Selina'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, hisvery 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 hadno 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 herdisappointment 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..."
