CHAPTER 33
Blackmere Park looked unchanged from the drive.
The same sweeping lawns. The same hedgerows cut with discipline. The same imposing stone facade that seemed designed to intimidate the world into obedience.
And yet Eleanor felt as though she were returning to a different place.
James rode beside her in silence, the road damp beneath their horses’ hooves. The constables who had escorted Lady Whitcombe were already far behind, transporting their prisoner toward town. The adrenaline of the pursuit had faded into something heavier.
Relief, yes.
But also the dawning realization that catching Lady Whitcombe had not erased what had happened. It had only named it.
As they approached the drive, Eleanor saw movement near the front steps. A cluster of men in dark coats. The glint of buckles. A familiar uniform.
Constables.
Her stomach tightened.
James’s posture stiffened beside her. “What is this?”
Eleanor’s voice went tight. “I do not know.”
They dismounted quickly. James handed off his reins with a sharp instruction that was obeyed at once, then strode toward the steps. Eleanor followed, her skirts still marked with mud at the hem.
Before they reached the door, a shout rose from the entry hall.
“No! I have done nothing!”
Eleanor froze.
The voice belonged to someone she recognized. Not a family member. Not a guest.
Staff.
A constable emerged into view, dragging a man forward by the arm. Another followed close behind.
The man’s face was pale with panic. His eyes darted wildly.
Eleanor recognized him at once. Mr. Caldwell, the underbutler. A man who had always spoken in quiet tones, always present but never intrusive, always precisely where he was meant to be.
James stopped short. “Caldwell?”
Caldwell’s eyes snapped to him. “Your Grace, I swear, I did nothing. This is madness.”
The constable tightened his grip. “He can swear it to the magistrate.”
Eleanor’s breath caught. The betrayal was not yet fully real. She had lived among these people, trusted them with her safety, her privacy, her sister’s sleep.
James’s voice was cold. “What proof do you have?”
The constable nodded toward the hall. “A note intercepted in the kitchen boy’s possession, delivered from this man. And a key found in his coat. The key to the Duchess’s corridor door.”
Eleanor’s stomach turned.
Caldwell’s face twisted in desperation. “It was planted. I was ordered to carry messages, that is all.”
James stepped closer, his gaze hard. “By whom?”
