Chapter 32
Eleanor had never enjoyed riding at speed.
There was too much wind, too much uncertainty, too much reliance on the temperament of an animal that could not be reasoned with. She preferred carriages and steady roads and the illusion of control.
Today, she rode like she had been born to it.
Her mare’s breath came in sharp bursts as they kept to the narrow lane, hooves striking wet ground with a rhythm that felt like urgency made physical.
Eleanor’s cloak whipped behind her, the hood drawn up to hide her hair and the shape of her face.
From a distance, she could pass for a man.
Or at least for someone not worth studying closely.
James rode ahead, angled slightly left, his posture rigid with focus. Another rider kept pace on the opposite side.
If one glanced quickly, one might assume that rider was Roderick.
It was not.
It was Eleanor.
She had insisted. She had argued. She had held her ground until James had finally consented, jaw tight, eyes fierce with reluctance.
“You listen to me,” he had told her the night they planned it. “You do not improvise.”
“I will not be reckless,” Eleanor had promised.
James had stared at her as if trying to decide whether she was brave or mad. Perhaps both.
Now, as the carriage appeared ahead through a break in the hedgerows, Eleanor understood why he had not wanted her here.
Because everything in her wanted to surge forward and end it herself.
“There,” James called, voice cutting through the wind.
Eleanor’s eyes narrowed. The carriage was dark, travel-worn, its wheels throwing mud as it pushed down the lane. Two outriders flanked it, both armed. It moved with the urgency of someone not taking a scenic route.
Lady Whitcombe was running.
Behind them, the sound of pounding hooves grew louder. Eleanor glanced back once and saw the constables, a small group, riding hard, cloaks snapping. Their presence steadied something in her. This was not simply vengeance. This was law.
James angled his horse, closing the gap.
“Stop them,” he commanded, not turning his head.
Eleanor’s stomach tightened. His voice had the same tone it carried in his study, sharp and absolute. It did not infuriate her today. It reassured her.
The outriders noticed them. One turned his head and shouted something Eleanor could not hear over the wind. The carriage lurched faster.
James cursed under his breath.
Eleanor leaned forward, urging her mare on. “We will not reach them before the next bend.”
“We will,” James replied, voice clipped.
“How?” Eleanor called.
James did not answer directly. He glanced toward the hedgerow and then toward the narrow ditch running alongside the lane.
Eleanor understood with sudden clarity. He intended to force the carriage to slow.
How could I not see his plan sooner?
“James,” she called sharply. “Do not!”
He looked back just enough to meet her eyes. “Stay behind.”
Eleanor’s jaw tightened. “No.”
James’s expression darkened. “Eleanor.”
“Do you want her caught,” Eleanor demanded, “or do you want to argue?”
James’s jaw flexed. Then he turned forward again, focus sharpened.
The constables closed behind them, spreading slightly to keep the carriage from slipping away if it took a sudden turn.
James shouted, “In the name of the King, stop!”
The carriage did not stop.
The outrider on the right drew something from his belt, perhaps a pistol.
Eleanor’s blood chilled.
James swerved, keeping his horse between the outrider and the rider he believed to be Roderick, which was to say Eleanor. The movement was protective and infuriating at once.
“You will get yourself killed,” Eleanor shouted.
James did not look back. “Then stay where I told you.”
Eleanor’s breath came hard. “You cannot command me.”
“I can,” James snapped, voice raw with strain. “I can because I cannot watch you die.”
The words hit her like a blow.
Before she could answer, the lane bent sharply, and the carriage slowed just slightly to take it.
James seized the moment.
He urged his horse forward, closing the gap so quickly Eleanor felt her heart leap. He reached out and grabbed the leather strap at the back of the carriage, hauling himself alongside it. The movement was reckless, stunning, and utterly James.
“Stop!” he shouted again.
The carriage rocked. The driver cracked the reins harder.
Eleanor’s mare surged. Eleanor rode up alongside the other outrider, the one who had not drawn a weapon yet.
“Move,” Eleanor commanded, her voice sharp.
The outrider stared at her as if startled by her tone. Or perhaps by the fact that someone under a cloak had the audacity to speak to him at all.
“You are making a mistake,” the man shouted.
Eleanor’s voice went colder. “So is your mistress.”
The man cursed and tried to angle his horse to block her.
Eleanor leaned forward and swung her riding crop, striking his wrist hard enough to make him yelp. His hand jerked. He lost his grip on the reins for a moment, and that moment was enough.
Eleanor darted past him.
The carriage was slowing now. Not by choice, but because James had forced its rhythm. The constables closed in behind, their presence impossible to ignore.
At last, the carriage lurched to a stop.
Dust and mud settled in the air.
Eleanor pulled her mare in, reins tight, heart pounding so hard she could taste it.
James dismounted at once, pistol in hand, his posture rigid with readiness. The constables approached quickly, weapons drawn.
For a heartbeat, nothing moved.
Then the carriage door opened.
Lady Whitcombe stepped out as if she were arriving at a garden party.
Her gown was travel-worn but still fine, her hair pinned neatly, her gloved hands steady. She glanced around at the mud, the horses, the armed men, and smiled.
“Your Grace,” she said brightly. “How diligent you are.”
James did not lower his pistol. “Lady Whitcombe.”
She sighed as though bored. “I do wish men would stop pretending they understand consequences.”
One of the constables stepped forward. “Ma’am, you are under arrest.”
Lady Whitcombe looked at him with mild amusement. “Am I? For what, precisely?”
“For conspiracy,” the constable said.
Lady Whitcombe laughed softly. “Conspiracy. Such a grand word for survival.”
James’s voice was cold. “You sent a man to my home.”
Lady Whitcombe’s eyes glittered. “I sent a man to remind you that you are not as powerful as you believe.”
James’s jaw tightened. “You will answer for it.”
Lady Whitcombe tilted her head. “To you? Or to the law? Which do you prefer, Your Grace?”
James’s grip tightened. “To both.”
Lady Whitcombe’s smile widened. “You truly are a fool. Just like all men.”
James did not react.
Lady Whitcombe stepped forward slightly, careful not to cross into the constables’ immediate reach, as if she were conducting the scene rather than trapped within it.
“You have made the same mistake twice now,” she said. “You think you can contain me. You think you can protect her.”
James’s voice went dangerously quiet. “Do not speak of my wife.”
Lady Whitcombe’s eyes gleamed. “Why not? She is the weakest point in your armor.”
Eleanor’s hands tightened on the reins beneath her cloak.
Lady Whitcombe continued, voice almost conversational. “Your duchess will never be safe. Not while you live. Not while she wears your name.”
James’s mouth curved into something that was not a smile so much as a promise.
“Are you threatening her again?” James asked.
Lady Whitcombe’s eyes narrowed. “I am telling you what you cannot stop.”
James nodded slowly. “Then perhaps we should ask her if she feels threatened.”
Lady Whitcombe blinked. “What?”
James lifted his chin slightly, gesturing toward the rider in the cloak.
Lady Whitcombe turned, dismissive at first, then curious.
Eleanor drew her mare forward two paces and then dismounted.
The wind caught her cloak as she did, and it billowed wildly behind her as she neared James and Lady Whitcombe.
Slowly, with each step she took, Eleanor reached up and pushed the hood back, revealing her face.
Lady Whitcombe’s expression changed.
Surprise flashed first, then something darker. Calculation. Anger.
Eleanor met her gaze, her voice steady.
“Good afternoon, Lady Whitcombe,” Eleanor said. “Do you feel threatened now?”
Lady Whitcombe stared at Eleanor as if the world had tilted beneath her feet.
For the first time since James had encountered her in that ruined estate, her composure cracked. Not fully, not in panic, but in the sharp, offended way of a woman who had believed herself untouchable.
“You,” she said, voice tight. “You are here.”
Eleanor stood with calm authority, chin lifted, and a steady set to her shoulders.
Lady Whitcombe’s gaze flicked past her, scanning the lane as if expecting another figure to ride out of the hedgerows.
“Then who is at Blackmere Park?” Lady Whitcombe demanded. “Who is the Duchess of Langford in your bedchamber?”
James’s mouth curved. It was not quite a smile, but it held satisfaction.
“The Duchess of Langford is right here,” James said.
Lady Whitcombe’s lips parted, and then her expression twisted into fury.
“You think this is clever,” she hissed. “You think deceiving a woman is a triumph.”
Eleanor’s voice was even. “You threatened me.”
Lady Whitcombe ignored her, eyes locked on James. “This is what men do. They lie, they trick, they manipulate. They think themselves righteous while they set snares.”
James kept his pistol lowered now, though he did not put it away. “You want to speak about manipulation?”
Lady Whitcombe’s laugh was far from humorous. “None of you are exceptions. Not dukes. Not cousins. Not husbands who pretend to love and then leave.”
James felt Eleanor’s gaze on him. It did not accuse. It did not excuse. It simply existed, steady and present, reminding him that whatever Lady Whitcombe said would land somewhere between them.
He forced his attention back to the woman before him.
“Why?” James asked, voice low. “Why did you do this to my family?”