Page 87 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
Christopher was at his side in mere seconds, his blade already slicing through the tight knots. “Do not stir,” he commanded, his voice tight with concern. “You look devilishly unwell.”
Jameson offered a weak breath of a laugh. “And yet, I am sensible of the compliment.”
“Can you stand?”
“I shall crawl if necessity dictates,” Jameson muttered. “But I must inform you—ledgers. In the chamber north of the wine cellar. Concealed behind a false partition. Thorne was wont to boast of them. Everything is there such as transactions, bribes, and the lists of those who have invested in his schemes.”
Christopher stilled, then gave a curt nod. “We shall find them.”
Shouts sounded anew, closer now. Edward’s voice barked orders from above. A brief scuffle. Another shot. Then, silence descended. Heavy footsteps approached.
Christopher reached for his pistol, placing himself protectively before Jameson. But it was not Thorne who entered. It was Edward. Soot-streaked and breathing heavily, but unharmed. He cast a single glance at Jameson and muttered, “A dashed fool.”
“Edward,” Jameson said with a grimace. “Charming as ever.”
Edward turned to Christopher. “We have secured the upper floors. Thorne has taken flight down the rear stairs. Two of my men are in pursuit. We have six guards in custody.”
Christopher nodded. “Jameson informs me the ledgers are concealed. We shall require them to bring Thorne to proper justice.”
Edward’s jaw tightened. “We shall find them.” He turned, issuing swift commands to his men.
Christopher assisted Jameson to his feet slowly, with the utmost care. Jameson winced but remained upright, leaning heavily upon his friend.
“You found me,” Jameson said hoarsely.
“Gemma would have my head served upon a platter had I not,” Christopher replied, his tone laced with a familiar affection.
At the mention of her name, Jameson’s countenance underwent a swift alteration—anguish, a yearning tenderness, and a profound relief all contending behind his weary eyes.
“She is safe,” Christopher added with gentle reassurance. “With William and Abigail. They made their escape. She awaits your return.”
Jameson offered no verbal reply. Yet, the set of his shoulders perceptibly straightened. And for the first time since the sharp report of the firearm had shattered the stillness, a flicker of hope rekindled within him.
The atmosphere within the warehouse hung heavy with the aftermath of the violent encounter—the lingering haze of smoke, the cloying scent of exertion, and the sharp, metallic tang of spent gunpowder. Shouts still echoed from the upper stories as Edward’s men diligently swept through the remaining pockets of resistance. The guards whom Thorne had so confidently commanded now sat disarmed, some bearing the marks of the fray, all with grim visages, their misplaced loyalty having yielded them naught but ruin.
But Thorne himself had absented himself. For a fleeting moment. Until, with startling abruptness, he was present once more.
“There!” one of Edward’s men called, gesturing to the far corridor beyond the old offices. “He’s heading toward the stables—”
“No,” Edward said, already moving. “There’s no stable door that way. Only the records vault.”
The warehouse had been built to house imports, but Thorne had altered it—installed false walls and secret compartments, anticipating betrayal even as he sowed it.
Edward moved with startling speed for a man of his age and bearing, his cloak billowing behind him, his cane forgotten. He took a sharp turn into the lower hall—and stopped short.
Thorne stood before a substantial iron door, ajar by a fraction. Clasped in his arms was a well-worn leather satchel, swollen with parchment. The ledgers. The very evidence they sought.
He turned at the sound of approaching footsteps, his teeth bared in a grimace that scarcely qualified as a smile. “Ah,” he rasped, his breath coming in short bursts. “Edward Hawthorne. Come to exult in my misfortune?”
Edward’s expression was as unyielding as granite. “I have come to put an end to your schemes.”
Thorne retreated a step, clutching the satchel tighter. “I shall consign them to the flames. Every last sheet.”
“I don’t believe you will,” Edward replied calmly. “Because that’s not leverage. That’s desperation.”
Thorne's fingers twitched around the satchel. “Do not presume to lecture me. You businessmen are all the same—pretending virtue while bleeding fortunes from the poor.”
“And yet you robbed the rich.”
