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Eleanor looked up, startled, as the door opened without any warning.

The hand that did it committed the act not gently, not intrusively, but with a measured confidence that announced rank more than intent.

The duchess stood poised upon the threshold, with her pale hands folded, her expression eerily calm beneath the elegance of her lace and dove-grey silk. Just behind her, Lucy entered with a tray, the porcelain rattling slightly under her careful grip.

“Your Grace,” Eleanor managed, adjusting the shawl at her shoulders and inching upright against the pillows. Her heart fluttered with the effort, or perhaps it was weariness.

The duchess did not speak at once. She waited until Lucy had set down the tray, smoothed the cloth, then poured the tea. Her gaze roved slowly over Eleanor, from the swell of her bandaged ankle to the pallor of her cheeks. Then she offered a small smile that did not quite reach her eyes.

“You are looking stronger than I was led to believe,” she said.

Eleanor inclined her head. “The physician is pleased with my progress. Thank you for asking, Your Grace.”

There was a moment of silence, delicate but heavy. Eleanor’s fingers tightened slightly over the blanket. She had learned, early in her marriage, to discern the unspoken beneath the duchess’ gentility. This visit was not born of concern.

Still, she waited.

The duchess turned to Lucy then, with the faintest lift of her brow. “That will be all.”

Lucy hesitated. Her eyes found Eleanor’s face. Unspoken concern passed between them like a whisper. Eleanor gave a slight nod and the door soon closed after her maid.

The air seemed to shift the moment they were alone. The duchess stepped further into the room, her gloved hand trailing lightly along the edge of the sideboard, as though examining the grain of the wood.

She paused by the window, where a shaft of pale spring sunlight broke through the glass and touched her sleeve with gold.

“I noticed that you had a visitor this morning,” she said at last, still not looking at Eleanor. Her voice was soft, deceptively idle. “Mr Pembroke.”

Eleanor’s breath stilled. She willed her voice to remain calm. “Briefly. He wished only to enquire after my health.”

“A kind gesture,” the duchess murmured. She turned then, her gaze sharp as a pin. “Though not, perhaps, a prudent one. Considering past … entanglements.”

Eleanor met her eyes squarely. “There is no entanglement.”

“Mm.” The duchess walked to the edge of the hearth and clasped her hands before her. “You are a clever girl, Lady Fairfax. I suspect you know better than to believe Arthur Pembroke would travel all this way out of simple courtesy.”

Eleanor swallowed, throat tight. Her heart was thudding again. “I do not know what he meant to achieve by coming. Nor do I care.”

The duchess tilted her head. “No? You once cared very much.”

There it was: the needle, buried in velvet.

Eleanor’s fingers curled into the coverlet. “That was before.”

The duchess studied her for a long moment. Then, with slow precision, she reached for the teapot and poured herself a cup. “Before Nathaniel. Before the marriage. Before your position was … secured.”

Eleanor’s jaw tensed. “Before you made it clear I was not to be trusted. Before Arthur became a weapon in someone else’s game.”

The tea steamed gently between them.

The duchess’ lips twitched, but she did not smile. “My son has changed.”

“I know,” Eleanor said, and it surprised even her how certain she sounded.

Something flickered in the older woman’s eyes like a fire that refused to be controlled.

“I trust,” she said quietly, “you will not let past indiscretions cloud what must now be preserved.”

Eleanor held her gaze. “There have been no past indiscretions, nor ones that exist in the present time.”

Eleanor was on the verge of letting this woman know that Arthur had told her everything.

But Eleanor also knew that by revealing this, she might create chaos in the household, and that was the last thing she wanted now that she and Nathaniel had grown so close.

She had finally started to see herself as a part of his life, and him as a part of hers.

Creating an even more dangerous enemy of his mother was not advisable, under any circumstances.

That was why she decided to remain quiet, even now when this entire ordeal with Arthur seemed to have been brought to an end.

The duchess didn’t say anything either. Instead, she merely set down her teacup with a click. She stood up and swept from the room, as the silk of her gown whispered in her wake.

Eleanor wasn’t certain what other game the duchess had in mind for her. As soon as the right moment presented itself, she would speak with Nathaniel, telling him everything.

And as for this game, she would not play it … not again.

***

The Greenleigh Inn stood crouched at the edge of town, its weatherworn sign swinging in the wind like a slow metronome of Nathaniel’s temper.

He dismounted without a word, tossing the reins to a startled stableboy. The air was sharp with woodsmoke and horses, tinged with the sour tang of old ale leaking through the cracked windowpanes.

He passed beneath the low-beamed entry, ducking slightly, the ceiling pressing down like the weight coiled in his chest.

The common room was dim, all smoke-stained walls and pewter tankards, the hearth crackling with a fire too cheery for the mood that rode with him. He paused only long enough to address the innkeeper, a balding man with ink on his fingers and suspicion in his eyes.

“I seek Mr Arthur Pembroke,” Nathaniel said, his voice cool and clipped, each syllable a blade honed on restraint. “He is lodging here, I presume?”

The innkeeper’s gaze narrowed. “That depends.”

“On what?” Nathaniel asked with a silent growl.

“On the business you have with him.”

Nathaniel met the man’s eyes without flinching. “I have unfinished business with him.”

The innkeeper scratched his jaw, dubious. “Mr Pembroke don’t much care for interruptions. Nor do I make it a habit to discuss my patrons’ affairs. Not good for business if you take my meaning.”

A lesser man might have faltered, but Nathaniel merely reached into his coat pocket and produced a sovereign. Its value was gleaming and unmistakable. He laid it on the counter without flourish.

The man looked at the coin. Then at Nathaniel. Then back at the coin.

“Second floor,” he said at last, voice low. “End of the west corridor. Room with the blue door. He’s just returned.”

Nathaniel inclined his head once. “Thank you.”

No further words passed between them. He turned towards the staircase, his steps deliberate and quiet despite the fury tightening his chest.

The inn smelled of damp wool and old smoke, the air thick and close, pressing like judgement on the back of his neck. The wooden stairs groaned beneath his boots. With each rise, the ache in his jaw deepened. He hadn’t even realized he was clenching it.

At the top of the steps, the corridor stretched dimly, lined with uneven sconces and battered doors. He found the blue one easily. The paint was peeling, and the number dulled over time. Nathaniel lifted his hand and knocked just once, the sound as sharp as the strike of a gavel.

The latch gave with a click, and the door swung inward. Arthur Pembroke stood framed in the doorway, with his hair unkempt, his cravat askew, and coat slung over a chair in the background. The look on his face was half surprise, half discomfort, and it was almost gratifying.

“Lord Fairfax,” Pembroke said, hastily straightening. “Well … this is unexpected. I assure you, I meant no discourtesy in visiting … only concern. Eleanor’s accident—”

“You will not speak her name,” Nathaniel said, stepping forward.

Pembroke’s mouth opened, then closed. Nathaniel entered the room without invitation, the air seeming to shift behind him. He turned and shut the door, listening to the final sound of the click.

Pembroke shifted uncomfortably, hands clasping behind his back. “I understand this looks ill. But I only came to ensure her welfare. I asked nothing of her—”

“And yet you went to her chamber,” Nathaniel said, voice low, restrained only by force of habit and will. “You forced her to look upon you again after everything.”

Pembroke lifted his chin, some vestige of old bravado flickering. “I thought perhaps … given our friendship—”

“What friendship?” Nathaniel snapped. “The one that allowed you to make a spectacle of yourself at our wedding breakfast? That you presumed affection where none remained?”

“I was wrong,” Pembroke said quickly. “I see that now. I never intended—”

“But you did intend,” Nathaniel interrupted, stepping closer. “You intended to drive a wedge. And when that failed, you lingered. Like a coward who cannot abide the loss of a game he was never invited to play.”

Pembroke’s face flushed. “You speak as if I were some conniving schoolboy. I care for her.”

“She is not yours to care for.”

The silence swelled between them again. Nathaniel’s breath was steady, but his hands were curled at his sides.

“I am not here to strike you,” he said, after a moment. “Though God knows I’ve imagined it. I came because I will not have you circling her like a vulture.”

Pembroke flinched at that. “I never meant to disrespect her. I swear it.” He then took a breath, his shoulders drawn back, though his voice wavered. “I thought … I thought I was helping you both.”

Nathaniel gave a short, incredulous snort. “Helping? That’s what you call lurking at her door like a debt collector?”

The man pressed on. “That was what she said …”

“She?” Nathaniel raised an eyebrow.

“She,” Pembroke continued heavily, “the duchess.”

Nathaniel’s spine straightened like a man struck.

“She said,” Pembroke continued, watching him warily, “that you needed a … push. That you’d grown too cold over the years. Unreceptive. She told me a bit of jealousy might make you feel again. That if Eleanor appeared compromised, or at the very least admired, it might stir something in you.”

Nathaniel stared at him, unmoving. “You’re lying.”

“I wish I were,” Pembroke said, his voice breaking at the edge.

“God, I wish I were. But it’s the truth.

She came to me in town, told me she knew who I was and said she feared your marriage was floundering.

That Eleanor was lonely. She then asked me to come to Loxley, and I—” He broke off, looked away.

“I was a fool. I thought I might prove something. To you, to her … to myself.”

Nathaniel could not speak.

Pembroke went on, quieter now, shame colouring every syllable. “I told Eleanor everything. A few days ago. After I saw her. She knows. She’ll never forgive me, and she shouldn’t. But I see now that you love her. I saw it in your eyes when you stood in my doorway.”

He looked down. “I’m sorry, Fairfax. I never should’ve listened to your mother. I see that now. I see everything too late.”

Nathaniel remained still for a long moment. A war roared behind his eyes. It was an amalgamation of grief, betrayal, and guilt all twisting like storm winds against the stern walls of his restraint.

And then, with a breath that seemed to rattle from some deep place in his chest, he turned and walked out, leaving Arthur Pembroke alone in the silence.

There was no rage in his steps as he descended the inn’s narrow stairwell. There was only precision, deadly and composed, as his mother’s name rang inside his mind like a curse.