“For what?”
“For cruelty,” Roderick replied.
James did not answer.
Roderick left, the door closing behind him with a soft finality.
James closed his eyes briefly.
The investigation was tightening.
So was everything else, and it was about to get even tighter.
Moments later, the dressing gong sounded through the house, resonant and commanding.
Dinner.
James exhaled slowly, straightened his coat, and made his way to the dining room.
Eleanor was already seated when he arrived, her posture elegant, her expression composed. She looked up as he entered.
“You are late,” she said mildly.
“Barely,” James replied, taking his place.
Dinner began with the quiet efficiency Blackmere excelled at. Courses were served. Wine poured. The room settled into something almost comfortable.
Eleanor spoke first.
“The modiste was pleased,” she said. “She has had several inquiries already. It seems the ball has accomplished more than we intended.”
James nodded. “You managed it well.”
Dinner unfolded at an unhurried pace, as though the house itself were encouraging restraint.
The first course passed with little conversation, but not discomfort. Eleanor spoke of the callers who had arrived that afternoon, naming them carefully, noting who lingered and who merely paid duty.
James listened, responding when appropriate, asking questions that surprised her with their attentiveness.
“Lady Fenwick asked after you,” Eleanor said lightly. “She was quite insistent.”
James lifted a brow. “That is her way.”
“She also asked whether we intend to remain at Blackmere much longer.”
“And what did you tell her?” he asked.
“That I deferred to my husband,” Eleanor replied, her gaze steady on him. “Which appeared to satisfy her.”
James nodded, something like approval settling in his chest.
“Langford House,” Eleanor added, watching him carefully. “The subject came up more than once.”
“I imagine it did,” James said.
She hesitated. “You said you would consider it.”
“I have,” he replied.
