Regardless of her involvement, he had to put an end to this before it got out of control—assuming it hadn’t already.
Without hesitation, James strode across theroom to his writing desk, a resolute glint in his sharp blue eyes. He seized a quill and penned a succinct note to Lady Selina Whitcomb, the Countess of Hollyfield.
The words on the page were curt, a reflection of the urgency that gripped him—a demand for her to stop besieging his name. Sealing the missive with a flourish of wax stamped by his signet ring, he handed it to a footman with strict instructions for a speedy delivery.
"See that this reaches Countess Hollyfield without delay," he commanded, the timbre of his voice brooking no dissent.
"Very good, my lord," the footman replied, bowing as he took the letter and disappeared to carry out his orders.
With the die now cast, James turned his attention to the task at hand. His reputation, blemished from his roguish ways, but not irreparable, now hung precariously in the balance, threatened by whispers of murder.
He would not stand for it. Selina would retract her lies if she were indeed spreading them. And based on their last interaction, he would wager she was.
If his letter did not get through to her, he wouldfind another way. Regardless, he would not sit back and allow her, or anyone else, to ruin him.
James poured a tumbler of brandy, then set about laying the groundwork to clear his name. He drew forth a ledger, its pages worn from countless entries penned by candlelight. Upon these sheets, he listed names and places, connections and debts—each had a role in clearing his name. His contacts were many, culled from years of mingling with those who wielded power and those who lurked in the shadows of it.
"Stephens," he murmured, summoning his most trusted footman. "I shall require information on the attendees of Lord Hollyfield's final race. Discreet inquiries only."
"Of course, my lord," came the response, as reliable and unobtrusive as the man himself.
"Furthermore, arrange a meeting with Inspector Fleming at Bow Street. There are questions that need answering regarding the investigation of Hollyfield's death."
"Straight away, sir."
James would call upon every favor owed, leverage every secret gleaned from whispered confidences. If a murder had occurred, he would not be taking the fall for it. Leaning back in his chair, Jamestried to recall what he had done the day of the race. Where had he been that morning? Where did he go afterward?
Amidst the memories and missives, the quill and ink, James found his thoughts straying back to the Lady Selina. She was as enigmatic as she was beautiful. A lady that had long ago caught his attention, though he had never had the pleasure of truly getting to know her.
Perhaps once he cleared his name—put a stop to her accusations—he could come to know her on a more intimate level.
Shaking off such dangerous musings, he refocused on the task at hand. He could ill afford distractions—especially those of the female variety.
James finished his brandy in one large swallow, then extinguished the candles one by one, the darkness enveloping him. He had done all he could for tonight.
He retired to his chamber, the silence of the night echoing the solitude of his thoughts. Sleep proved elusive, and as dawn approached, he rose from his bed, dressed with purpose, and left his residence, stepping into the cool morning air.
He cast a glance skyward, where the morninglight painted the horizon with hues of rose and amber—a silent herald of the day's quests.
His boots echoed against the stones, a rhythmic cadence that matched the pounding of his heart. With every step, the weight of the accusations seemed to grow heavier—a tangible force that sought to drag him down.
The devil if he would allow anyone to ruin him. James quickened his pace, determination driving him forward. Still, it seemed someone may have arranged Hollyfield’s accident, and if so, James had to find the culprit.
He strode through the awakening city, passing vendors preparing their stalls and milkmaids with their clinking pails, before pausing at the iron gates of a discreet establishment known by few—a haven for those who navigated the undercurrents of information.
Here, he would gather resources, seek allies among London’s underbelly, and revisit old contacts whose loyalty could be bought or bartered.
As he entered the dimly lit confines of the establishment, his eyes adjusted to find the keeper—a man of dubious repute but invaluable connections—waiting with an expectant look.
"Blackwood," the keeper greeted, a knowing smileplaying on his lips. "To what do we owe the pleasure at this ungodly hour?"
"Information, my good man," James replied, sliding a purse across the counter—a weighty incentive for discretion and swift service. "And perhaps a touch of subterfuge. I need everything you can get about Lord Hollyfield’s tragic end."
"Say no more," the keeper said, pocketing the purse with practiced ease. "You will have what you need by week’s end."
With a curt nod, James turned on his heel and departed, leaving behind the murky world of secrets for the deceptive clarity of daylight. His mind was alight with strategies and contingencies, each plan meticulously crafted to peel away the layers shrouding Lord Hollyfield's untimely death and clear his name.
James set off once more, his pace brisk and purposeful as he strode toward his waiting carriage. This nonsense had already gone too far for his liking.
