Chapter 33
Blackmere Park looked unchanged from the drive.
The same sweeping lawns. The same hedgerows cut with discipline. The same imposing stone facade that seemed designed to intimidate the world into obedience.
And yet Eleanor felt as though she were returning to a different place.
James rode beside her in silence, the road damp beneath their horses’ hooves. The constables who had escorted Lady Whitcombe were already far behind, transporting their prisoner toward town. The adrenaline of the pursuit had faded into something heavier.
Relief, yes.
But also the dawning realization that catching Lady Whitcombe had not erased what had happened. It had only named it.
As they approached the drive, Eleanor saw movement near the front steps. A cluster of men in dark coats. The glint of buckles. A familiar uniform.
Constables.
Her stomach tightened.
James’s posture stiffened beside her. “What is this?”
Eleanor’s voice went tight. “I do not know.”
They dismounted quickly. James handed off his reins with a sharp instruction that was obeyed at once, then strode toward the steps. Eleanor followed, her skirts still marked with mud at the hem.
Before they reached the door, a shout rose from the entry hall.
“No! I have done nothing!”
Eleanor froze.
The voice belonged to someone she recognized. Not a family member. Not a guest.
Staff.
A constable emerged into view, dragging a man forward by the arm. Another followed close behind.
The man’s face was pale with panic. His eyes darted wildly.
Eleanor recognized him at once. Mr. Caldwell, the underbutler. A man who had always spoken in quiet tones, always present but never intrusive, always precisely where he was meant to be.
James stopped short. “Caldwell?”
Caldwell’s eyes snapped to him. “Your Grace, I swear, I did nothing. This is madness.”
The constable tightened his grip. “He can swear it to the magistrate.”
Eleanor’s breath caught. The betrayal was not yet fully real. She had lived among these people, trusted them with her safety, her privacy, her sister’s sleep.
James’s voice was cold. “What proof do you have?”
The constable nodded toward the hall. “A note intercepted in the kitchen boy’s possession, delivered from this man. And a key found in his coat. The key to the Duchess’s corridor door.”
Eleanor’s stomach turned.
Caldwell’s face twisted in desperation. “It was planted. I was ordered to carry messages, that is all.”
James stepped closer, his gaze hard. “By whom?”
Caldwell’s mouth opened. Closed.
The constable gave a curt nod to his men, and Caldwell was pulled away.
Eleanor felt James’s hand brush her elbow, steadying her as they stepped into the entry hall.
Inside, the air was thick with raised voices and the sharp scent of cold air that had been dragged in with them. Servants hovered at the edges, pale and frightened, hands clasped tightly as if they could hold themselves together through discipline alone.
Eleanor’s eyes swept the scene and landed on Arabella.
Her sister stood near the foot of the stairs, wrapped in a warm shawl, her bruised temple still faintly visible but her posture upright, alert, and very much awake. Beside her stood Aunt Frances, composed as ever, her expression grimly satisfied.
Arabella’s face brightened the moment she saw Eleanor.
“You missed it,” Arabella announced.
Eleanor blinked. “Missed what?”
Arabella grinned. “Everything.”
Aunt Frances stepped forward, her voice calm. “You returned at an excellent time. The worst of it is already done.”
James’s gaze flicked around. “Where is Roderick?”
Arabella’s grin widened. “Oh, he is here.”
James frowned. “Where?”
Arabella pointed upward. “Upstairs. Trying not to die.”
Eleanor stared. “Trying not to die?”
Aunt Frances’s mouth twitched. “In a manner of speaking.”
A loud voice echoed from the staircase.
“This is torture.”
Eleanor’s head snapped up.
Roderick appeared at the top of the stairs, one hand gripping the railing, the other holding his side as though he had been stabbed.
He was wearing one of Eleanor’s day dresses.
Not a plain one. One that had been tailored precisely to Eleanor’s figure, with a fitted bodice and a high neckline, the sort that made breathing a conscious choice.
The sight was so absurd that Eleanor forgot, for one stunned heartbeat, that her home had been violated.
Roderick took one step downward and nearly tripped.
Arabella clapped her hands softly. “Careful, Duchess.”
Roderick shot her a murderous look. “Do not call me that.”
Arabella’s eyes sparkled. “But you wear it so well.”
James stared at his cousin as though the world had gone mad. “Roderick?”
Roderick huffed. “Yes. It is me. Do not stare. I can barely breathe.”
Eleanor’s voice came out strangled between disbelief and exhaustion. “Why are you wearing my dress?”
“Because your husband is a lunatic,” Roderick snapped, though he pointed the accusation at James with only half conviction.
James’s jaw tightened. “Do not.”
Roderick took another step down, grimacing. “It should be a crime for women to dress like this.”
Arabella’s tone was delighted. “And yet you endured it. Very gallant.”
Roderick glared. “You are enjoying this far too much.”
“I have been injured,” Arabella said solemnly, then ruined it with a smile. “I deserve entertainment.”
Roderick muttered something under his breath and continued down the stairs, moving with exaggerated caution. Every step made the dress shift in ways it was not meant to on a man, and the absurdity of it made Eleanor’s eyes sting with an unexpected laugh she refused to let out.
James stepped forward, voice hard. “Enough. Tell me what happened.”
Roderick reached the bottom step and stopped, breathing carefully. “Your plan worked. Mostly.”
Eleanor’s brows lifted. “My plan?”
Roderick’s gaze slid to her. “Do not look innocent. You agreed to this.”
Eleanor glanced at James. He was watching Roderick closely, but his hand remained lightly against Eleanor’s back, steadying her in a way that made her pulse shift.
Aunt Frances spoke before Eleanor could. “After breakfast two mornings ago, Roderick exchanged clothes with Eleanor.”
James’s jaw tightened. “I told him it was necessary.”
“It was theatrical,” Roderick corrected. “There is a difference.”
Arabella nodded enthusiastically. “It was extraordinary.”
Eleanor stared. “You wore my clothes all day?”
Roderick grimaced. “Do not remind me. I have never appreciated a waistcoat more in my life.”
Arabella’s eyes shone. “He stood by the window and posed like a tragic heroine.”
“I did not pose,” Roderick snapped.
“You did,” Arabella insisted. “You kept sighing.”
“I did not sigh,” Roderick said.
Aunt Frances lifted a brow. “You did sigh.”
Roderick glared at all of them. “You are all conspiring against me.”
James’s voice cut in. “Roderick.”
Roderick exhaled. “Fine. I stayed. I remained visible enough that any watching eyes would report that the Duchess was home.”
Eleanor’s throat tightened. “And the spy?”
Roderick nodded once, the humor fading. “He came.”
Arabella’s voice quieted, though excitement still flickered beneath it. “We heard movement outside. The sort of careful step a servant thinks no one will question.”
Eleanor’s stomach turned. “Caldwell.”
Aunt Frances nodded. “Yes.”
Roderick’s expression hardened. “He believed he was entering to frighten or harm the Duchess. He did not expect the Duchess to meet him with a man’s grip and a willingness to break his nose.”
Arabella beamed. “He was very convincing.”
Roderick’s eyes narrowed. “Do you want me to thank you for that?”
Arabella smiled sweetly. “Yes.”
The house slowly exhaled.
One by one, the constables departed, Caldwell taken away with his head bowed and his hands bound. Servants were dismissed to their duties with shaken expressions and whispered questions that would take days to quiet.
Aunt Frances declared that she required tea and retreated with the authority of a woman who had survived far worse scandals than this one.
Arabella was escorted upstairs by the physician, protesting loudly that she felt perfectly capable of walking on her own and demanding to know whether Roderick intended to return her dress intact.
Eventually, even Roderick was shooed away, still grumbling about corsetry and dignity as he disappeared down the corridor in borrowed trousers at last.
And then there was silence.
Not the tense silence of before, not the kind that bristled with fear and uncertainty, but something softer. Something tentative.
Eleanor stood in the center of the drawing room, suddenly aware of the ache in her limbs, the faint sting at her throat, the way exhaustion had crept up on her now that she no longer needed to be sharp. The fire crackled quietly. Outside, dusk was beginning to settle over the grounds.
James stood a few steps away from her.
He looked at her as if she might vanish if he moved too quickly.
“You are safe,” he said at last.
Eleanor nodded. “Yes.”
“I should have been here,” he continued, his voice low. “I should never have left you.”
“You came back,” Eleanor replied. “When it mattered.”
His jaw tightened. “Too late.”
“No,” she said gently. “In time.”
James hesitated, his hands curling slightly at his sides as though he did not trust them. “I do not know how to stand in a room with you now that there is nothing to chase.”
Eleanor’s lips curved faintly. “You could start by standing closer.”
He did not move.
Eleanor studied him for a moment, taking in the strain in his posture, the way he seemed to hold himself apart by force of will alone.
This man who had crossed counties in pursuit of justice, who had faced the woman responsible for destroying his family without flinching, now looked uncertain of how to take three steps toward his wife.
She smiled.
It was small. Unassuming. But it carried every unspoken thing between them.
“Well,” Eleanor said lightly, though her heart was pounding, “now that everything is over, I will keep my promise.”