Eleanor’s mare surged. Eleanor rode up alongside the other outrider, the one who had not drawn a weapon yet.
“Move,” Eleanor commanded, her voice sharp.
The outrider stared at her as if startled by her tone. Or perhaps by the fact that someone under a cloak had the audacity to speak to him at all.
“You are making a mistake,” the man shouted.
Eleanor’s voice went colder. “So is your mistress.”
The man cursed and tried to angle his horse to block her.
Eleanor leaned forward and swung her riding crop, striking his wrist hard enough to make him yelp. His hand jerked. He lost his grip on the reins for a moment, and that moment was enough.
Eleanor darted past him.
The carriage was slowing now. Not by choice, but because James had forced its rhythm. The constables closed in behind, their presence impossible to ignore.
At last, the carriage lurched to a stop.
Dust and mud settled in the air.
Eleanor pulled her mare in, reins tight, heart pounding so hard she could taste it.
James dismounted at once, pistol in hand, his posture rigid with readiness. The constables approached quickly, weapons drawn.
For a heartbeat, nothing moved.
Then the carriage door opened.
Lady Whitcombe stepped out as if she were arriving at a garden party.
Her gown was travel-worn but still fine, her hair pinned neatly, her gloved hands steady. She glanced around at the mud, the horses, the armed men, and smiled.
“Your Grace,” she said brightly. “How diligent you are.”
James did not lower his pistol. “Lady Whitcombe.”
She sighed as though bored. “I do wish men would stop pretending they understand consequences.”
One of the constables stepped forward. “Ma’am, you are under arrest.”
Lady Whitcombe looked at him with mild amusement. “Am I? For what, precisely?”
“For conspiracy,” the constable said.
Lady Whitcombe laughed softly. “Conspiracy. Such a grand word for survival.”
James’s voice was cold. “You sent a man to my home.”
Lady Whitcombe’s eyes glittered. “I sent a man to remind you that you are not as powerful as you believe.”
James’s jaw tightened. “You will answer for it.”
Lady Whitcombe tilted her head. “To you? Or to the law? Which do you prefer, Your Grace?”
James’s grip tightened. “To both.”
Lady Whitcombe’s smile widened. “You truly are a fool. Just like all men.”
