.”
James’s mouth tightened. “Do not embellish.”
“It is not embellishment,” Roderick protested. “It is observation. I have spoken to gambling hell owners, to discreet solicitors, to men who owe me favors, and to women who collect secrets the way other women collect ribbons.”
James’s gaze sharpened. “Women.”
Roderick smiled faintly. “Do not look scandalized. You think men hold all the information in London? They rarely know what their own wives are thinking.”
James did not respond.
Roderick leaned back again, stretching his legs toward the fire. “Someone moved in your parents’ circle. Someone with access. Someone who knew their routines.”
James’s fingers tightened around the edge of the armrest.
Roderick’s voice softened, just slightly. “I am expecting a name within days.”
James nodded once.
For a moment, the fire crackled between them, the only sound in the room.
Then Roderick’s expression shifted back toward mischief as though seriousness made him itch. “So this bride of yours. Miss Eleanor Barker. Tell me about her.”
“There is nothing to tell,” James said.
Roderick’s brows rose. “You met her?”
“Briefly.”
“You spoke?”
“Yes.”
“And yet there is nothing to tell? I mean I have met her. Now tell me what you know about her.”
James’s jaw clenched. “She is intelligent.”
Roderick’s smile widened. “Oh?”
“She is stubborn.”
“Even better.”
“She is… difficult,” James added, as though it were a flaw.
Roderick’s eyes gleamed. “Now we are getting somewhere.”
James scowled. “Do not enjoy this.”
“I am obligated to,” Roderick said cheerfully. “You have spent years in mourning and anger. The moment you do something reckless; I am entitled to take pleasure in it.”
“It is not reckless.”
“You are marrying a woman you barely know within a week,” Roderick said. “That is the definition of reckless.”
“It is calculated,” James countered.
Roderick lifted his glass. “Calculated recklessness, then. Tell me, does she know what she is marrying into?”
James’s gaze flicked away for the first time. He saw again Eleanor’s face at the manor door, the steadiness of her gaze, the quiet threat in her voice.
If you test me, you may not like what you find.
“She believes she is making a sacrifice,” he said, voice flat.
Roderick’s expression softened. “For her sister?”
“Yes.”
“And you,” Roderick said slowly, “are letting her.”
James’s jaw tightened. “She is not a child. She chose.”
Roderick studied him over the rim of his glass. “Did she?”
James did not answer.
Roderick smiled faintly, triumphant. “You have been thinking about her.”
James’s gaze snapped back, cold. “No.”
Roderick laughed. “Liar.”
James’s voice dropped. “Enough.”
Roderick held up his hands in mock surrender, though his eyes still danced. “Very well. I will behave.”
James exhaled slowly. He hated how easily Roderick could unsettle him. Hated that the image of Eleanor’s brown eyes had lingered longer than it had any right to.
He had chosen her because she served a purpose. He told himself the decision was made, which was usually enough. Tonight, it was not.
Not because she challenged him.
Not because she stood her ground like a woman who had nothing left to lose.
Not because, for the first time in years, someone had looked at him without fear.
But because it was a sensible choice for what he needed. A duchess, and time to work through this investigation.
James lifted his glass again, voice controlled. “We ride tomorrow.”
Roderick brightened. “To Ashbourne?”
“No, I must be back in time for the wedding, Roderick. To Blackmere Park,” James said.
Roderick smiled. “Ah, yes. That makes more sense. But you do know how I love the country.”
“In time, cousin. In due time,” James said, raising his glass.
The men nodded at each other, the plan solidified, and finished their drink before retreating to their rooms.
But James did not sleep easily that night. He remained before the dying fire, another glass of brandy warming his palm, watching the flames rise and fall while his thoughts circled a single, unwelcome center.
Eleanor Barker returned to him with unsettling clarity: the quiet steadiness of her gaze, the proud line of her mouth, the faint hitch in her breath when he had stepped too close.
He told himself it was irritation. Curiosity.
Yet his chest tightened all the same, as though his body had taken note of something his reason refused to name.
A sharp knock sounded at his door.
“Yes?”
“Your Grace,” his butler said softly, “it is nearly dawn.”
James rose at once, scowling at the soft blue light creeping through the window. He dressed quickly in dark wool and leather, and minutes later met Roderick on the misty street below, already mounted, ready to ride for Blackmere Park.
“You look almost cheerful.”
Roderick’s voice rode on the mist as their horses picked their way out of London. The city’s edges gave way to wider roads and bare-limbed trees, the air sharpening with each mile. James’s mount moved steadily beneath him, familiar and dependable, unlike most things in his life.
James kept his gaze on the road. “I am not cheerful.”
“You are leaving the ton,” Roderick said. “That is the closest you ever come.”
James did not respond. He had never needed London’s approval. He needed only what London contained: information, access, the mouths that spoke too freely, the pockets that accepted bribes, and the sort of men who made their fortunes quietly through other people’s ruin.
The countryside offered fewer mouths.
But it offered control.
And right now, he knew that while control mattered, proximity mattered more.
They rode in steady silence until the last sprawl of townhouses fell behind them and the road widened into open country. Frost clung to hedgerows. Fields lay brown and sleeping. A low winter sun hovered like a reluctant witness.
Roderick’s horse sidestepped a puddle and splashed anyway. “Remind me why we are riding to your estate the week of your wedding,” he asked. “Surely even you understand that most men would remain close to their bride.”
James’s jaw tightened. “I have duties.”