“He had no reason to lie,” Maxwell replied. “And none left in him to lie under pressure.”
James did not respond immediately. “And you believe this is connected to your past.”
“I do not see what else remains.”
James’s expression darkened. “Then we should have anticipated it.”
Maxwell did not answer.
The park came into view sooner than expected, though neither of them had slowed long enough to mark the distance. Even from a distance, something was wrong.
A small crowd had gathered along the path, the usual calm of the promenade broken by a low murmur edged with urgency to draw attention. A carriage stood at an awkward angle nearby, its driver half-turned in his seat as though uncertain whether to remain or depart.
Maxwell did not hesitate.
He pushed through the edge of the gathering without regard for the polite resistance offered. Voices rose in protest at the intrusion, then fell away just as quickly when they recognized him.
At the center of the crowd, Eleanor sat upon the ground.
Her maid hovered close, hands wringing together in visible distress, while a pair of older women knelt nearby, offering assistance in the form of unsolicited guidance. Eleanor’s posture was upright, though there was a tension in the set of her shoulders that had not yet eased.
“Eleanor.”
James reached her first.
He dropped to one knee beside her, his hand lifting to her face, turning it gently toward the light. “Are you injured?”
“I am quite well,” she said, though the words were not entirely steady. “Only startled.”
James’s gaze moved over her quickly, assessing. His expression tightened when he saw the mark on her cheek.
The bruise had already begun to darken.
“What happened?” he asked, his voice lower now.
Eleanor’s attention shifted past him, landing briefly on Maxwell before returning to her husband. “He came upon us without warning,” she said. “Insisted upon speaking with her. When I refused?—”
Her breath caught, just slightly.
“He struck me,” she finished.
The words settled into something colder than the morning air.
James’s expression changed, restraint thinning into something far less controlled. “Who?”
Eleanor’s gaze flickered again, this time holding on to Maxwell. “Lord Covington.”
Maxwell’s focus sharpened.
“And Arabella?” he asked.
Eleanor’s composure faltered then—not entirely, but enough that the answer did not come at once. “He took her,” she said. “Before I could—” She stopped, the effort visible now. “He forced her toward the trees. There was a carriage.”
A voice from the edge of the crowd broke in, hesitant but urgent. “I saw what happened, Your Grace.”
Maxwell turned.
The man stepped forward uncertainly, his hat clutched in his hands. “He did not linger. Pulled her along that way—” He gestured toward a narrow path leading away from the main promenade, partially obscured by trees. “There was another carriage waiting. Dark. No markings. They left quickly.”
