James leaned forward. His eyes, the color of a tempestuous sea, latched onto the text with an intensity that bordered on voracious.
"Continue, Countess," he urged, his voice low, each syllable a soft command veiled behind the veneer of genteel breeding.
"Upon thorough examination of the wreckage," Selina began, her words painting the dread-laden scene, "it became apparent that the axle had not simply failed but..." She paused, the weight of implication heavy upon her tongue. A delicate breath escaped her lips—a silent prayer for strength—and she continued, "The evidence shows that someone tampered with Nile’s phaeton. In fact, the axel was cut. see?" she pointed to a line in the report.
James's countenance remained an enigma, yet the slight tightening of his jaw betrayed a flicker of something potent churning beneath the surface—was it ire or apprehension?
"A clean cut running more than halfway through," he said, the words rolling off his tongue. His gaze remained on the report, yet she felt the piercing scrutiny as if his eyes were burrowing into her very soul, seeking out the veracity of her findings.
For the first time, she wondered if he might be innocent after all. She shut her eyes for a second and drew in a calming breath.
"Indeed," she affirmed, her own resolve hardening. "It was no accident.” She moved her finger to the next line in the report “They found fragments,” she said, her eyes locked onto James, “of what appeared to be...” She trailed off, swallowing hard before continuing, “metal filings near the broken phaeton axle—further evidence that suggests intentional tampering.”
James’s posture stiffened. His eyes narrowed imperceptibly. The space between them thrummed with tension and mystery.
Selina watched as his gaze flicked to the page where the words lay bare the vile act, then back to her face. “And there is more,” she added, though itsuddenly pained her heart to voice the suspicions that had taken root in her mind.
His reaction was immediate, a furrow etching itself into his brow as if concern itself had carved a path across his forehead. “What more could there be?” James asked, his voice low and steady, betraying none of the tumult that surely roiled beneath.
Selina braced herself against the mahogany table, feeling the intricate carvings press into her palms. “Your wager,” she said, each word laced with anger and accusation, “on the outcome of the race.” Her fingers brushed against the report's edge, where the damning numbers were inscribed, a copy of the ledger that spoke volumes of the vice which held London's gentlemen in its grip.
James leaned back, his countenance now a mask of contemplation. He did not protest nor did he explain, choosing instead to absorb the blow, gauge its merit, and perhaps ponder the twisted fate that had entangled them both in this morass of tragedy and suspicion.
In that moment, Selina realized the perilous game they played—a dance of trust and treachery, where every step could lead either to revelation or ruin.
The information hung between them, its weightpalpable in the dimly lit library as she searched the planes of his face for any fissure of falsehood, any crevice where deceit might lurk. Yet what met her eyes was not the shadow of guilt, but rather an enigmatic blend of curiosity and resolve that caused her to further question her beliefs.
James took a measured breath, the subtle rise of his chest betraying none of the urgency that might have fluttered within. When he spoke, his voice carried the steady cadence of reason.
"Allow me to present something which may illuminate our quandary," he said, reaching into the pocket of his impeccably tailored waistcoat. His fingers, deft and sure, produced a folded piece of parchment.
With deliberate care, he unfurled the document, smoothing it so Selina could discern the names inscribed upon it. "Here," his finger traced a list, each name etched with precision, "are the names of those who bore witness to the calamitous turn of events on that fateful day."
Selina leaned forward, the warmth of his proximity doing little to quell the chill of apprehension that danced along her spine. Her eyes flitted across the assembly of names. Each one, possibly, a conspirator in her late husband's murder.
"Consider these gentlemen," James said, his tone laced with a hint of earnest entreaty, "and ponder their connection to Lord Hollyfield. For amongst them may hide the true culprit."
As she absorbed his words, the candlelight flickered, casting shadows that seemed to sway to the rhythm of her racing thoughts.
Selina perused the list, each name a member of London's high society—many of which she knew. Her gaze lingered on a few. Lord Henry Hawthorne's meticulously scripted name caught her eye. She knew him well. His character was as polished as his top boots.
"Lord Hawthorne,” she murmured under her breath, tracing her finger along the elegant curvature of his surname. "What secrets does he harbor behind those roguish smiles?"
"Hawthorne," James mused, observing her reaction closely. He leaned back in his chair, every inch the picture of relaxed nobility, but his eyes—sharp as a hawk's—remained fixed upon Selina.
"His debts are as notorious as his duels," he offered, "and yet, his loyalty to your late husband was said to be beyond reproach. Curious, isn't it?"
"Indeed." The word slipped from Selina's lips, lacedwith skepticism. She pondered the potential alliances and rivalries that her late husband had. Could the charismatic Lord Bernstein, with his golden hair and winning smiles, be implicated in such dark affairs?
"Curious that," Selina ventured, "This says that Lord Hawthorne's presence at the race went largely unnoticed, despite his... proclivity for standing at the center of all things consequential."
James's gaze intensified at her observation, a spark of admiration igniting within the cool blue of his eyes. His posture remained casual, yet there was no mistaking the keen intellect hard at work behind his composed exterior.
"Perhaps he prefers the role of puppeteer to that of the marionette," he suggested.
"Or perhaps he is both," Selina countered, feeling the weight of the evidence before them. “Though I find it hard to believe he was involved. Lord Hawthorne has been a friend, to first my husband and then myself.”
“Did you inspect Lord Hollyfield’s books?” James asked.
