Chapter 32 #2
Lady Whitcombe’s eyes glittered. “Family.”
“Yes,” James said. “My father. My mother. Their deaths.”
Lady Whitcombe’s mouth curled. “You ask why as if men do not make their own enemies by existing.”
James’s jaw tightened. “Answer the question.”
She drew herself up, the wind tugging at her cloak as if the very air resented her. “I did what men do for a living,” she said. “I took what I could from those who had everything.”
Roderick was not there, not today, but James felt the constables shift behind him, uneasy at the tone of her confession.
James kept his voice controlled. “You seduced my father.”
Lady Whitcombe’s laugh was cold. “Seduced? Is that what you call it?”
Eleanor’s fingers tightened on her reins.
Lady Whitcombe’s eyes flicked to Eleanor, then back to James. “All your father needed was a strong drink and an opportunity. He embarrassed himself happily.”
James felt something sick twist in his stomach.
“He was drunk,” James said, forcing the words through his teeth.
“He was willing,” Lady Whitcombe corrected. “That is what matters. Men always say they were tempted. They never say they chose.”
James’s grip tightened around the pistol, though he had no intention of raising it. Not now. Not with Eleanor here. Not with constables behind him.
“You tried to blackmail him,” James said.
“Yes,” Lady Whitcombe replied, unbothered. “I tried to be paid for my silence. I was young. I was clever. I saw an easy arrangement.” Her eyes narrowed. “And your noble father threw me out like refuse.”
James’s voice went colder. “Because you threatened my mother.”
Lady Whitcombe’s lips pressed together. “I threatened him. I threatened his comfortable life. His pristine marriage. His precious reputation.”
James stepped forward a fraction. “And when he refused to pay?”
Lady Whitcombe’s eyes were like daggers. “Then I decided he should learn what it feels like to be afraid.”
Eleanor’s voice cut in, steady and sharp. “So you hired someone.”
Lady Whitcombe looked at her again, irritated by the interruption. “Yes. I sent a man to frighten him. That is all. To remind him that he did not get to use me and then discard me without consequence.”
James’s throat tightened. “And that man killed them.”
Lady Whitcombe’s gaze held his, and for the first time there was a flicker of something like annoyance at being questioned, as if James were refusing to understand the version of events she preferred.
“I did not order their deaths,” she said. “I ordered fear.”
James’s voice dropped. “And yet they were killed.”
Her expression hardened. “Because your mother interfered.”
James felt heat rise, blinding and violent. “Do not speak of my mother like she was an inconvenience.”
Her smile turned cruel. “Women who stand up for their husbands are the same as their men. They wrap themselves in a man’s power and pretend it is virtue.”
Eleanor’s eyes flashed with fury then.
James could not speak for a moment. The world narrowed to the sound of his own breath and the image of his mother in that hallway, turning toward danger because his father was behind her.
He tasted blood where his teeth had cut the inside of his cheek.
“You murdered her,” James said, each word tight.
Lady Whitcombe lifted her chin. “She died because she defended him.”
James felt something inside him snap, not into violence, but into a cold, lethal clarity.
He took one step forward.
The constable nearest to Lady Whitcombe shifted, preparing.
Eleanor moved first.
The sound of the slap cut through the air like a whip.
Lady Whitcombe’s head jerked to the side. Her hair loosened slightly. She staggered, nearly losing her balance in the mud.
For a heartbeat, everything went still.
James stared at Eleanor.
Eleanor’s face was heated with fury as she straightened with pristine elegance, her voice was as controlled as if they were all sitting together at tea. “My husband may have told you that he would never strike a woman, but I never promised such a thing.” Venom was wrapped around every syllable.
Lady Whitcombe touched her cheek, blinking in disbelief. The shock on her face lasted only a moment before it twisted into rage.
“You dare,” she lashed out, her eyes now wild.
Eleanor’s voice remained steady. “I do, and I will again.”
James felt the surge of anger inside him shift, pulled into focus by Eleanor’s action.
The slap had not been merely insult.
It had been interruption.
It had stopped him from crossing the line he had teetered on for years.
James exhaled slowly, then turned toward the constables.
“Arrest her,” he said, voice firm. “For conspiracy, for attempted murder, and for the murders of the late Duke and Duchess of Langford.”
Lady Whitcombe’s eyes widened, and for the first time, fear crept into her expression.
“You cannot prove it,” she snapped, but the confidence had thinned.
James met her gaze. “You just confessed.”
Lady Whitcombe’s mouth tightened. “To what? To a mistake? To a drunken night? That is not murder.”
James’s voice was cold. “You hired a man to threaten the late Duke. You threatened to ruin him. You set violence in motion and pretended you could control it. You do not get to call that anything, but what it is.”
The constables stepped forward.
Lady Whitcombe backed up a fraction, then forced herself still, lifting her chin as if dignity could protect her from iron shackles.
Eleanor did not look away.
The constable reached for Lady Whitcombe’s arm. “Ma’am, come with us.”
Lady Whitcombe’s gaze flicked to James, then Eleanor, hatred sharp enough to cut.
“You think you have won,” she hissed.
James’s expression did not change. “I think you will face the consequences you avoided for too long.”
Lady Whitcombe’s lips curled. “Men always think themselves righteous when they finally do what women have been forced to do in silence.”
James stepped closer, voice quiet and final. “Do not mistake punishment for righteousness. This is justice. And you will not escape it.”
Lady Whitcombe was taken, her wrists bound, the constables moving her toward their horses.
Mud splashed at her hem. She flinched.
Eleanor’s shoulders loosened slightly, but James saw the tension still in her hands, the grip she kept on the reins as if she were holding herself together by sheer discipline.
James turned toward her, his voice low enough that only she could hear.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
Eleanor looked at him, eyes bright with unshed tears and fierce relief. “Ask me tomorrow.”
James nodded once, understanding.
He reached up and briefly touched her boot, a small gesture of grounding. “You were brave.”
Eleanor swallowed. “So were you.”
James held her gaze for a moment longer than he should have in front of others.
Lady Whitcombe was finally moving away from them, finally leaving their lives.
But James knew the story was not finished yet.
Because justice was not only arresting the mastermind.
It was also finding the man she had paid inside his own household.
“We must away back to Blackmere,” he said roughly.
“Yes,” she said with certainty, and they both mounted their horses and rode back to their home.