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 hisreaction; 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 watersserving 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?
