Chapter 29
The road narrowed as the estate came into view, the long drive stretching ahead of them like a scar through the overgrown grounds. Their horses slowed naturally, hooves crunching against gravel that had not been properly laid in years.
“You could have waited until morning,” James said, his voice rough.
Roderick glanced at him. “I did.”
James shot him a look. “You woke me.”
“Yes,” Roderick replied without apology. “Because you were finally asleep and I had just found something that would not wait.”
James exhaled through his nose. “You enjoy this far too much.”
“I enjoy not watching you destroy yourself,” Roderick said evenly. “When I saw the payment ledger, I knew we were done circling.”
James frowned. “The ledger from Harrowby’s steward?”
“From the man above him,” Roderick said. “Someone who prefers properties no one claims and debts no one traces.”
James’s gaze lifted toward the house ahead, the silhouette jagged against the sky. “So you followed the money.”
“I followed fear,” Roderick replied. “This address appeared twice in accounts that should never have intersected.”
James’s jaw tightened. “And you were certain enough to drag me out of bed.”
Roderick nodded. “Certain enough to risk your temper.”
James was silent for a moment, then said quietly, “If you are wrong.”
“I am not,” Roderick said.
James’s eyes remained fixed on the estate. “Then whoever is inside has been waiting.”
“And so have we,” Roderick replied.
“And this is the place?” James kept his voice low.
Bare hedges pressed close on either side, the branches reaching like fingers toward the road. The sky was the color of pewter, and the wind carried the damp chill.
Roderick rode beside him, cloak pulled tight. “As certain as I can be without dragging the owner into the open.”
James glanced at the sagging gate ahead. “This is not an estate. This is a ruin.”
“That is why it is useful,” Roderick replied. “No one watches what they assume is already dead.”
James dismounted before the gate and studied the property beyond it. The house sat back from the lane, dark and oddly still, ivy choking sections of stone. Several windowpanes were broken. The grounds had not been tended in years.
And yet.
James’s eyes narrowed. “There are tracks.”
Roderick followed his gaze to the muddy slope near the side drive. “Carriage wheels. Recent.”
James pushed the gate. It complained loudly, but it moved. He stepped through, boots sinking into soft earth.
“Who owns this?” he asked.
“Technically,” Roderick said, “a distant cousin of a baronet who died without heirs. It has been tied up in disputes for years. No one lives here.”
James looked toward the house. “Someone is living here.”
They approached in silence, the crunch of gravel underfoot unnaturally loud. James kept one hand near his coat pocket, where he had concealed a small pistol. He did not want to use it. He had begun carrying it anyway.
Roderick glanced at him once. “Do you intend to shoot someone today?”
James did not look away from the house. “I intend to leave with answers.”
“That is not a denial,” Roderick said.
James ignored him.
At the front steps, James paused. The door was shut, but the lock was cheap. A house abandoned long enough would have been stripped. A house that was being used would have been secured. This was neither. It was as if someone wanted it to appear abandoned without fully committing to the lie.
“Ready?” James asked.
Roderick nodded. “Do not do anything foolish.”
James tested the door. It opened easily.
Inside, the air was stale, but not entirely. Not fully dead. There was the faintest trace of smoke, old but present, as if a fire had been laid not long ago. The entry hall was coated with dust, but not evenly. Someone had walked here. Recently.
Roderick moved ahead, scanning. “A candle.”
James followed his gaze to a stub in a brass holder on a side table. Wax dripped down the sides. Not ancient. Not untouched.
“They are here,” James said.
Roderick’s expression tightened. “Careful.”
They moved through the rooms slowly. The parlor had furniture covered in sheets, but one chair was uncovered. A footprint marked the dust near the hearth. The kitchen smelled faintly of broth or boiled meat, as if someone had cooked in haste and left.
James stopped near the pantry. “Bread.”
Roderick leaned in. “Still soft.”
James’s jaw tightened. “Someone left in a hurry.”
Or they wanted us to see it, he thought.
They climbed the stairs, the wood groaning beneath their boots. James held his breath at every creak, listening for movement above.
Nothing.
They reached the landing. A corridor stretched ahead, lined with doors, most hanging open.
Roderick pointed. “That one is shut.”
James nodded. “I see it.”
They approached together. James placed a hand on the knob.
“Wait,” Roderick whispered.
James paused. “Why?”
Roderick’s eyes narrowed. “Because it is too easy.”
James agreed, but his patience was gone. He turned the knob anyway and pushed the door open.
The room beyond was warmer than the rest of the house.
A fire burned low in the grate. The curtains were drawn. A chair sat near the hearth, and in it, as if she had been waiting for an invitation rather than an intrusion, sat Lady Whitcombe.
She looked up at them with an expression of mild amusement.
“Your Grace,” she said calmly. “How punctual.”
James went still.
Roderick’s hand tightened around his walking stick. “Lady Whitcombe.”
She smiled faintly. “Your Grace. I had hoped you would come as well.”
James stepped forward. “Where is he?”
Lady Whitcombe tilted her head. “He?”
“The man who used this house,” James said, voice cold. “The man who murdered my parents.”
Lady Whitcombe did not flinch. “You are direct. That is a quality I admire.”
“You will answer me,” James said.
She lifted one hand slightly, palm up. “Will I?”
James glanced briefly at the room. A small trunk sat near the wall. A cloak hung over a chair. A teapot rested on a side table. It looked like a place prepared for conversation, not hiding.
“You expected us,” James said.
“I did,” Lady Whitcombe replied. “It would have been rude not to.”
Roderick’s voice sharpened. “Why are you here?”
Lady Whitcombe’s gaze slid to him. “Because I am tired of being chased. And because you are finally close enough to deserve a truth.”
James felt a strange chill. “What truth?”
Lady Whitcombe studied him for a long moment, then said softly, “Do you remember me?”
James’s jaw tightened. “You know I do – though if I did not, I saw you leaving our ball.”
Her smile widened slightly. “Yes. With Lord St. George.”
James’s stomach tightened at the name. “Though you found time to introduce yourself to the duchess.”
“I did,” Lady Whitcombe said. “And you looked as though you wanted to strike me as I left.”
James kept his voice controlled. “I would never strike a woman. Even if they deserved it.”
“And yet you have found me here in the house you believe belongs to the man who killed your parents,” she replied. “How determined you are.”
James’s patience snapped. “Enough. Speak plainly.”
She sighed as if indulging a child. “Very well. This is not the first time we have met, Your Grace.”
James frowned. “Like this? Yes. It is.”
She shook her head. “No.”
He took another step forward, his voice like ice. “When?”
Lady Whitcombe’s eyes held his. “When your father took me to his bed.”
Roderick made a sound of disbelief. “That is absurd.”
James went rigid. “You are lying.”
Lady Whitcombe’s expression did not change. “Am I?”
James’s mind rejected it instantly. His father had been many things. Strict. Proud. Controlled. Not the sort of man who kept mistresses. Not the sort of man who would risk scandal.
“No,” James said, voice tight. “You are mistaken.”
“I am not mistaken about the man who held me,” she said.
James felt heat rise, sharp and dangerous. “Say his name.”
“The late Duke of Langford,” she said smoothly.
Roderick stepped closer. “If you repeat that outside this room, you will regret it.”
Lady Whitcombe laughed softly. “Threats. How familiar.”
James stared at her, searching for cracks. For fear. For any sign she was bluffing.
He found none.
Instead, memory flickered. Not clear, but present. A night years ago. Raised voices behind a closed door. His father’s tone angry in a way James had rarely heard. His mother’s voice, sharp and strained.
He had been young, standing at the top of the stairs, listening because he did not yet know how not to.
His father’s voice had carried.
“You will leave,” the Duke had said. “You will be gone by morning.”
A woman’s laugh. Low. Unbothered.
“You cannot send me away after you have had what you wanted,” she had replied.
James’s breath caught.
The memory sharpened.
His mother’s voice, then, brittle with pain. “Get out.”
And his father again, furious, not with his wife, but with the unseen woman. “If you speak of this, I will ruin you.”
The flashback lasted only a heartbeat, but it landed like a blow.
James’s gaze snapped back to Lady Whitcombe.
She watched him with knowing satisfaction. “You remember,” she murmured.
James’s throat tightened. “That was you.”
Lady Whitcombe leaned back in her chair. “Yes.”
Roderick’s expression was tight with disgust. “You are claiming the late duke had an affair with you. For what purpose?”
Her eyes gleamed. “Purpose? It was a night of excellent entertainment.”
James’s voice was hoarse. “My father would not.”
“Oh, but he did,” she said. “One night. That is all it was. And then, like so many men, he decided he did not want the consequences.”
James clenched his jaw. “You planned this.”
Lady Whitcombe’s smile widened. “Of course I did.”
Roderick stepped forward. “Explain yourself.”
Lady Whitcombe folded her hands neatly in her lap. “Your father was drunk. He was charming in that state. Less careful. Easier to guide.”
James’s stomach turned.
“And afterward,” Lady Whitcombe continued, “he sobered and became cruel. He wanted me gone. He wanted silence.”
James’s voice sharpened. “Because you threatened him.”
She tilted her head. “Would you not have?”
Roderick’s tone was hard. “You used him.”
“I used an opportunity,” she corrected, unbothered. “And when he refused to pay, when he refused to protect me, I adjusted my strategy.”
James stared at her. “You are trying to make me believe this was his fault.”
Lady Whitcombe’s gaze was steady. “I am telling you the truth. Men like your father make promises in the dark and deny them in daylight.”
James’s hands clenched at his sides. “You will not speak of him that way.”
“Why? Because he was your father? Because you want him pure?” Her voice sharpened.
James stepped closer, voice low and dangerous. “Because you are twisting this to suit yourself.”
Her eyes gleamed. “Am I? Or are you finally seeing what he truly was?”
James’s pulse hammered in his throat.
Roderick’s voice cut in, urgent. “James. This is a diversion. She is baiting you.”
James did not look away from Lady Whitcombe. “Where is the man we came for?”
Lady Whitcombe’s tone softened into something almost pitying. “Still chasing the villain. Even now.”
James’s jaw tightened. “Answer me!”
Lady Whitcombe held his gaze and said quietly, “You will, Your Grace. Very soon.”
James’s vision tunneled.
The pistol was in his hand before he fully registered the motion, his arm steady, his finger firm on the trigger. Lady Whitcombe did not scream. She did not even flinch.
Instead, she smiled.
“Go on,” she said calmly. “This is what you came for, is it not?”
Roderick turned sharply. “James.”
James did not hear him.
“You will not leave this room alive,” James said, his voice low and shaking with restraint. “You will answer for what you have done.”
Lady Whitcombe tilted her head, studying the gun with mild interest. “You truly believe you have time for that?”
James’s jaw tightened. “I have all the time I need.”
“No,” she said softly. “You have minutes. Perhaps less.”
Roderick stepped closer. “What is she talking about?”
Lady Whitcombe’s gaze slid past the gun, past James, as though she were looking somewhere far more interesting. “You see, Your Grace, you have misunderstood the nature of our conversation.”
James’s finger tightened. “Speak plainly.”
“I have already acted,” she said. “I sent someone this morning.”
James’s breath caught. “Sent someone where?”
“To Blackmere Park,” Lady Whitcombe replied pleasantly. “Your wife is very predictable. She does not lock herself away. She walks. She receives visitors. She sleeps believing herself safe.”
The room seemed to tilt.
Roderick swore under his breath. “You sent a man after the Duchess?”
Lady Whitcombe’s smile sharpened. “I sent a professional. He does not ask questions. He does not hesitate.”
James’s heart slammed against his ribs. “You are lying.”
“Am I?” she asked. “You may stay here and kill me. You will be satisfied. You will finally have blood for blood.”
She gestured vaguely toward the window. “Or you may run. And perhaps arrive in time.”
James’s mind fractured into instinct and terror.
This was it. The moment he had driven himself toward. The clean line between revenge and justice. His father’s face flashed in his mind. His mother’s voice. The weight of the pistol felt like fate.
Then Eleanor.
Eleanor standing at the gates of Blackmere, composed and alone. Eleanor laughing softly over tea. Eleanor asleep beside her sister, believing the world would not dare reach for her again.
His vision blurred.
“James,” Roderick said urgently. “We do not know if she is telling the truth.”
James lowered the gun.
Lady Whitcombe’s features lifted with triumph. “There it is. You do love her.”
James did not answer.
He turned and ran.
Roderick spun after him. “James, wait.”
But James was already moving, already descending the stairs two at a time, the sound of Lady Whitcombe’s laughter echoing behind him.
Roderick hesitated for a single, fatal heartbeat.
When he turned back, Lady Whitcombe was already moving, cloak in hand, slipping out of the room through a hidden passageway with a practiced ease.
“Damn it,” Roderick muttered.
Outside, James tore across the yard, untying his horse with shaking hands. He mounted without care, digging his heels in before the stable boy could speak.
He did not look back.
He did not think.
There was only the road.
Only Blackmere.
Only Eleanor.
And the terrible certainty that if he did not reach her in time, revenge would become the least of his losses.