Page 85 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
He pushed himself away from the crate, moving with liquid grace.
"But the real fortunes, Brookfield, are made in collapse during panic. I need not own the entire board—I need only set it ablaze at the opportune moment and sell the ashes to desperate men.
A cruel, unfeeling smile touched his lips.
"Your investors are already uncommonly skittish. A whispered word here, a forged ledger there, and they shall turn upon you like starving rats upon a carcass. By week's end, I shall own their holdings, their debts, their very names. I will control the docks, the tariffs, and every trade route worth the ink with which it is recorded."
Jameson's eyes flickered, a thought forming through the haze of pain. "And Lord Sinclair? What role does he play in your grand design?"
Thorne raised a perfectly arched brow. "Collateral damage. Convenient in his timing. Weak enough in character to be expertly exploited, noble enough in birth to provoke your guilt. A most delightful combination of attributes, would you not agree?"
Jameson's jaw tightened, his voice steady despite the pain. "You are utterly mad if you believe this sordid affair concludes with me tied to a chair in your cellar. My friends and wife have not yet played their hand. The board of directors—"
"The board?" Thorne laughed, the sound echoing harshly against the stone walls. "Half of those illustrious gentlemen will flee at the first hint of scandal in the broadsheets. The others will deny ever having made your acquaintance, let alone having entrusted their fortunes to your schemes. And your wife, well, I hardly think she cares enough about a man she is arranged matrimony to."
Jameson grimaced. He would not fall for Thorne's lies, he knew that his wife favoured him from her heart with genuineness.
Thorne leaned forward, his smile narrowing to something predatory. "The only person who might conceivably thwart my designs now is you, Brookfield. Which is why I must confess, I find myself in something of a quandary, whether to allow you to bleed out quietly here, forgotten beneath the feet of society, or to return you to your devoted wife in several carefully wrapped parcels. Symbolism carries such powerful weight in these matters, do you not agree?"
Jameson's head fell forward slightly, a lock of his once-immaculate dark hair falling across his brow. His vision blurred, but not from fear or failing strength but from fierce, unwavering focus.
He meticulously etched every word, boast, and accidental revelation into his memory with the precision of a master engraver, his mind clinging to shell companies, docks, tariffs, forged ledgers, and whispered names like a drowning man to flotsam. Gemma would find him. His brilliant, indomitable wife would move heaven and earth. She would not stop. She would never stop.
And if he survived this, if God granted him that mercy, he would ensure Thorne never again set foot in society.
"You've gone quite pale," Thorne observed, extracting a gleaming pocket watch from his waistcoat. He consulted it with affected casualness. "Perhaps your injuries are more severe than I had anticipated. How dreadfully inconvenient."
"Your concern overwhelms me," Jameson managed, each word a struggle against the encroaching darkness at the edges of his vision.
“I’ll leave you to think it over,” Thorne said menacingly, stepping toward the door. “But don’t take too long. Bleeding out makes one dreadfully slow-witted.”
The door slammed behind him, plunging the room into silence.
Jameson slumped back, the effort of staying upright too great.
Even through the pain in his eyes, the unwavering spark of purpose persisted, declaring that this was far from over.
***
The sky was a pale, uncertain grey—the kind of colour that belonged to secrets. Dawn had yet to break in full, but the promise of it lingered along the rooftops of London, brushing chimney pots and shuttered windows with light like old pewter.
Christopher Hartley crouched in the shadow of a crumbling alley wall, his cloak pulled tight against the chill. His sharp eyes were fixed on the warehouse across the narrow lane—an unremarkable structure, save for its size and the two men who loitered near the front doors with the unmistakable posture of hired muscle.
He’d followed Thorne's trail through the quiet, winding streets from the smouldering wreck of Thorne Hall, slipping through side lanes and narrow passages like a fox through hedgerow. Twice he had nearly been seen. Once, he’d hidden behind a fishmonger’s barrow until the cart horse’s snort covered his retreat.
But now, finally, he had located their weakness; scanning the perimeter once more, his gaze settled on a poorly guarded single door to the side and, lower down, a narrow, soot-streaked window with rusted iron bars, behind which he detected movement, causing Christopher to narrow his eyes in focused intent.
He couldn’t see Jameson fully through the murk but he caught the flick of a coat, the glint of copper hair, and the silhouette of a man pacing.Thorne,the bastard, was inside talking to someone.
His heart leapt at the knowledge of Jameson being alive. But for how long?
He reached for the pistol tucked beneath his coat just as the distant clatter of hooves echoed down the cobblestones. Christopher tensed, retreating further into the shadows. But when the carriage turned the corner, a familiar voice called out lowly.
“Lord Hartley.”
Relief swept through him as Edward Lancaster dismounted, his heavy riding cloak flaring behind him. He was not alone—flanking him were six men, each cloaked and gloved, and most significantly,armed. These were not the dandies and clubmen of Mayfair. They were men who handled coin with one hand and pistols with the other.
They were merchants, investors and allies. All of them were furious.
