Read Chapter 21: The Chunnel of Doubt

The train’s iron wheels sang a rhythmic dirge beneath them, but Eleanor barely heard it. She sat pressed against the window of their private compartment, watching the English countryside blur into gray-green smears, her father’s letter burning in her pocket like a live coal. She had not opened it. Not yet. Whatever it contained, she wanted to read it in Paris, with the vault’s gold within reach and James at her side.

“You’re doing it again.”

She turned. James sat across from her, long legs stretched, his coat draped over the seat beside him. He was watching her with that particular expression—half amusement, half something softer she’d learned to recognize in the weeks since they’d first collided in her father’s library.

“Doing what?”

“Planning three moves ahead while the present slips past.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “We’re on a train to Paris. We have a key that opens a vault containing your father’s hidden fortune. And you’re frowning at the window as if it owes you money.”

Eleanor’s mouth curved despite herself. “It might, for all I know. My father seems to owe everyone.”

James’s smile faded. “We’ll find the truth. Whatever it is.”

The compartment swayed as the train rounded a bend, and Eleanor’s gaze drifted to his hands—strong, capable hands that had held her steady more than once when her resolve threatened to crack. He had come back from Paris with the deed that unraveled Fournier’s connection to Ashworth. He had stood beside her in that bank vault, asking nothing, expecting nothing.

“James,” she said, and the word felt heavier than it should.

He raised a brow. “Yes?”

“Why did you come with me?”

He didn’t answer immediately. The train rattled through a tunnel, plunging them into darkness that pressed against the glass. When light returned, his expression had shifted—guarded, almost vulnerable.

“Because you asked,” he said. “And because I couldn’t let you face this alone.”

“That’s not a reason. That’s an obligation.”

“No.” He shook his head slowly. “It’s not. Eleanor, I’ve spent my life watching people attach themselves to the Ashworth name, hoping it would lend them legitimacy. You’re the first person who looked at me and saw something else entirely.” He paused. “I don’t want to lose that.”

The compartment felt suddenly small. Eleanor’s heart beat an unsteady rhythm against her ribs. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came—only the strange, electric silence that stretched between them, taut as a wire.

James rose from his seat. In one fluid motion, he crossed the small space and settled beside her, his shoulder brushing hers. She could smell the cedar of his cologne, faint and familiar.

“Tell me what you’re afraid of,” he said quietly.

Eleanor looked down at her gloved hands. “That I’ve been a pawn my entire life. That my father traded me like cargo, and Ashworth bought me like property, and every choice I believed I was making was already decided for me.” She swallowed. “And that I’ll reach the vault, find nothing but more lies, and still have to marry him.”

“You won’t marry him.”

“You can’t promise that.” She turned to face him, and found him closer than she’d expected—close enough to see the flecks of gold in his green eyes. “No one can.”

“I can promise this.” His voice dropped to a near whisper. “Whatever we find in that vault, I will not let him have you. Not because of duty, not because of the title, not because of what my father threatened. Because you deserve better than a transaction.”

Eleanor’s breath caught. This close, the world outside the train—the creditors, the wedding, the conspiracy—faded to a distant hum. There was only James, his gaze steady, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from her cheek.

“May I—” He stopped, searching her face. “I should ask properly. But I’ve never been good at waiting.”

Eleanor laughed, a small, breathless sound. “Then don’t.”

His kiss was gentle at first, tentative—a question asked with barely a touch. She answered by leaning into him, her hand finding the lapel of his coat, and the question dissolved into certainty. The train swayed, and she swayed with it, anchored by his arm sliding around her waist, drawing her closer.

When they broke apart, James rested his forehead against hers. “I’ve wanted to do that since the moment you threw that glass of champagne in Ashworth’s face.”

“I didn’t throw it. I set it down firmly.”

“It splashed his cuff. I was there.”

Eleanor smiled, warm and unguarded. “Well. He deserved worse.”

James laughed, and for a moment she forgot the weight of the letter in her pocket, the ticking clock of the wedding date, the danger lurking at every station. But only for a moment. Through the compartment window, she caught a glimpse of a man in a gray coat stepping into the corridor, his face half-turned away.

She stiffened.

“What is it?” James’s arms tightened around her.

“That man.” She tilted her chin toward the corridor. “He was at the station in London. And again at the platform in Dover.”

James’s expression went flat. He released her and rose, moving to the compartment door. Through the frosted glass, a silhouette loomed—too close to be coincidence.

“Wait here,” he said.

“James— ”

But he was already sliding the door open. The man in the gray coat stood there, feigning interest in the passing landscape. He was broad-shouldered, with a crushed hat and a face that revealed nothing.

“Can I help you?” James’s voice was ice.

The man turned, slow and deliberate. “Apologies, sir. Looking for the dining car.”

“It’s in the opposite direction. Two cars back.”

“Ah. My mistake.” The man touched his hat brim and shuffled past, but not before his gaze flicked to Eleanor. She saw recognition there—cold, professional, the way a hunter marks its prey.

James slid the door shut and turned to her, jaw tight. “He’s not here by accident.”

“He’s one of my father’s men,” Eleanor said, her voice barely steady. “The private detective. He’s been watching me for weeks. I thought I’d lost him.”

James swore under his breath. “We need to move. We’ll change compartments at the next stop, double back through the luggage car if we have to.”

The train slowed as it approached a small station—Amiens, the sign read, barely visible through the darkening sky. James grabbed their bags and took Eleanor’s hand.

“Stay close. When the train stops, we go out the far side, down the platform, and reboard through the rear carriage. He’ll be watching the exits.”

They moved fast, stepping off the train into the chill evening air before the full stop. Eleanor’s heels clicked on the platform, and she kept her head down as James steered her around the far end of the car and back up toward the rear entrance. The whistle blew; the train shuddered.

They made it—barely. As the wheels began to turn, the gray-coat man burst onto the platform, scanning wildly. He caught sight of them through the rear window and broke into a sprint, but the train was already pulling away, gathering speed.

Eleanor exhaled in relief—then gasped as James stumbled against the door. His face was pale, his hand pressed to his side.

“James?”

“He got me with something.” James’s voice was strained. “A knife, I think. Back when I slid the door open. I didn’t—” He pulled his hand away. Blood, dark and glistening, stained his fingers.

“We need a doctor.” Eleanor’s mind raced. “The next station— ”

“No.” James shook his head, grimacing. “We can’t stop. If he’s my father’s man, there’ll be others. We go to Paris, find a discreet physician, and keep moving.” He met her eyes, pain flickering behind the resolve. “We’re too close to stop now.”

Eleanor ripped a strip from her petticoat, pressing it firmly against the wound. Her hands were steady, even as her heart thundered. “Then we rest. Just for tonight. And then we finish this.”

James managed a ghost of a smile. “That’s my girl.”

The train hurtled through the dark toward Paris, and Eleanor felt the letter in her pocket grow heavier. Somewhere ahead, behind a vault door, her father’s truth was waiting. She would find it—and whatever it cost, she would not let James pay for her freedom with his life.