James did not react.
Lady Whitcombe stepped forward slightly, careful not to cross into the constables’ immediate reach, as if she were conducting the scene rather than trapped within it.
“You have made the same mistake twice now,” she said. “You think you can contain me. You think you can protect her.”
James’s voice went dangerously quiet. “Do not speak of my wife.”
Lady Whitcombe’s eyes gleamed. “Why not? She is the weakest point in your armor.”
Eleanor’s hands tightened on the reins beneath her cloak.
Lady Whitcombe continued, voice almost conversational. “Your duchess will never be safe. Not while you live. Not while she wears your name.”
James’s mouth curved into something that was not a smile so much as a promise.
“Are you threatening her again?” James asked.
Lady Whitcombe’s eyes narrowed. “I am telling you what you cannot stop.”
James nodded slowly. “Then perhaps we should ask her if she feels threatened.”
Lady Whitcombe blinked. “What?”
James lifted his chin slightly, gesturing toward the rider in the cloak.
Lady Whitcombe turned, dismissive at first, then curious.
Eleanor drew her mare forward two paces and then dismounted.
The wind caught her cloak as she did, and it billowed wildly behind her as she neared James and Lady Whitcombe.
Slowly, with each step she took, Eleanor reached up and pushed the hood back, revealing her face.
Lady Whitcombe’s expression changed.
Surprise flashed first, then something darker. Calculation. Anger.
Eleanor met her gaze, her voice steady.
“Good afternoon, Lady Whitcombe,” Eleanor said. “Do you feel threatened now?”
Lady Whitcombe stared at Eleanor as if the world had tilted beneath her feet.
For the first time since James had encountered her in that ruined estate, her composure cracked. Not fully, not in panic, but in the sharp, offended way of a woman who had believed herself untouchable.
“You,” she said, voice tight. “You are here.”
Eleanor stood with calm authority, chin lifted, and a steady set to her shoulders.
Lady Whitcombe’s gaze flicked past her, scanning the lane as if expecting another figure to ride out of the hedgerows.
“Then who is at Blackmere Park?” Lady Whitcombe demanded. “Who is the Duchess of Langford in your bedchamber?”
James’s mouth curved. It was not quite a smile, but it held satisfaction.
“The Duchess of Langford is right here,” James said.
Lady Whitcombe’s lips parted, and then her expression twisted into fury.
