James’s jaw tightened. “I have all the time I need.”
“No,” she said softly. “You have minutes. Perhaps less.”
Roderick stepped closer. “What is she talking about?”
Lady Whitcombe’s gaze slid past the gun, past James, as though she were looking somewhere far more interesting. “You see, Your Grace, you have misunderstood the nature of our conversation.”
James’s finger tightened. “Speak plainly.”
“I have already acted,” she said. “I sent someone this morning.”
James’s breath caught. “Sent someone where?”
“To Blackmere Park,” Lady Whitcombe replied pleasantly. “Your wife is very predictable. She does not lock herself away. She walks. She receives visitors. She sleeps believing herself safe.”
The room seemed to tilt.
Roderick swore under his breath. “You sent a man after the Duchess?”
Lady Whitcombe’s smile sharpened. “I sent a professional. He does not ask questions. He does not hesitate.”
James’s heart slammed against his ribs. “You are lying.”
“Am I?” she asked. “You may stay here and kill me. You will be satisfied. You will finally have blood for blood.”
She gestured vaguely toward the window. “Or you may run. And perhaps arrive in time.”
James’s mind fractured into instinct and terror.
This was it. The moment he had driven himself toward. The clean line between revenge and justice. His father’s face flashed in his mind. His mother’s voice. The weight of the pistol felt like fate.
Then Eleanor.
Eleanor standing at the gates of Blackmere, composed and alone. Eleanor laughing softly over tea. Eleanor asleep beside her sister, believing the world would not dare reach for her again.
His vision blurred.
“James,” Roderick said urgently. “We do not know if she is telling the truth.”
James lowered the gun.
Lady Whitcombe’s features lifted with triumph. “There it is. You do love her.”
James did not answer.
He turned and ran.
Roderick spun after him. “James, wait.”
But James was already moving, already descending the stairs two at a time, the sound of Lady Whitcombe’s laughter echoing behind him.
Roderick hesitated for a single, fatal heartbeat.
When he turned back, Lady Whitcombe was already moving, cloak in hand, slipping out of the room through a hidden passageway with a practiced ease.
“Damn it,” Roderick muttered.
Outside, James tore across the yard, untying his horse with shaking hands. He mounted without care, digging his heels in before the stable boy could speak.
