James hesitated.
Roderick’s voice softened, almost brotherly. “You want justice. You want her safe. Then you must be alive and clear-headed enough to accomplish both.”
James’s chest tightened. The truth was there, unavoidable. He could not keep doing this without breaking something. If not himself, then Eleanor. Then the house. Then the very goal he claimed to serve.
“Fine,” James said at last. “I will sleep.”
Roderick nodded once, satisfied. “Good.”
James moved toward the door, then stopped. “If you do not have a name by tomorrow…”
“I will,” Roderick said, immediate and certain.
James studied him. “You are confident.”
Roderick’s mouth curved faintly. “I am desperate to avoid watching you destroy yourself.”
James turned away, irritation and gratitude tangled together in a way he did not want to examine.
As he climbed the stairs, his body heavy with fatigue, doubt followed him like a shadow.
Roderick was clever, yes. Sharp. Relentless.
But a name and an address by tomorrow?
James did not believe in miracles.
And yet, as he reached his bedchamber and closed the door, he found himself doing something he had not done in days.
He lay down.
He closed his eyes.
And let exhaustion carry him to a deep sleep while someone else carried the weight of the investigation.
CHAPTER 28
Blackmere Park was too quiet.
Not the comfortable quiet of a well-run house, but the uneasy stillness that settled when something essential had been removed. Even the servants seemed to move differently, careful as they crossed corridors, voices lowered as if sound itself might offend.
Eleanor sat in the morning room with a letter unfolded before her and did not read a word of it.
It had been three days.
Three days since James had left. Three days since the sound of carriage wheels had faded down the drive and taken his presence with it. Three days of waking with the instinct to listen for his footsteps and realizing there were none.
She had kept herself busy. She had held meetings, answered callers, signed orders, nodded politely when someone praised the ball as if it were the only thing worth discussing.
It was not enough.
She could manage a household. She could manage society. She could manage her father’s cruelty and her sister Charlotte’s sharp edges.
But managing absence was a different skill entirely.
A soft knock came at the door.
“Come in,” Eleanor said, thankful for anything that forced her to speak.
