Chapter 3
The library smelled of old parchment, aged leather, and the faint, lingering scent of pipe tobacco that Richard Blackwood had abandoned years ago. Julian slipped through the heavy mahogany doors, holding a silver tray with a fresh pot of black coffee and a single china cup. He moved with practiced stealth, keeping his eyes downcast as he approached the sprawling mahogany desk where Richard sat alone.
Richard was not reading legal documents. Instead, he was staring intently at a small, worn leather journal bound with a faded red ribbon—Eleanor’s personal diary. The pages were open to a date just three days before her fatal accident.
"I did not ask for coffee, Julian," Richard said without looking up, his voice cutting cleanly through the quiet room.
Julian froze for a fraction of a second before recovering his composure. "Pardon me, sir. I assumed after your journey—"
"Leave it," Richard interrupted, finally raising his eyes. They were bloodshot, carrying the weight of sleepless decades. He studied Julian with a piercing intensity that made the young man’s breath catch in his throat. "You hold your pencil like a left-handed architect, not a career butler. And your shoes are too clean for someone who hauled those heavy vases through the mud this morning."
Julian’s heart hammered against his ribs, but he maintained a calm exterior, echoing the disciplined demeanor required of the staff. He set the tray down with absolute precision. "I apologize if my background is not to your standard, Mr. Blackwood. I simply wanted to ensure your comfort."
Richard gave a dry, humorless chuckle. "Comfort is a luxury I stopped affording myself the day Eleanor died. Sit down, young man. Or rather, stand there and tell me why Arthur Vance’s son is wearing a servant’s uniform in my house."
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The revelation struck Julian like a physical blow. His true identity had been compromised in less than twenty-four hours. He swallowed hard, his muscles tightening as he prepared to defend himself. "My father was innocent," Julian said, his voice dropping to a restrained, fierce whisper. "He didn't steal those securities, and he didn't look the other way when Mrs. Blackwood fell."
Richard stood up slowly, leaning his weight onto his hands against the desk. "Your father was a good man, Julian. Better than most. But he was protecting the wrong person. And so are you, if you think staying in this house will bring you peace."
