Chapter 2

Two

T he brisk knock at the door of his London townhouse echoed through the grand hallway. James Barton, Viscount Blackwood, with an air of distraction, set aside the brandy decanter and stood from his leather-bound chair.

"Enter," he called, his voice carrying the weight of his station.

The door opened, revealing not his valet, but a messenger—a boy, really—clad in inconspicuous brown, looking as though he had been plucked from the streets and scrubbed clean for this singular purpose. In his hand, he held a missive, sealed with unassuming wax, no crest to betray its origin. It was the sort of letter that made ones skin prickle .

"From a lady," the boy said, his eyes darting about, taking in the room.

"Indeed?" James arched a brow, intrigue piqued as he took the offering. He flipped a coin that glinted in the muted light toward the boy, who caught it deftly before vanishing back into the hallway.

Once alone, James turned the letter in his hands, the paper crisp against his fingers. The seal broke with a quiet snap. Unfolding the parchment, his gaze flicked across the elegant script, each word etching itself into his consciousness with chilling clarity.

"Lord Blackwood," he read aloud, the formality a stark contrast to the message's ominous content. "Beware the widow's wrath. Lady Selina's accusations mount, and the ton whispers of scandal—the death of her husband, laid at your feet."

Shock jolted through him. Disbelief gnawed at him as his pulse thrummed rapidly. James's eyes narrowed, his jaw tensing as he paced by the window, the letter crinkling in his grasp.

He knew Selina harbored some ill-will toward him. She had hurled accusations at him yesterday. But this?

"Accusations of murder?" he muttered to himself. Lord Hollyfield's tragic demise had been a spectacle for idle gossip, yet now it seemed his own reputation was at stake because of her.

To the devil with her. She had gone too far! How dare she spread rumors about him! He had a mind to wring her pretty little neck.

Hell, for all he knew, she had little to do with this.

James exhaled slowly. His mind raced, dissecting the implications of the letter. The urgency of the situation was not lost on him—the ton was a fickle beast, and innocence mattered little when faced with the maw of society's hunger for ruin.

"Selina," her name fell from his lips, a whisper laden with a history of uncharted depths and unresolved tension. Visions of her wavy blonde hair and those hazel eyes—often alight with intelligence but shadowed by sorrow—flashed before him. She was a woman wrought from the fires of tragedy.

Could she truly believe him capable of such villainy? Or was there more at play here than met the eye? He pondered the letters warning, a specter that threatened to engulf him in a darkness deeper than mere scandal.

Regardless of her involvement, he had to put an end to this before it got out of control—assuming it hadn’t already.

Without hesitation, James strode across the room to his writing desk, a resolute glint in his sharp blue eyes. He seized a quill and penned a succinct note to Lady Selina Whitcomb, the Countess of Hollyfield.

The words on the page were curt, a reflection of the urgency that gripped him—a demand for her to stop besieging his name. Sealing the missive with a flourish of wax stamped by his signet ring, he handed it to a footman with strict instructions for a speedy delivery.

"See that this reaches Countess Hollyfield without delay," he commanded, the timbre of his voice brooking no dissent.

"Very good, my lord," the footman replied, bowing as he took the letter and disappeared to carry out his orders.

With the die now cast, James turned his attention to the task at hand. His reputation, blemished from his roguish ways, but not irreparable, now hung precariously in the balance, threatened by whispers of murder.

He would not stand for it. Selina would retract her lies if she were indeed spreading them. And based on their last interaction, he would wager she was.

If his letter did not get through to her, he would find another way. Regardless, he would not sit back and allow her, or anyone else, to ruin him.

James poured a tumbler of brandy, then set about laying the groundwork to clear his name. He drew forth a ledger, its pages worn from countless entries penned by candlelight. Upon these sheets, he listed names and places, connections and debts—each had a role in clearing his name. His contacts were many, culled from years of mingling with those who wielded power and those who lurked in the shadows of it.

"Stephens," he murmured, summoning his most trusted footman. "I shall require information on the attendees of Lord Hollyfield's final race. Discreet inquiries only."

"Of course, my lord," came the response, as reliable and unobtrusive as the man himself.

"Furthermore, arrange a meeting with Inspector Fleming at Bow Street. There are questions that need answering regarding the investigation of Hollyfield's death."

"Straight away, sir."

James would call upon every favor owed, leverage every secret gleaned from whispered confidences. If a murder had occurred, he would not be taking the fall for it. Leaning back in his chair, James tried to recall what he had done the day of the race. Where had he been that morning? Where did he go afterward?

Amidst the memories and missives, the quill and ink, James found his thoughts straying back to the Lady Selina. She was as enigmatic as she was beautiful. A lady that had long ago caught his attention, though he had never had the pleasure of truly getting to know her.

Perhaps once he cleared his name—put a stop to her accusations—he could come to know her on a more intimate level.

Shaking off such dangerous musings, he refocused on the task at hand. He could ill afford distractions—especially those of the female variety.

James finished his brandy in one large swallow, then extinguished the candles one by one, the darkness enveloping him. He had done all he could for tonight.

He retired to his chamber, the silence of the night echoing the solitude of his thoughts. Sleep proved elusive, and as dawn approached, he rose from his bed, dressed with purpose, and left his residence, stepping into the cool morning air.

He cast a glance skyward, where the morning light painted the horizon with hues of rose and amber—a silent herald of the day's quests.

His boots echoed against the stones, a rhythmic cadence that matched the pounding of his heart. With every step, the weight of the accusations seemed to grow heavier—a tangible force that sought to drag him down.

The devil if he would allow anyone to ruin him. James quickened his pace, determination driving him forward. Still, it seemed someone may have arranged Hollyfield’s accident, and if so, James had to find the culprit.

He strode through the awakening city, passing vendors preparing their stalls and milkmaids with their clinking pails, before pausing at the iron gates of a discreet establishment known by few—a haven for those who navigated the undercurrents of information.

Here, he would gather resources, seek allies among London’s underbelly, and revisit old contacts whose loyalty could be bought or bartered.

As he entered the dimly lit confines of the establishment, his eyes adjusted to find the keeper—a man of dubious repute but invaluable connections—waiting with an expectant look.

"Blackwood," the keeper greeted, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "To what do we owe the pleasure at this ungodly hour?"

"Information, my good man," James replied, sliding a purse across the counter—a weighty incentive for discretion and swift service. "And perhaps a touch of subterfuge. I need everything you can get about Lord Hollyfield’s tragic end."

"Say no more," the keeper said, pocketing the purse with practiced ease. "You will have what you need by week’s end."

With a curt nod, James turned on his heel and departed, leaving behind the murky world of secrets for the deceptive clarity of daylight. His mind was alight with strategies and contingencies, each plan meticulously crafted to peel away the layers shrouding Lord Hollyfield's untimely death and clear his name.

James set off once more, his pace brisk and purposeful as he strode toward his waiting carriage. This nonsense had already gone too far for his liking.

Yet, despite his rising irritation, there was an exhilarating freedom in the pursuit—a dance along the knife-edge that separated the condemned from the vindicated. And as he ventured forth, he knew he would reveal the truth of the matter .

No scurrilous rumor or cunning foe, no matter how alluring, would deter him from his purpose. The game was afoot, and he would emerge victorious.

Before long the vague outlines of St. James's Park emerged from the morning mist, its iron-wrought gates guarding the manicured sanctuary within. The park was quiet at this early hour—a refuge where he could gather his thoughts. He knocked on the carriage roof, signaling his driver to stop. “I should like to walk for a bit,” he said, then stepped down from the conveyance.

James strode down a well-worn path as he considered his past conversation with Selina and the letter he’d received. "Confound it," he muttered under his breath, the words escaping in puffs of vapor. Before him stood a towering elm, its gnarled branches reaching skyward. It was beneath this very tree that he had once shared a stolen moment with her. That day, her laughter had rung pure and clear, untainted by the murky waters of suspicion that now threatened to engulf him.

That was back before she married Hollyfield. Before, he and Hollyfield became adversaries, competing over everything and anything. James had indeed fancied Selina, but not to the point he would murder her husband all these years later.

In fact, he had embraced his bachelorhood in the years since, chasing vice and enjoying the freedom granted to those without wives. He had scarcely laid eyes on Selina after she married, let alone pined after her.

Shaking off the memory, he pressed onward, his mind meticulously sifting through the events leading up to Lord Hollyfield's demise. ”Justice will not elude me," he vowed, the words an oath to himself and to the woman who now stood against him.

Why couldn’t she see he was not her enemy? They would be stronger together. If she would put her suspicions aside for a short time, they might be able to get to the truth much soon than he would on his own. Perhaps he could convince her to be his ally rather than his enemy?

Determined to change Selina’s mind, he strode back to his carriage. As he settled against the plush leather seat, he called out, "To Hollyfield House, and make haste."

The wheels clattered against the cobblestones as they set off, matching the rapid pace of James's thoughts. He would appeal to Selina directly, force her to see reason .

As the horses trotted steadfastly toward their destination, James peered out the window, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts. How could he convince Selina of his innocence? What evidence could he present to dismantle her unwavering conviction of his guilt? He had spent the day of the accident with Alexander, lord Rockingham. Would Selina believe Rockingham if he vouched for James?

"Damnation," he muttered under his breath, frustration lacing his words. The thought of anyone—least of all Lady Selina, with her keen intellect and maddening allure—believing him capable of such a heinous act was intolerable.

The carriage jostled over uneven terrain, a physical reminder of the rocky path that lay ahead. With every second passed, the tension coiled tighter within him.

The carriage came to a stop outside the elegant facade of Hollyfield House. He alighted, straightening his cravat and squaring his shoulders. He would need every ounce of his charm and wit for this encounter.

The butler answered his knock, eyeing him with thinly veiled suspicion. "Lord Blackwood to see Lady Hollyfield," James announced, his tone brooking no argument .

After a moment's hesitation, the butler led him to a small drawing room. "I shall inform her ladyship of your presence," he said stiffly before withdrawing.

James paced the room, his fingers drumming against his thigh. The minutes stretched interminably until, at last, the door opened.

Lady Selina entered the drawing room, her silhouette framed by the light pouring through the doorway. Shoulders squared and head eyes as her gaze flared with indignation, or anger, or perhaps something else entirely. He could not be sure.

"Lord Blackwood," she said, her voice sharp. Her gaze, those hazel eyes that had once captivated him, fixed upon him unyieldingly.

"Lady Hollyfield," James replied, inclining his head slightly, though his spine remained rigid. "I must insist we dispense with pleasantries. You have made your rather grave allegations against me public and I will not stand for it."

Her lips pursed, the color rising in her cheeks. "Grave, yet merited. You were seen quarreling with my husband not a fortnight before his demise. You also bet a small fortune on his race. And now society speaks your name in hushed tones with every mention of his death. That is your own doing. I merely intend to make sure you pay for your crime. "

"Whispers can no more dictate truth than shadows can hold substance," James countered, his own frustration simmering beneath the surface. "Your husband’s death was a tragedy, but to lay it at my doorstep without proof…"

"Proof!" Selina's laugh held no mirth, a bitter sound that danced amidst the crackle of the fire. "Is it not proof enough that you and Nile were adversaries? That your contempt for one another was the talk of the ton?"

"Adversaries, perhaps in sport and temperament, but never to the extent of murder," James retorted, his hands clenched at his sides. Emotions warred across his features, the battle between indignation and the need to convince her of his innocence.

"Then explain your presence at the race, Lord Blackwood. Explain why my husband is dead while you stand here before me hundreds of pounds richer for it," she demanded, her composure morphing into that of an avenging angel.

James met her fierce gaze, his blue eyes steely with resolve. "I went to the race as any gentleman might, drawn by the thrill of competition, not bloodlust. I had no hand in Lord Hollyfield's fate and I will not allow your grief, however profound, to blind you to my innocence. "

"You are attempting to blind me to your guilt," Lady Selina retorted, her frame taut as a bowstring. Yet, beneath her fiery veneer, a sliver of doubt flickered, visible only to a man who knew well how to read the subtleties of human expression.

"Your pursuit of justice is admirable, Lady Hollyfield," James said softly, his voice laced with a sincerity that belied the rogue he was known to be. "But I swear on my honor, I am not your villain."

Their gazes locked, two forces caught in a tempest of distrust and unspoken tension.

“The longer you insist on pursuing me, the longer it will take to catch the true villain,” he said, his tone meant to soothe.

"Perhaps," she said, the word barely more than a sigh, "but honor is a currency in which I find your purse regrettably light, Lord Blackwood."

"Then let us deal in truths rather than coin," James proposed, taking a measured step forward. "If you truly seek justice for your husband, then align with me. Together, we stand a greater chance of unearthing what really transpired that fateful day."

The proposal lingered between them, a fragile bridge over a chasm of suspicion. Selina regarded him, her gaze full of scrutiny, weighing the merit of his words against the tumult of her emotions .

"Even a man of... indulgent habits," James conceded, his words deliberate, "can distinguish between right and wrong, innocence and guilt." He stepped forward, laying a carefully folded document upon the mahogany table that stood as a barricade between them. "This letter, penned by none other than Alexander Harrington, Lord Rockingham, attests to my whereabouts on the day of Lord Hollyfield's tragic accident. I was in his company, at our gentlemen’s club, until which time we departed together to watch the race. I had no time to sabotage your husband’s phaeton."

Selina’s eyes flickered toward the parchment, but pride, or perhaps fear, kept her from reaching for it. "Convenient that your alibi should come from a lord so renowned for his own roguish antics," she countered, her voice unwavering, though the subtle clench of her jaw betrayed the turmoil beneath her calm exterior.

"Indeed, it would appear convenient, were it not corroborated by others," James retorted, his tone even but firm. "I have no taste for violence. My vices are of another sort."

"Vices that nonetheless cast a shadow over your character," Selina said, her fingers tightening into fists at her sides .

"Perhaps," he acknowledged with a nod, conceding the point. "But those pursuits do not extend to murder, my lady."

"Murder..." The word hung between them, laden with sorrow and unspeakable loss.

"In your heart, you know I am not responsible for Lord Hollyfield's death," James said earnestly, taking another step forward, close enough now to note the tremble that touched her lips, the faintest sign of vulnerability amidst her fortress of resolve. “Let me help you discover who is.”

"Someone must answer for it," Selina said as she lifted her chin. "If not you, then who?"

"That, my dear lady," James murmured, a hint of triumph in his voice, "is the question that haunts us both."

"Us?" Her eyebrow arched.

"Indeed, us," he affirmed. "For I too harbor suspicions about that fateful day—suspicions that reach beyond the easy scapegoat of a notorious rogue. Lord Hollyfield had enemies, debts owed him... entanglements that may well have led to his untimely end."

"You dare suggest—" Selina began, her ire rising anew.

"I dare suggest we seek the truth, wherever it may lead." James's voice was a seductive purr, designed to coax her from her precipice of anguish and guide her toward the murkier, more treacherous waters of intrigue. “To that end, I have employed some…detectives. I daresay you will wish to know what they discover.”

"An investigation spearheaded by the very man accused of the crime?" Selina's laugh was devoid of humor, a sharp, disbelieving sound.

"Who better to prove his innocence?" James queried, offering a wry smile that did not quite reach his eyes.

Selina regarded him for a long moment, a tempest of emotions raging in her eyes. After several long heartbeats, she exhaled slowly. "Very well, Lord Blackwood. Let us see where this path of truth leads."

"Excellent," James said. As he turned to leave, the light pouring through the windows casting elongated shadows across the rich carpets, he allowed himself the barest smile. Selina—tenacious, clever, and undeniably captivating—was now an ally.

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