Chapter 3
Three
T he next day, Selina entered the library with a mix of excitement and nerves. Her enemy was in her domain, but could she catch him? Her heart raced as she walked toward Lord Blackwood. He looked devilishly handsome, leaning against a bookshelf near the mahogany table.
"Please, Lord Blackwood, do have a seat." Her voice, though laced with the poise of nobility, quivered ever so slightly as she lowered herself onto the chair. She would not let him unsettle her.
James rose from his casual lean against the bookshelf, his movements deliberate and graceful. The air between them crackled with an unspoken tension as he crossed the distance, his eyes—a tempestuous sea of blue—locked on Selina's face. Without utterance, he settled himself into the chair opposite her, the creak of aged wood punctuating the silence.
"Countess," he said, his tone guarded but not devoid of the warmth that often played at the edges of his words. His gaze, sharp and assessing, never wavered from hers, as if attempting to decipher the woman before him.
It was clear to Selina that he did not trust her. Fitting considering she had no trust for him either. They were an odd alliance indeed.
"Lord Blackwood," she began, her voice now steadier, infusing each word with the gravity it deserved. "We have much to discuss." She held her back straight, head high, yet beneath her composed exterior, her mind raced with thoughts of the report clutched in her hands—thoughts she dared not let betray her poised demeanor.
"Indeed, the library suits well for such grave conversations," James replied, his voice betraying none of his usual roguish charm. Instead, it carried the weight of one who understood the stakes they were both gambling with—a dangerous game of truth and deception. Neither truly trusting the other.
Selina unfurled the ribbon binding the leather-bound report. She placed it upon the table, an island amidst a sea of aged tomes and flickering candlelight. The parchment quivered ever so slightly with her touch as she turned to the first page, the crisp sound slicing through the room's stillness.
"My husband’s demise was no mere misfortune," she declared, the timbre of her voice a subtle blend of conviction and sorrow. Her gaze, steadfast and unyielding, locked onto the document as if willing the truth to rise from the ink itself. “This is the report given to me by Mr. Mark Sullivan of Bow Street.”
James leaned forward. His eyes, the color of a tempestuous sea, latched onto the text with an intensity that bordered on voracious.
"Continue, Countess," he urged, his voice low, each syllable a soft command veiled behind the veneer of genteel breeding.
"Upon thorough examination of the wreckage," Selina began, her words painting the dread-laden scene, "it became apparent that the axle had not simply failed but..." She paused, the weight of implication heavy upon her tongue. A delicate breath escaped her lips—a silent prayer for strength—and she continued, "The evidence shows that someone tampered with Nile’s phaeton. In fact, the axel was cut. see?" she pointed to a line in the report .
James's countenance remained an enigma, yet the slight tightening of his jaw betrayed a flicker of something potent churning beneath the surface—was it ire or apprehension?
"A clean cut running more than halfway through," he said, the words rolling off his tongue. His gaze remained on the report, yet she felt the piercing scrutiny as if his eyes were burrowing into her very soul, seeking out the veracity of her findings.
For the first time, she wondered if he might be innocent after all. She shut her eyes for a second and drew in a calming breath.
"Indeed," she affirmed, her own resolve hardening. "It was no accident.” She moved her finger to the next line in the report “They found fragments,” she said, her eyes locked onto James, “of what appeared to be...” She trailed off, swallowing hard before continuing, “metal filings near the broken phaeton axle—further evidence that suggests intentional tampering.”
James’s posture stiffened. His eyes narrowed imperceptibly. The space between them thrummed with tension and mystery.
Selina watched as his gaze flicked to the page where the words lay bare the vile act, then back to her face. “And there is more,” she added, though it suddenly pained her heart to voice the suspicions that had taken root in her mind.
His reaction was immediate, a furrow etching itself into his brow as if concern itself had carved a path across his forehead. “What more could there be?” James asked, his voice low and steady, betraying none of the tumult that surely roiled beneath.
Selina braced herself against the mahogany table, feeling the intricate carvings press into her palms. “Your wager,” she said, each word laced with anger and accusation, “on the outcome of the race.” Her fingers brushed against the report's edge, where the damning numbers were inscribed, a copy of the ledger that spoke volumes of the vice which held London's gentlemen in its grip.
James leaned back, his countenance now a mask of contemplation. He did not protest nor did he explain, choosing instead to absorb the blow, gauge its merit, and perhaps ponder the twisted fate that had entangled them both in this morass of tragedy and suspicion.
In that moment, Selina realized the perilous game they played—a dance of trust and treachery, where every step could lead either to revelation or ruin.
The information hung between them, its weight palpable in the dimly lit library as she searched the planes of his face for any fissure of falsehood, any crevice where deceit might lurk. Yet what met her eyes was not the shadow of guilt, but rather an enigmatic blend of curiosity and resolve that caused her to further question her beliefs.
James took a measured breath, the subtle rise of his chest betraying none of the urgency that might have fluttered within. When he spoke, his voice carried the steady cadence of reason.
"Allow me to present something which may illuminate our quandary," he said, reaching into the pocket of his impeccably tailored waistcoat. His fingers, deft and sure, produced a folded piece of parchment.
With deliberate care, he unfurled the document, smoothing it so Selina could discern the names inscribed upon it. "Here," his finger traced a list, each name etched with precision, "are the names of those who bore witness to the calamitous turn of events on that fateful day."
Selina leaned forward, the warmth of his proximity doing little to quell the chill of apprehension that danced along her spine. Her eyes flitted across the assembly of names. Each one, possibly, a conspirator in her late husband's murder .
"Consider these gentlemen," James said, his tone laced with a hint of earnest entreaty, "and ponder their connection to Lord Hollyfield. For amongst them may hide the true culprit."
As she absorbed his words, the candlelight flickered, casting shadows that seemed to sway to the rhythm of her racing thoughts.
Selina perused the list, each name a member of London's high society—many of which she knew. Her gaze lingered on a few. Lord Henry Hawthorne's meticulously scripted name caught her eye. She knew him well. His character was as polished as his top boots.
"Lord Hawthorne,” she murmured under her breath, tracing her finger along the elegant curvature of his surname. "What secrets does he harbor behind those roguish smiles?"
"Hawthorne," James mused, observing her reaction closely. He leaned back in his chair, every inch the picture of relaxed nobility, but his eyes—sharp as a hawk's—remained fixed upon Selina.
"His debts are as notorious as his duels," he offered, "and yet, his loyalty to your late husband was said to be beyond reproach. Curious, isn't it?"
"Indeed." The word slipped from Selina's lips, laced with skepticism. She pondered the potential alliances and rivalries that her late husband had. Could the charismatic Lord Bernstein, with his golden hair and winning smiles, be implicated in such dark affairs?
"Curious that," Selina ventured, "This says that Lord Hawthorne's presence at the race went largely unnoticed, despite his... proclivity for standing at the center of all things consequential."
James's gaze intensified at her observation, a spark of admiration igniting within the cool blue of his eyes. His posture remained casual, yet there was no mistaking the keen intellect hard at work behind his composed exterior.
"Perhaps he prefers the role of puppeteer to that of the marionette," he suggested.
"Or perhaps he is both," Selina countered, feeling the weight of the evidence before them. “Though I find it hard to believe he was involved. Lord Hawthorne has been a friend, to first my husband and then myself.”
“Did you inspect Lord Hollyfield’s books?” James asked.
“I did but found nothing unusual. Neither did my steward,” Selina said.
“I should like to have a look at them as well,” James said, leaning forward. “Something that appears innocuous to you may stand out to me.”
Selina nodded. “Very well. I will have them at hand tomorrow.”
A pause stretched between them, filled with the crackle of the fire.
"Tomorrow, then," James broke the spell, his voice a gentle baritone that resonated within the room and within Selina's chest. "I assure you, we will get to the bottom of this."
Selina nodded. "Tomorrow," she agreed, her thoughts a whirlwind of conjecture and anticipation. As she rose from her seat, the scent of sandalwood and spice and something intrinsically James lingered in the air—a tantalizing mixture that sent a wave of unexpected longing through her.
What the devil was wrong with her? He was still her enemy, and yet, with each passing moment, the line that divided them grew ever more blurred.
Shaking her head, she reached for the materials on the table. Her fingers grazed the vellum with practiced care, but in her haste, a wayward gesture brought her hand into contact with James's. The touch was but a whisper, yet it surged through her like lightning, igniting every nerve with an awareness she could not quell .
Their gazes locked, and in that fraction of a second, a silent conversation passed between them, fraught with the unspoken tension that had been mounting since their first contentious encounter. The air itself seemed to crackle with the intensity of that gaze, the world beyond the library walls fading into nonexistence.
With a start, Selina pulled her hand back as if scalded by the very air that hung between them. Her cheeks flourished with a bloom of crimson, betraying the tumultuous emotions that clashed beneath her composed surface. There was embarrassment, certainly, but interwoven with her mortification was an undeniable thread of desire—a longing that, despite her best efforts, refused to be corralled.
"Forgive me," she murmured, her voice laced with a vulnerability that vexed her. She had always prided herself on maintaining control, yet in this instance, it seemed perilously close to slipping from her grasp.
James merely inclined his head, the corners of his mouth hinting at amusement—or was it something more profound? "Think nothing of it, my lady," he said, his tone suggesting a shared secret, one that danced on the line between propriety and scandal.
Selina composed herself. She was the Countess of Hollyfield, after all, and no fleeting contact—no matter how charged—would shake her.
With renewed determination, she addressed the task at hand, letting the list of names anchor her back to the reality of their investigation. “Leave this with me,” she said, adding the list of names to her pile of evidence.”
"As you wish," James murmured, the sound of his voice slicing through the thick air. “Perhaps you will recall something useful upon further introspection.”
“Perhaps.” She gave a slight smile.
Lord Blackwood pushed his chair out. “I shall leave you to it then.”
She nodded, grateful for the respite, yet strangely reluctant to part ways. "Indeed, Lord Blackwood," she said, her voice smooth as silk.
Her gaze followed the assured grace of his departure. The door closed with a soft click, and solitude enfolded her once more. In the quiet aftermath, Selina released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, her chest tight with unspoken emotions.
Her mind began to spin, weaving through the labyrinth of facts and suppositions laid out before her. Yet, beneath the cool surface of logic, there stirred a warmth that infused her cheeks with color and her limbs with an unfamiliar restlessness.
James Barton, Lord Blackwood—infamous rogue and sworn enemy—had managed to breach her carefully erected defenses.
His presence was akin to a flame flickering dangerously close to the fine muslin of her self-restraint. She had witnessed his vices, his unabashed indulgence in life’s darker delights, and yet she could not deny the intelligence and sincerity that seemed to mark his pursuit of truth.
Her heart, weathering the storm of bereavement, suddenly contended with an insurgent tide of attraction. How perilous, to feel such stirrings amidst the ashes of her past life. Selina chided herself. She was a widow, a countess—a woman of substance, not some doe-eyed debutante to be seduced by a charming scoundrel.
With a determined shake of her head, she redirected her focus to the list of names James had provided. Each one was a potential clue. She focused her attention on plotting and planning their next move with meticulous precision.
Yet even as she pondered strategies, the echo of that accidental touch—the electric current that had sparked between them—refused to be silenced. It was a scandalous sensation, one that whispered of forbidden pleasures and the tantalizing possibility of surrendering to desires long suppressed.
With a sigh, she set the list aside. Tomorrow, they would delve deeper into the intrigue that claimed her husband's life. But tonight, she must navigate the treacherous waters of her own heart, steering clear of the siren call that was James Barton, Lord Blackwood.