James’s throat tightened. “And that man killed them.”
Lady Whitcombe’s gaze held his, and for the first time there was a flicker of something like annoyance at being questioned, as if James were refusing to understand the version of events she preferred.
“I did not order their deaths,” she said. “I ordered fear.”
James’s voice dropped. “And yet they were killed.”
Her expression hardened. “Because your mother interfered.”
James felt heat rise, blinding and violent. “Do not speak of my mother like she was an inconvenience.”
Her smile turned cruel. “Women who stand up for their husbands are the same as their men. They wrap themselves in a man’s power and pretend it is virtue.”
Eleanor’s eyes flashed with fury then.
James could not speak for a moment. The world narrowed to the sound of his own breath and the image of his mother in thathallway, turning toward danger because his father was behind her.
He tasted blood where his teeth had cut the inside of his cheek.
“You murdered her,” James said, each word tight.
Lady Whitcombe lifted her chin. “She died because she defended him.”
James felt something inside him snap, not into violence, but into a cold, lethal clarity.
He took one step forward.
The constable nearest to Lady Whitcombe shifted, preparing.
Eleanor moved first.
The sound of the slap cut through the air like a whip.
Lady Whitcombe’s head jerked to the side. Her hair loosened slightly. She staggered, nearly losing her balance in the mud.
For a heartbeat, everything went still.
James stared at Eleanor.
Eleanor’s face was heated with fury as she straightened with pristine elegance, her voice was as controlled as if they were all sitting together at tea. “My husband may have told you that he would never strike a woman, but I never promised such a thing.” Venom was wrapped around every syllable.
Lady Whitcombe touched her cheek, blinking in disbelief. The shock on her face lasted only a moment before it twisted into rage.
“You dare,” she lashed out, her eyes now wild.
Eleanor’s voice remained steady. “I do, and I will again.”
James felt the surge of anger inside him shift, pulled into focus by Eleanor’s action.
The slap had not been merely insult.
It had been interruption.
It had stopped him from crossing the line he had teetered on for years.
James exhaled slowly, then turned toward the constables.
“Arrest her,” he said, voice firm. “For conspiracy, for attempted murder, and for the murders of the late Duke and Duchess of Langford.”
