Chapter 5
Five
J ames stepped into Lord Henry Hawthorne's opulent drawing room, the scent of beeswax assaulting his senses. His piercing blue eyes swept over the lavish furnishings—Aubusson carpets, gilt-edged mirrors, and paintings that likely cost more than some men's yearly incomes. It was a display of wealth that bordered on vulgar, even by ton standards.
Lord Rockingham followed close behind, his blond waves perfectly tousled as always. James suppressed a smirk at his friend's rakish appearance, so at odds with the refined surroundings.
"Ah, gentlemen!" Lord Hawthorne's voice boomed as he entered, arms spread wide in welcome. "What a pleasure to receive you both. "
James inclined his head, studying the man before him. Hawthorne exuded charm, his sandy hair artfully styled and his cravat tied with precision. But there was something in the man’s eyes that set James's nerves on edge.
Faking an ease he did not feel, James offered a smile. "The pleasure is ours, I assure you," he replied smoothly. "We're grateful for your hospitality."
Hawthorne's smile widened. "Nonsense! I won't hear of it. Now, brandy for you both?"
As their host busied himself with the drinks, James exchanged a loaded glance with Rockingham. They had come seeking answers, but Hawthorne's overzealous welcome felt like a carefully constructed facade.
"I must say, Lord Hawthorne," James began, accepting the proffered glass, "your home is quite impressive. One can only imagine the stories these walls could tell."
Hawthorne chuckled, but James did not miss the tightening around his eyes. "Oh, if only they could speak! But I am afraid my life is rather dull compared to yours, Lord Blackwood. I hear you have had quite the... eventful season."
The loaded pause hung in the air, and James felt his jaw clench. He took a sip of brandy to mask his reaction; the liquor burning a path down his throat.
"Indeed," he replied carefully. "Though I confess, the events of the past year have been most distressing. The tragedy at the races, in particular."
Hawthorne's expression softened with practiced sympathy. "Ah yes, poor Hollyfield. A terrible business, that."
James leaned forward slightly, his voice low. "You were there that day, were you not? I wonder, did you notice anything... unusual?"
For a fraction of a second, something dark flashed in Hawthorne's eyes. But it was gone so quickly, James almost believed he had imagined it.
"I am afraid not," Hawthorne said, shaking his head. "It all happened so fast, you see. One moment we were cheering them on, and the next..." He trailed off, his gaze distant. “Well, you know. You were there.”
From the corner of his eye, James saw Rockingham shift in his seat, his sharp gaze scanning the room as if searching for hidden truths in the gilt and velvet.
"Of course," James murmured. "It was quite shocking for all who were present. "
Hawthorne nodded, then abruptly changed the subject. "But come, let us not dwell on such grim matters! Tell me, Lord Rockingham, how fares your new team? I heard they are quite impressive.”
As Rockingham reluctantly engaged in the conversation, James sipped his brandy and observed. Hawthorne was good—too good. Every deflection, every redirect was executed with the finesse of a master manipulator.
What are you hiding? James wondered, the familiar thrill of the chase coursing through his veins. And how far will you go to keep your secrets?
As if sensing James's scrutiny, Hawthorne turned to him with a solicitous grin. "Lord Blackwood, I hope you will forgive my impertinence, but I feel compelled to express my concern."
James arched an eyebrow. "Oh? Whatever for?"
Hawthorne leaned forward, his voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. "These vicious rumors surrounding you and poor Lord Hollyfield's demise. It is utterly preposterous, of course, but I fear they may tarnish your good name."
A chill ran down James's spine, despite the warmth of the brandy. He maintained his composure, years of navigating treacherous social waters serving him well. "Your concern is touching, Lord Hawthorne. Though I assure you, my conscience is clear."
"Naturally, naturally," Hawthorne nodded, his gaze never leaving James's. "I, for one, never doubted your innocence for a moment. But others... well, you know how society can be. Vultures, the lot of them."
There it was—a flicker of something sinister behind the veneer of sympathy. James's instincts screamed danger, even as Hawthorne continued to smile benevolently.
He caught Rockingham's eye, a silent exchange passing between them.
"Your support is much appreciated," James said, rising to his feet. "But I am afraid we have imposed upon your hospitality long enough."
“Nonsense. You are welcome to call anytime,” Hawthorne said, rising to his feet.
James nodded.
As they made their farewells, James could not shake the feeling that they were fleeing a lion's den, having narrowly avoided becoming prey. Something was absolutely amiss with Hawthorne, but what was it?
S elina's fingers trembled ever so slightly as she grasped the ornate brass knocker of Lord B’erner’s townhouse. The imposing facade loomed before her, a testament to his wealth and influence. Perhaps she should have sent the investigator instead of coming herself?
Nonsense, this was Mayfair. She was a countess and had her dear friends in toe. Selina inhaled deeply, centering herself as the door swung open.
A well-groomed footman ushered Selina and her friends, Miss Beatrice Sinclair and Lady Charlotte Ashbourne, into a sitting room that dripped with opulence. Gilt-framed mirrors reflected the soft glow of crystal chandeliers, while Selina and her friends settled onto silk damask upholstery, a Persian rug beneath their slippers.
"Lord Berner will be with you shortly," the footman intoned, bowing out of the room.
Selina's heart hammered against her ribcage. She longed to pace but forced herself to perch on the edge of a settee, her back ramrod straight.
"Are you certain about this?" Beatrice said, concern etched across her features.
Before Selina could respond, the door opened once more. Lord Henry Harrington swept in, his very presence seeming to fill the room. Tall and broad-shouldered, with sandy-brown hair and deep blue eyes, he exuded an effortless charm that had captivated many a London ballroom.
"Lady Hollyfield," he said, bowing over her hand before greeting Bea and Charlotte. "To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"
Selina's throat constricted, but she willed her voice to remain steady. "I am afraid this is not a social call, Lord Burner. There is a matter of grave importance I must discuss with you."
Curiosity flickered in his eyes as he settled into an armchair across from them. "How intriguing. Please, do enlighten me."
Selina's fingers trembled as she withdrew the letter from her reticule. "I received this anonymous missive, Lord Burner. It insinuates... certain things about my husband's death. I find myself compelled to ask: did you write this?"
She extended the letter, watching intently as his expression shifted from polite interest to genuine surprise. His brow furrowed as he scanned the contents, a frown tugging at his lips.
"My dear Lady Hollyfield," he said at last, looking up. "I can assure you with utmost certainty that I had no hand in penning this... this scurrilous piece of correspondence. Nor do I have any knowledge of Lord Hollyfield's death beyond what I witnessed at that ill-fated race."
She studied his face, searching for any hint of deception. "You deny any involvement, then?"
Harrington's eyes softened with what appeared to be genuine sympathy. "I do, most emphatically. While Lord Hollyfield and I were not intimate friends, I respected him a great deal. His loss is a tragedy for all of society."
Selina's mind whirled. None of it made sense. She felt adrift, grasping for answers that seemed to slip further from her reach with each passing moment.
Steeling herself, Selina pressed on, her gaze fixed upon Lord Burner’s face. "During the race, did you overhear any conversation between my husband and Lord Blackwood?"
Lord Burner’s brow furrowed. "I did observe them speaking," he admitted, his voice tinged with regret. "But I am afraid the din of the crowd and the thundering of hooves rendered their words inaudible to me."
Selina's heart sank, but she refused to let her disappointment show. Instead, she asked, "What can you tell me about their relationship? Were they truly rivals to the extent that some have suggested?"
A wry smile played across Lord Burner’s lips. "Rivals? Perhaps in the most gentlemanly sense of the word. They were more akin to friendly competitors, always trying to best one another in sport and wit. Their camaraderie was evident to all who knew them. And while I was not particularly close to either man, our paths crossed often enough."
Selina's mind reeled. This portrayal of James and Nile’s relationship contradicted the rumors swirling through London's drawing rooms. "And what of the accusations against Lord Blackwood?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Lord Burner shook his head emphatically. "Preposterous, my dear. I have known Lord Blackwood for years. He is a rogue and a scoundrel, but a murderer? Never. The very idea is absurd."
As Selina absorbed this information, she felt a curious mix of relief and frustration. Lord Burner’s words painted a picture of innocence, yet something still felt... off. Someone had indeed written the letter, but who? And to what end? And why sign Lord Harrington’s name? Unfortunately, she would not get her answers here .
"I thank you for your candor, my lord," Selina said, rising to her feet. Beatrice and Charlotte followed suit, exchanging glances that spoke volumes of their own uncertainty.
As they made their way to the door, Selina's mind buzzed with new questions and theories. She knew, with a certainty that burned in her very core, that she needed to speak with James—and soon.
“We will return home now,” she said to the footman who handed her into her carriage.
“Very well, ma’am,” the footman said, handing first Bea then Charlotte into the conveyance.
As Selina's carriage clattered through the cobblestone streets of London, the rhythmic sound echoing her racing thoughts. She sat rigidly, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, while Bea and Charlotte exchanged worried glances across from her.
"What do you make of Lord Burner’s words, Selina?" Bea ventured, breaking the tense silence. “Do you believe him?”
Selina's gaze flickered to her friend's face. "I am uncertain," she admitted, her voice low. "His account paints Lord Blackwood in a favorable light, and yet..."
"And yet you still have doubts," Charlotte finished, her tone gentle .
Selina nodded, a frown creasing her brow. "There is something we are missing. Some piece of this infernal puzzle that eludes me."
The carriage lurched to a stop, and Selina peered out the window, recognizing the familiar facade of her townhouse. As she alighted, a figure caught her eye—tall, dark-haired, and unmistakably familiar.
"Lord Blackwood," she breathed, her heart quickening despite herself.
James turned, his gaze meeting hers. "Lady’s," he said, bowing slightly. "I was hoping I might have a private word with Lady Hollyfield."
Selina hesitated, acutely aware of Beatrice and Charlotte's presence behind her. "I believe that would be wise," she replied, her voice steadier than she felt. "There is much to discuss."
“We will see ourselves to the receiving room,” Bea said, hooking her arm through Charlotte’s. “Do not fret over us.”
“Yes, take as long as you need,” Charlotte added, as the pair ascended the steps before disappearing into the house.
As Selina and James entered the house, she could not help but notice the way his presence seemed to fill the room. He was a man of contradictions— charming yet dangerous, alluring yet suspect. And far too handsome.
She felt a rush of conflicting emotions, not the least if which was an undeniable attraction to the rogue standing before her. Her cheeks flushed with heat as she cast her glance his way, and for the first time, she truly hoped he was innocent.