Chapter 27
The first morning began with certainty.
James rose before dawn and rode hard, the chill air cutting through his coat as if to sharpen his resolve. He met Roderick outside the small solicitor’s office on the edge of town, a place chosen precisely because it was unremarkable.
“This is our man,” Roderick said, tapping the folded paper in his hand. “Or at least a path to him.”
James dismounted without comment. “You are sure.”
“As sure as one can be,” Roderick replied. “The footman was seen there two days after the ball. Paid in cash. No questions asked.”
James nodded. “Then we start here.”
Inside, the solicitor was nervous. He spoke too quickly, his hands fidgeting as he answered questions he claimed not to understand.
“You handled payment for a temporary servant,” James said calmly. “One hired for a single evening. Who authorized it?”
“I do not recall,” the man said.
“You will,” Roderick replied pleasantly. “You were paid well to remember.”
The man swallowed. “It was arranged through an intermediary.”
“Who?” James asked.
“I was told the name was Fenwick,” the solicitor said. “A distant cousin. No relation to Lord Fenwick, of course.”
James and Roderick exchanged a glance.
“Of course,” Roderick said. “And the servant?”
“Dismissed the following day,” the man replied. “Paid and released.”
James leaned forward. “Where did he go.”
The solicitor shook his head. “That I do not know.”
James straightened, frustration flickering through him. “You know more than you are saying.”
“I swear I do not,” the man insisted. “I was only told to facilitate the arrangement.”
Roderick sighed as they stepped back into the street. “A dead end.”
“No,” James said. “A direction.”
They spent the remainder of the day chasing Fenwick.
By midafternoon, they had convinced themselves they were close. Fenwick had been present at the ball. Fenwick had connections. Fenwick had debts.
“This makes sense,” Roderick said as they reviewed their notes in a cramped tavern room. “He needed money. He knew the household. He had access.”
James nodded, though something unsettled him. “It is almost too neat.”
Roderick frowned. “You would prefer chaos.”
“I would prefer truth,” James replied.
By nightfall, the certainty had unraveled.
Fenwick was in Bath on the night of the ball. Witnessed. Documented. Annoyingly innocent.
Roderick stared at the ledger in disbelief. “Damn it.”
James closed his eyes briefly. “We followed what we wanted to see.”
The second day began with restraint.
They returned to Blackmere and spread everything out across James’s study. Letters. Names. Dates. Movements.
“Start again,” Roderick said. “From the beginning.”
James nodded. “Harrowby hires a temporary footman. He pays well. The man disappears afterward.”
“And Harrowby claims it was necessity,” Roderick said. “One night only.”
James tapped the desk. “Which means the man was not meant to be remembered.”
“Or questioned,” Roderick added.
They reconsidered every assumption.
“Who benefits?” Roderick asked.
James answered without hesitation. “The man who knew my parents’ habits.”
“Which Harrowby did,” Roderick said.
“And so did others,” James replied.
They traced the guest list again. Who arrived early. Who lingered. Who left abruptly.
“Carlisle,” Roderick said. “He left before the final set.”
James shook his head. “He always does.”
“What about the driver?” Roderick asked.
James stilled. “Which driver.”
“The carriage,” Roderick said. “Your parents’ carriage.”
James’s pulse quickened. “The driver was changed.”
“Yes,” Roderick said. “Illness. Sudden. Convenient.”
James stood. “Why did we not follow that sooner.”
“Because we assumed the footman mattered more,” Roderick replied.
James paced. “The driver controlled timing. Access. Escape.”
“And the footman,” Roderick said slowly, “was cover.”
They felt closer again.
By the third day, the trail had cooled.
They questioned the driver’s replacement only to find he had been hired through the same obscure channels. No records. No lasting ties.
James slammed his hand against the desk. “Someone is controlling the flow.”
Roderick watched him carefully. “You have not slept.”
“I do not need sleep,” James snapped.
“You do,” Roderick replied. “You are seeing patterns because you want them.”
James turned on him. “You think I am imagining this.”
“I think you are spiraling,” Roderick said calmly. “There is a difference.”
James raked a hand through his hair. “I cannot stop now.”
“You can,” Roderick said. “And you should.”
James scoffed. “While the man responsible walks free.”
“While you burn yourself out,” Roderick countered. “You are not thinking clearly.”
James stared at the papers. “Every moment I stop feels like betrayal.”
Roderick’s voice softened. “You are allowed to rest.”
“I am not,” James replied. “They did not get that luxury.”
Silence settled between them.
Roderick exhaled. “You are becoming obsessed.”
James did not deny it.
“You are chasing your own shadow now,” Roderick continued. “Every lead feels urgent because you need it to be.”
James’s jaw tightened. “What would you have me do.”
“Pause,” Roderick said. “Step back. Reenter society. Observe instead of interrogate.”
James laughed without humor. “You want me to attend dinners.”
“I want you to breathe,” Roderick replied. “And to stop frightening everyone around you.”
James looked away.
Roderick added quietly, “Including your wife.”
The words struck deeper than any accusation.
James said nothing.
Roderick gathered the papers. “We take a break.”
James watched him. “And if the trail goes cold.”
“It already has,” Roderick said. “That is why we change tactics.”
James clenched his fists. He hated the idea. Hated the stillness it implied.
But deep down, he knew Roderick was right.
He knew they were no longer chasing the villain.
He knew they were chasing exhaustion.
“No.”
The word left James before he could temper it.
Roderick paused with a stack of papers in his hands, one brow lifting. “No?”
“No,” James repeated, sharper this time. “We do not take a break.”
Roderick set the papers down with deliberate calm. “James, you have not slept in three nights. You are chasing whatever glitters.”
“I am chasing the man who murdered my parents,” James snapped. “And you are standing in my study telling me to breathe. We are running out of time!”
Roderick’s expression tightened. “I know that, very well, James, but I am telling you to think.”
“I am thinking,” James said, though the words tasted like ash.
Roderick stepped closer, voice steady. “You are not. You are reacting. There is a difference.”
James turned away, pacing the length of the room. The fire had burned low. Even the house felt tired, as if it had grown weary of being dragged along with him.
“You do not understand,” James said.
“I understand more than you want,” Roderick replied.
James stopped near the window, staring out at Blackmere’s grounds, at the bare trees and the long drive that felt like a path leading nowhere. “I will not go home.”
Roderick’s voice softened, but it did not yield. “You are home.”
James laughed without humor. “No. Not until it is done.”
Roderick folded his arms. “And what does done look like to you?”
James’s jaw tightened. “Justice.”
“That is a fine word,” Roderick said quietly. “It can mean many things.”
James turned back to him. “Do not turn philosophical.”
“I am not,” Roderick replied. “I am asking you what you intend.”
James’s patience snapped.
“I intend to make him pay,” James said. “I intend to make him regret that he ever touched my family.”
Roderick held his gaze. “And if the law cannot.”
James’s throat tightened. He should have stopped. He should have kept it contained.
The truth settled in his chest, sharp enough that he shifted his weight, as though discomfort might loosen its grip if he moved.
“Then I will,” James said.
Silence hit the room like a physical force.
Roderick did not flinch, but something sharpened in his eyes. “Say it properly.”
James’s hands clenched at his sides. “I will never return to London as a man who simply endured it. I will not sit in that house, in that title, and pretend my parents’ blood was the price of inheritance.”
Roderick’s voice was low. “James.”
“I am ready to kill him myself if I must,” James said, the confession ripping out of him like a wound. “If that is what it takes to end it.”
Roderick’s face went still. “Do you hear yourself?”
James’s chest heaved once. “I hear myself perfectly.”
“No,” Roderick said, firm now. “You hear your grief. You hear your rage. That is not the same as hearing your reason.”
James stepped forward. “Do not lecture me.”
“I will,” Roderick replied, unyielding. “Because I am the only man in this world who can tell you the truth without fearing you.”
James stared at him, jaw tight.
Roderick’s voice softened again, but his words cut cleaner. “You think you are talking about justice. You are talking about vengeance.”
James swallowed. “What is the difference.”
“The difference,” Roderick said, “is whether it makes you a man your mother would still recognize.”
The room went quiet.
James looked away first.
He felt the ache behind his eyes. The pressure of exhaustion. The way anger became easier than mourning because mourning required stillness.
Roderick stepped closer, not touching, but near enough that James could not pretend he was alone. “Tell me the truth,” he said. “What else is driving you?”
James’s mouth tightened. “Everything.”
Roderick waited.
James forced the words out through clenched teeth. “Eleanor.”
Roderick blinked. “Eleanor?”
James turned his face toward the window again. “If I do not finish this, I cannot protect her.”
Roderick’s tone sharpened. “Protect her from what?”
James hesitated, then said the thing he had not allowed himself to voice clearly. “From being used.”
Roderick’s brow furrowed. “Used how?”