His words, meant to disarm, only steeled her resolve further. Selina refused to be diverted by his deft attempts at flattery. "I require answers, not flirtations," she said firmly. "Did you sabotage the phaeton, Lord Blackwood?"
"Would you believe me if I told you I was innocent?" he asked, his voice lowering to a murmur that belied the gravity of her inquiry. “Because indeed I am."
"Not without proof of such innocence," Selinaresponded, her pulse quickening as she awaited his rebuttal. “For if not you, then who?”
“I am afraid I do not know,” he said.
“It is as I expected, then.” She glared at him.
“We were once friends," he said, his proximity sending a shiver down her spine despite the warmth of the afternoon sun. “You can trust me, Selina. Allow me to help you discover the truth.”
She hesitated, torn between the desire for vengeance and the unnerving sense that there was indeed more lurking beneath the surface. Could she trust this man who stood before her, a paragon of vice and indulgence? What the devil was she thinking to even consider such?
“You are no friend of mine," Selina said. "And know this, my lord: the truth will come to light, and I will have my retribution."
"Will you be very disappointed when you discover it is not me who you need to make suffer?" he asked, a hint of a challenge dancing in his smile.
Selina met his gaze, her own reflecting a tempest of emotion that could not be quelled by charm alone. They were enemies even if he failed to realize it. “We shall see,” she said.
Offering a cool smile, Selina tucked the folded parchment into her reticule. She paused, allowingthe light breeze to cool her flushed cheeks. For a fleeting moment, she allowed herself the indulgence of closing her eyes, summoning forth the visage of Nile, whose memory spurred her onward.
“Good day,” she said, gathering the skirts of her lavender gown.
“Countess,” he said, offering a slight bow.
She strode toward the middle of the garden where Lady Charlotte held court. For now, she would rejoin her friend. Soon enough she would determine what to do about Blackwood.
Two
The brisk knock at the door of his London townhouse echoed through the grand hallway. James Barton, Viscount Blackwood, with an air of distraction, set aside the brandy decanter and stood from his leather-bound chair.
"Enter," he called, his voice carrying the weight of his station.
The door opened, revealing not his valet, but a messenger—a boy, really—clad in inconspicuous brown, looking as though he had been plucked from the streets and scrubbed clean for this singular purpose. In his hand, he held a missive, sealed with unassuming wax, no crest to betray its origin. It was the sort of letter that made ones skin prickle.
"From a lady," the boy said, his eyes darting about, taking in the room.
"Indeed?" James arched a brow, intrigue piqued as he took the offering. He flipped a coin that glinted in the muted light toward the boy, who caught it deftly before vanishing back into the hallway.
Once alone, James turned the letter in his hands, the paper crisp against his fingers. The seal broke with a quiet snap. Unfolding the parchment, his gaze flicked across the elegant script, each word etching itself into his consciousness with chilling clarity.
"Lord Blackwood," he read aloud, the formality a stark contrast to the message's ominous content. "Beware the widow's wrath. Lady Selina's accusations mount, and the ton whispers of scandal—the death of her husband, laid at your feet."
Shock jolted through him. Disbelief gnawed at him as his pulse thrummed rapidly. James's eyes narrowed, his jaw tensing as he paced by the window, the letter crinkling in his grasp.
He knew Selina harbored some ill-will toward him. She had hurled accusations at him yesterday. But this?
"Accusations of murder?" he muttered to himself. Lord Hollyfield's tragic demise had been a spectaclefor idle gossip, yet now it seemed his own reputation was at stake because of her.
To the devil with her. She had gone too far! How dare she spread rumors about him! He had a mind to wring her pretty little neck.
Hell, for all he knew, she had little to do with this.
James exhaled slowly. His mind raced, dissecting the implications of the letter. The urgency of the situation was not lost on him—the ton was a fickle beast, and innocence mattered little when faced with the maw of society's hunger for ruin.
"Selina," her name fell from his lips, a whisper laden with a history of uncharted depths and unresolved tension. Visions of her wavy blonde hair and those hazel eyes—often alight with intelligence but shadowed by sorrow—flashed before him. She was a woman wrought from the fires of tragedy.
Could she truly believe him capable of such villainy? Or was there more at play here than met the eye? He pondered the letters warning, a specter that threatened to engulf him in a darkness deeper than mere scandal.
