Chapter 27 #2
“The man who killed my parents did it because he wanted something,” James said. “Power. Access. Control. He will not stop simply because I married.”
Roderick studied him. “And you believe Eleanor is in danger.”
James’s chest tightened. “She is my wife.”
“That is not an answer,” Roderick said. “Do you believe she is in danger?”
James held his gaze. “Yes.”
Roderick exhaled. “Why did you not say that sooner?”
James’s mouth hardened. “Because it sounds like weakness.”
“It sounds like love,” Roderick corrected.
James flinched as if struck.
“Do not,” James said harshly.
Roderick did not back down. “You did not care about anyone’s safety when you started this. You cared about punishment. Now you are speaking about her like she is the only thing keeping you upright.”
James swallowed hard. “That is not true.”
Roderick’s expression was quietly relentless. “Is it not?”
James’s mind betrayed him. Eleanor at Blackmere’s gates, steadying Arabella’s hand. Eleanor in the kitchen, eyes bright with defiance. Eleanor in the attic, thumb against his cheek, forgiving him when he did not deserve it.
His stomach tightened with a fear he had not known existed before her. Not fear of death. Fear of loss.
“I did not expect her,” James admitted, voice low.
Roderick nodded once. “There it is.”
James’s jaw tightened. “I care about her safety more than revenge now.”
The words landed like a verdict.
He hated them for their truth. He hated them for what they revealed.
Roderick’s voice gentled. “That does not make you weak.”
“It makes me compromised,” James said.
“It makes you human,” Roderick replied, echoing Eleanor’s words without knowing it.
James looked away quickly, as if the room itself might judge him for remembering.
He forced his tone colder. “We are not discussing her.”
Roderick’s brows lifted. “You just did.”
“I should not have,” James snapped.
Roderick watched him for a moment, then nodded. “Fine. We will discuss tactics.”
James exhaled sharply. “Yes.”
Roderick moved back to the desk and began stacking papers in a different order. “We have been chasing the wrong thread. We are looking at men in service positions and trying to find motive.”
James frowned. “And that is wrong.”
“It is incomplete,” Roderick replied. “Servants can be bribed. They can be coerced. But they are rarely the architects. We need to identify the employer behind the employer.”
James’s pulse quickened despite himself. “Meaning?”
“Meaning we stop asking who held the knife,” Roderick said, tapping a paper. “We ask who paid for it.”
James went still. “And you think you can find that.”
“Yes,” Roderick replied.
“By tomorrow?” James demanded, disbelief sharp in his voice.
Roderick met his gaze. “By tomorrow.”
James scoffed. “You are indulging me.”
“I am saving you,” Roderick corrected. “And yes, I am helping you do it as fast as possible. Before you do something irreparable.”
James’s jaw tightened. “Do not speak to me like I am unhinged.”
Roderick’s voice was calm. “Are you not?”
James had no answer that did not sound like a lie.
Roderick continued, firm now. “I will speak with Harrowby if I must. I will speak with his steward. I will speak with anyone who has a ledger and a mouth. Someone will break. They always do.”
“And if they do not?” James asked.
Roderick’s eyes sharpened. “Then I will make them uncomfortable enough to wish they had.”
James stared at him. “You make it sound simple.”
“It is not simple,” Roderick said. “It is methodical. Which you cannot be right now, because you are exhausted.”
James dragged a hand over his face. His skin felt too tight. His bones too heavy.
Roderick pointed toward the door. “Go to bed.”
James’s laugh was strained. “I will lie there staring at the ceiling.”
“Then lie there,” Roderick said. “At least you will not be riding into the night and frightening innkeepers.”
James hesitated.
Roderick’s voice softened, almost brotherly. “You want justice. You want her safe. Then you must be alive and clear-headed enough to accomplish both.”
James’s chest tightened. The truth was there, unavoidable. He could not keep doing this without breaking something. If not himself, then Eleanor. Then the house. Then the very goal he claimed to serve.
“Fine,” James said at last. “I will sleep.”
Roderick nodded once, satisfied. “Good.”
James moved toward the door, then stopped. “If you do not have a name by tomorrow…”
“I will,” Roderick said, immediate and certain.
James studied him. “You are confident.”
Roderick’s mouth curved faintly. “I am desperate to avoid watching you destroy yourself.”
James turned away, irritation and gratitude tangled together in a way he did not want to examine.
As he climbed the stairs, his body heavy with fatigue, doubt followed him like a shadow.
Roderick was clever, yes. Sharp. Relentless.
But a name and an address by tomorrow?
James did not believe in miracles.
And yet, as he reached his bedchamber and closed the door, he found himself doing something he had not done in days.
He lay down.
He closed his eyes.
And let exhaustion carry him to a deep sleep while someone else carried the weight of the investigation.