Page 86 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
“Edward,” Christopher greeted quietly, stepping forward. “You received my message?”
“Barely,” Edward replied, his usually clipped tone grimmer than usual. “Your man nearly broke my study window.” He looked to the warehouse. “Is Brookfield inside?”
Christopher nodded. “I believe so. The lower level. Injured, but alive. Thorne’s with him. I saw them.”
Edward’s eyes hardened. “Then we move. Quietly.”
Christopher raised a hand. “Not yet. Allow me to show you the layout.”
He pointed to the side alley. “There’s a narrow door—unguarded for now. Two men posted out front. But they haven’t done a full patrol, which suggests they don’t expect company. The lower window leads to the cellar. That’s where Jameson’s being held.”
Edward looked to the men behind him. “We take the side door, clear the lower level, and get Brookfield out alive.”
One of the older merchants, a thickset man with the steady hands of a former sailor, cocked his pistol. “And Thorne?”
Edward’s mouth curled faintly. “We let the law find him. Or we don’t.”
Christopher’s eyes never left the window. “He shot Jameson in cold blood. If it comes to it, I won’t miss.”
Edward clasped his shoulder briefly. “Then let’s finish this.”
***
Inside the dim, stone-walled cellar, the air hung thick with damp and silence.
Jameson’s head lolled slightly against his shoulder, his vision swimming in and out of focus. He’d been fighting the weight pressing behind his eyes for what felt like hours, forcing himself to hold on, toremember. Every detail Thorne had dropped—names, dates, locations. It was all inked now in his mind, etched through sheer force of will.
And Thorne?
Thorne was still talking, he had left the room and come back multiple times, each time to taunt Jameson in his state of weakness.
He was still pacing like a man preparing for the theatre rather than managing a hostage.
“…and once the shares are liquidated, the entire northern shipping lane will fall into my hands. By the time the papers realise what’s happened, I’ll be on a boat to Rotterdam with half the East India Council grovelling for a cut.” He smiled to himself, tossing back a gulp of brandy from a cut-glass tumbler, his mood positively buoyant.
Jameson opened his mouth to speak, likely something biting and deeply ill-advised, but then,ithappened.
A sound shrieked from above. It was not the accustomed tread of guards, nor the groan of aged timbers, nor the scurryingof vermin. Nay, it was pandemonium itself. Raised voices clashed, followed by a resounding crash and a sharp report that echoed down the narrow stone staircase like the tolling of a bell announcing conflict.
The tumbler slipped from Thorne's grasp, shattering upon the flagstones. The door was flung inward with violent force. One of Thorne's men stumbled into the room, his countenance ashen and his breath coming in ragged gasps.
“They are upon us!” he stammered. “We are surrounded!”
Thorne's visage underwent an immediate transformation. Vanished was the composed villain; in his stead stood a predator brought to bay. “Secure the ledger room!” he barked, his tone sharp with command. “Take Brookfield if you are able, if not, ensure his silence!”
The man hesitated, his feet rooted to the spot. Thorne viciously rounded upon him, his eyes blazing. “Go, you dolt!”
The guard fled, and Thorne snatched a pistol from the nearby table, his features a mask of cold calculation. Then, the first crack of gunfire echoed from the floor above.
The breach was executed with the precision of a Royal Navy manoeuvre. Edward’s men moved with celerity, spreading through the main level of the warehouse, weapons at the ready, their voices low but resolute. The advantage of surprise was theirs, and they seized it with righteous indignation.
Christopher advanced like a man with naught to lose. He felled the first guard with a single, well-placed blow, ducked beneath a swinging pistol, and led the charge down the side passage. Shouts reverberated behind him, and the thunder of footsteps echoed overhead, but his sole focus was the cellar door just ahead. He did not trouble himself with a knock. He kicked.
The door splintered inward. “Jameson!”
The sight that greeted him turned his stomach. His friend was slumped in a chair, stained crimson, the ropes biting cruellyinto his arms, his face pallid, his lips tinged with a disturbing blue.
“Still extant,” Jameson rasped, barely raising his head. “Though I cannot in good conscience recommend the accommodations.”
