She was a widow, and when he had asked about her previous home and husband, he detected a momentary flicker of fear in her eyes. She’d been quick to conceal it, and another man may have missed the telling signs—her quick gasp, the rapid beat of her pulse at the base of her throat, the slight clenching of her fingers beside her skirts—but not James.
His instincts were well-honed from dealing with a wide swath of humanity—both victim and perpetrator. As a skilled cross-examiner, he had learned to carefully observe witnesses on the stand and not only to listen to the words that came from their lips, but to look for their physical responses.
He had offered to pay Bella Sinclair from his own pocket should Redmond Reeves be found fundless. He had initially accounted her adamant rejection of his offer as hotheaded anger and sheer stubbornness, but his gut told him there was more.
So what was the lovely widow hiding? A married lover, a hostile relationship with a meddling mother-in-law, or an overly aggressive creditor?
James had never been one to enjoy investigative research, yet he could think of nothing more scintillating than digging through layer after layer until he discovered all of Bella Sinclair’s secrets. He was, after all, a seasoned barrister and a notorious lover—and, when he chose to combine his skills, he could be an expert manipulator. If money could not get her to quit the place, then he would woo her into revealing her secrets. Whatever trivial problem she was hiding, he would use to his advantage.
His seduction must be systematic, methodical, and well-planned, his emotions tightly reined the entire time. Just like a trial, the jury must never see his inner turmoil, only a calm, confident barrister in control of his emotions and the courtroom proceedings, no matter what unethical tactics an opponent attempted or what surprising testimony a witness blurted out on the stand.
Confident with his scheme, James chose a chair by the stone fireplace and sat. He studied the drawing room and soon childhood memories returned. There were notable differences in the décor since his last visit years ago. Gone were the Grecian-style furnishings and Wilton carpet. The wallpaper had been changed to a Chinese motif of winding bamboo, and an Oriental carpet covered the floor, yet the room struck a familiar chord in his chest.
Even though he had inherited a vast amount of property throughout the country and a splendid London mansion, this small manor was an inner anchor, a place where he could escape and feel as if he truly deserved the dukedom recently bestowed upon him. The truth was he felt like a fraud usurping his half brother, Gregory, after all these years.
Only at Wyndmoor Manor had James felt like the old duke’s son.
Once a year until he had attended Eton, the duke would send a coach for James at the boarding school where he had resided and bring him to Wyndmoor. Here father and son would hunt, fish, and swim together. No grandmother, no Gregory, just James and the duke. The staff had been kind, and the word “bastard” had never been whispered in its halls. A full week later it would end, and the coach would return James to school.
So why hadn’t the old duke publicly accepted him as his son? According to his grandmother, his father had confessed on his death bed that James was his legitimate child. Then why had he not claimed James during his lifetime? Instead James had spent his youth ostracized by his family, spending Christmas dinners at the homes of friends kind enough to share their tables with a duke’s bastard son.
James had never been one to wallow in self-pity, and he had overcome his need of familial acceptance years ago. He had been driven to succeed, determined never to depend on handouts from his aristocratic grandmother. She, alongside his own father, wanted nothing to do with him publicly. So James had carved his own future and entered his pupilage at Lincoln’s Inn. He had found his calling as a barrister, and the three other barristers he shared his chambers with were more like true brothers to James than Gregory had ever been.
The duke was now dead, and although James had been stunned by his grandmother’s announcement, he was prepared to inherit what he had believed belonged to Gregory all along. It had been two weeks since his father’s death, two weeks since the dowager duchess had confronted him in the Old Bailey, and James had yet to speak with Gregory.
After the funeral, Gregory had immediately left London to visit a maternal aunt and no doubt deal with the astonishing news of his loss of the dukedom in private. James had not pursued him. They would both return to London soon enough to face each other.
James had left his grandmother at the London mansion and had departed to track down Redmond Reeves and settle the matter of Wyndmoor Manor. He’d had every intention of purchasing the property quickly and returning to London within the week, but then he hadn’t counted on confronting Bella Sinclair.
His lips curved in a smile. There was no question that the lady was hiding secrets. It had been a long time since James had felt challenged by a woman, and a country widow like Bella Sinclair did not stand a chance against him. He estimated she would be out of the house and his life in a week’s time.
Bella paced her bedchamber, tucking in the loose curl of hair that had escaped her knot and trying not to think of how Blackwood had touched the strands moments ago in the drawing room.
“Thank goodness you prefer this smaller chamber, luv. At least there’s no need to fight over the master’s chambers,” Harriet said as she folded Bella’s clothes and tucked them in the wardrobe.
“He’s fortunate indeed I chose this room.” Bella had fallen in love with the rose-hued wallpaper and canopied bed. Across from the master’s chambers, it faced the back of the house, and she had a splendid view of the sun rising over the back gardens.
“I agree. Knowing how determined you can be if you had chosen the other room, I suspect you’d both be sleeping in it now,” Harriet said.
Bella stopped pacing and whirled around. “Harriet! As if I would ever consider sharing a meal with that man, let alone a room!”
“He’s a handsome one, he is,” Harriet said.
“So was Roger, remember?”
Harriet’s brow pulled into an affronted frown. “Do not believe for one instant that all men are like your deceased husband in disposition. As for looks, Roger was twenty years your senior and fair-haired. The duke looks nothing like him and can only be in his early thirties—”
“Outer appearances aren’t everything. He shares his same black heart.” Bella didn’t want to think of Blackwood as handsome. His dark hair, deep blue eyes, and strong profile could only be regarded as haughty and stubborn.
Liar, her inner voice cried out. The mere touch of the duke’s hand in her hair had sent an unwelcome surge of excitement through her. And when his breath fanned her face, her skin had tingled uncomfortably. He was a dangerous man—one who wielded both power and virility to his advantage.
“What makes you think he has a black heart?” Harriet asked.
“He all but ordered me out. When I refused to do his bidding, he insisted on staying here. He also claims he’s legally entitled to Wyndmoor because he recorded the deed even though I was first to purchase the place and first to move in.”
“Perhaps you should seek the services of a barrister, but I doubt there is one in the village. We may have to travel to London,” Harriet said.
Bella bit her bottom lip. “I know it’s a good idea, but the matter cannot go to court. Should my character arise, people may question the circumstances surrounding Roger’s death. They may look into his unsavory business ventures. What if Blackwood went to Plymouth to question people about me?”
Harriet stepped close and touched her shoulder. “Don’t fret, Bella. You would only be seeking a legal opinion to be certain he’s telling the truth. Besides, Blackwood’s a duke. Surely he has responsibilities