Page 88 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
Thorne let out a harsh laugh. “Easier access.”
Then came a voice that was faint, and obviously roughened with pain.
“He’s bluffing.”
Then, a voice, faint and roughened by pain, cut through the tense air. “He’s prevaricating.”
From the far corridor, Jameson, supported by Christopher, staggered into view. Though pale and bearing the stains of his ordeal, he remained upright, albeit barely. The sight of him struck Thorne like a sudden chill.
“Still drawing breath?” Thorne sneered, his composure momentarily shaken.
“Much to your chagrin,” Jameson retorted, his voice weak but laced with defiance. “And still possessing my faculties.”
Christopher pressed the retrieved pistol into Jameson’s hand—lacking ammunition, yet possessing sufficient weight to appear menacing. Jameson raised it slowly, his arm trembling yet maintaining a semblance of steadiness.
“You will not destroy that satchel,” he declared, his voice hoarse. “Because you have not traversed this path merely to disappear into obscurity. You crave recognition. The fear you inspire. You desire to be lauded as the man who brought down Hawthorne. Not a phantom mentioned in a fleeting news-sheet.”
Thorne’s eyes darted between them, calculating, measuring the distance and the threat. And in that brief hesitation, Edward moved. With surprising swiftness, he stepped in from the flank and Thorne turned on him, roaring. But Christopher was already moving, slamming into him from behind and driving him hard against the wall.
Thorne shouted, and struggled but he was outnumbered, outmatched, and now, utterly exposed.
The fight drained from him like water from a cracked vessel, he fell to his knees.
The room fell quiet but for the rustling of ledgers on the floor and the ragged breathing of the men who had fought to reach this moment.
Jameson sagged against the wall, finally letting the pistol drop. “Remind me,” he muttered, “to never host a ball again.”
Edward allowed himself the ghost of a smile.
Christopher knelt to retrieve the ledgers, flipping them open just enough to see the seals, the signatures, and the trail of ruin Thorne had planned in painstaking detail.
“It’s all here,” he said. “Every name. Every theft. Every betrayal.”
Jameson nodded once, and then—
Finally—
Collapsed into Christopher’s waiting arms.
***
The arrival of the authorities was marked by their customary orderly disarray, brisk magistrates with fingers stained by ink, and constables with wide eyes, overwhelmed by the ruins of ambition and pride. Thorne was led away in chains, his defiant muttering gradually fading into undignified silence.
But Jameson’s perception was clouded. His world had shrunk to the immediate sensations of pain and urgency. Propped against a stack of crates, his shirt damp with blood and his breath shallow, the triumph of their victory held little significance against the ache in his chest, a void not caused by physical injury, but by absence.
Gemma. Was she safe? Did she know he still lived? What torment had she endured, believing him dead or worse?
Edward stood nearby, his voice steady as he spoke with a magistrate. Jameson turned his head with considerable effort. “Edward,” he rasped.
The older man looked down. “You ought to remain still. The physician will—”
“I must see her,” Jameson interrupted, the words wrenched from him. “My wife. I need to return home.”
Edward hesitated, a flicker of concern in his eyes and Jameson reached out, his grip on Edward’s arm weak but insistent. “Pray, Edward.”
The plea held no trace of arrogance, no vestige of pride. It was simply the raw vulnerability of a man—wounded, bleeding, and gripped by terror, not for his own life, but for the heart he had nearly lost.
Edward studied him, his gaze softening. And perhaps, for a fleeting instant, he glimpsed a reflection of his own past in Jameson’s desperate eyes. A love once nearly lost. A future salvaged by a single decision.
