Chapter 2 #3
"If you ask me," the constable said slowly, "I should say you cared for her. That much is plain." He glanced briefly at the table, then back at Damon. "But this… situation… is complicated. Political. Public."
"So is murder," Damon replied quietly.
A beat passed.
Then Clark gave a slow nod.
"It is not my place to determine guilt. But this I can promise you: I will keep investigating. No matter what the court decides."
Damon's shoulders eased a fraction. "Thank you."
Alcott cleared his throat, plainly uncomfortable with the whole exchange, but said nothing.
Clark set his hat back upon his head and moved toward the door. "For now, I shall leave you to your counsel. "
With that, he stepped outside, the door creaking shut behind him.
Damon was left in the silence of stone and iron—his name smeared across the city, his world unravelling—with only the memory of Sarah's voice echoing faintly in the dark.
The door shut behind Clark with a final clang. Silence fell again, heavy and absolute—save for the faint rustle of paper and the dull hiss of breath in Damon's chest.
Mr. Alcott remained standing a moment, adjusting his cuffs, before at last sitting across from him at the narrow table.
He removed his spectacles, polished them absently with a frayed corner of his handkerchief, then looked up.
"You ought to be more worried, Your Grace."
His voice, though even, held none of the respectful softness most adopted in Damon's presence. It was the voice of a man too long accustomed to watching lives crumble beneath the weight of the law.
Damon lifted a brow, but said nothing.
Alcott leaned forward. "This is no longer a matter of scandal. This is your life. Your freedom."
Damon nodded slowly. "Then tell me—how does it look?"
A pause.
"Bad," Alcott admitted. "Very bad."
The words hung in the air like frost.
Damon sat straighter. "Be specific."
Alcott hesitated, then folded his hands. "No witnesses. No alibi. You had a very public quarrel with Lady Sarah. She was visibly distressed. Half the guests heard her accuse you of—something. And then she is found dead, twenty minutes later, beneath a balcony."
"So I am guilty by process of elimination," Damon said bitterly.
"No," Alcott corrected. "You are guilty by narrative. You and Lady Sarah had a history. You quarreled. She stormed off. You followed shortly after. Then she was found dead."
He exhaled slowly. "To the public, that is all they require."
Damon's jaw clenched.
"And the evidence?"
Alcott was quiet for a moment, as though weighing how much to say before he had decided to say all of it regardless.
"There is also evidence," he said. "Actual evidence, this time, not merely narrative. A paper cutter was recovered several yards from where she was found. Yours, Your Grace. Engraved with your family crest."
Damon went very still.
"The one I believed lost," he said slowly, "since my father's death. I had not seen it in months."
"Lost," Alcott repeated. "Or taken."
"I never reported it stolen," Damon said. "I assumed it had simply been misplaced somewhere within the house. Such things happen constantly in a household that size. I did not think it worth troubling anyone over."
"Then consider this the trouble," Alcott said. "If it was not lost, it was taken. And if it was taken, someone within your own household — or someone who passed through it — is responsible for its presence at that garden, on that particular night, several feet from a dead woman."
Damon's hand moved, unconsciously, toward the place at his hip where he had once kept such things close.
"The funeral," he said. "My father's funeral.
Half of London passed through that house in the space of a single week.
Servants, mourners, distant relations I had not seen in a decade.
I could not begin to tell you who might have had occasion to walk past that desk unwatched. "
Damon's eyes narrowed. "Do you believe I did it?"
Alcott met his gaze without flinching.
"No."
Then, more quietly, "But what I believe does not matter. What I can prove does."
Damon leaned back against the cold stone wall, dragging a hand through his hair.
"So what do we do?"
Alcott did not blink. "We fight. With everything we have.
We dismantle the timeline. We question every servant, every guest, everyone who set foot in that house during your father's funeral.
We find who had reason and opportunity to take that blade from you, and we find one contradiction, one overlooked thread, and we pull. "
He leaned forward, lowering his voice.
"But you must be prepared. If we fail—if we cannot produce a better story than theirs—you will not be leaving this cell."
Damon's expression did not change. But a muscle ticked in his jaw.
"Then we shall not fail."
◆◆◆
By the time dusk fell, Damon sat alone, elbows on his knees, staring at the bare stone wall across from him.
He thought of Sarah. Of her fire. Her voice. Her last words.
And for the first time since the arrest, a new and quieter fear crept in.
What if they never find the truth?
What if this was the end of it? His entire legacy buried beneath gossip columns and damning looks?
He clenched his jaw, then his fists.
He could not fight this alone.
And just as that thought took root, the guard reappeared.
"Someone here to see you," he grunted.
"Another journalist?" Damon asked bitterly.
"No. You will want to stand for this one."
Damon blinked slowly. "Why?"
The door creaked open.
Lord Thompkins stepped inside.
Grief had aged him overnight. His once-immaculate cravat was askew, and his walking stick tapped unevenly across the stone floor. His face, ordinarily carved in cool dignity, was now a mask of fury barely held together by control.
Damon stood instinctively.
"My lord," he began. "I—"
"Do not," Lord Thompkins snapped. His voice was low, trembling with fury. "Do not dare say her name. Not from that mouth."
Damon's jaw tensed. "You have every right to be angry—"
"You think this is anger?" Thompkins stepped closer. "No, Your Grace. This is grief. The kind that devours a man alive. The kind you have given me."
"I did not kill her."
"You might as well have." Thompkins's hands clenched the head of his cane so hard the veins stood out like ropes.
"You toyed with her. You made her believe you cared.
You cast her aside like the others. And now she is dead.
My daughter is dead, and your name is upon her lips in every gutter rag from here to York. "
Damon said nothing.
"I saw the coroner's report," Thompkins continued, his voice breaking. "She was with child. You knew."
"I did not—"
"Liar!"
The word cracked like thunder.
Damon flinched, shame rushing up like bile.
Thompkins exhaled slowly, steadying himself. When he spoke again, his voice was cold as steel.
"You have disgraced your title, your house, and every man who ever bore the name Jameson. And I swear upon her grave, I will see you punished for it."
He took one step closer, lowering his voice.
"We shall meet again, Damon. Not in drawing rooms. Not at parties. In a court of law. And when we do, I shall be the one watching as you fall."
Then, with a final, scathing glance, Lord Thompkins turned and walked out—his cane striking hard against the stone, like the tolling of a bell.
The door shut behind him with a heavy clang.
Damon did not move.
The silence was deafening.