“In time, cousin. In due time,” James said, raising his glass.
The men nodded at each other, the plan solidified, and finished their drink before retreating to their rooms.
But James did not sleep easily that night. He remained before the dying fire, another glass of brandy warming his palm, watching the flames rise and fall while his thoughts circled a single, unwelcome center.
Eleanor Barker returned to him with unsettling clarity: the quiet steadiness of her gaze, the proud line of her mouth, the faint hitch in her breath when he had stepped too close. He told himself it was irritation. Curiosity. Yet his chest tightened all the same, as though his body had taken note of something his reason refused to name.
A sharp knock sounded at his door.
“Yes?”
“Your Grace,” his butler said softly, “it is nearly dawn.”
James rose at once, scowling at the soft blue light creeping through the window. He dressed quickly in dark wool and leather, and minutes later met Roderick on the misty street below, already mounted, ready to ride for Blackmere Park.
“You look almost cheerful.”
Roderick’s voice rode on the mist as their horses picked their way out of London. The city’s edges gave way to wider roads and bare-limbed trees, the air sharpening with each mile. James’s mount moved steadily beneath him, familiar and dependable, unlike most things in his life.
James kept his gaze on the road. “I am not cheerful.”
“You are leaving theton,” Roderick said. “That is the closest you ever come.”
James did not respond. He had never needed London’s approval. He needed only what London contained: information, access, the mouths that spoke too freely, the pockets that accepted bribes, and the sort of men who made their fortunes quietly through other people’s ruin.
The countryside offered fewer mouths.
But it offered control.
And right now, he knew that while control mattered, proximity mattered more.
They rode in steady silence until the last sprawl of townhouses fell behind them and the road widened into open country. Frost clung to hedgerows. Fields lay brown and sleeping. A low winter sun hovered like a reluctant witness.
Roderick’s horse sidestepped a puddle and splashed anyway. “Remind me why we are riding to your estate the week of your wedding,” he asked. “Surely even you understand that most men would remain close to their bride.”
James’s jaw tightened. “I have duties.”
“And soon,” Roderick said, “you will have a wife who can absorb half of them, if you allow it.”
James’s mouth flattened. “If I allow it.”
Roderick let out a dramatic sigh. “There it is. The Duke of Langford, guarding his ledgers as though they are his heart.”
James ignored him.
By late morning, the estate rose before them, austere and imposing against the winter sky.
Blackmere Park
The main house sat on a low rise, built of pale stone that looked almost silver in cold light. Its lines were clean, severe, and unmistakably old. There was no frivolity in its architecture. It did not charm. It commanded.
Roderick’s brows lifted appreciatively as they approached. “You could house an army in there.”
“I have,” James said.
Roderick glanced at him, amused. “That was not a request for history.”
“It is not history,” James replied. “It is memory.”
