Page 43 of The Baron’s Reluctant Bride (Marriage Mart Scandals #4)

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.

“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, to remember .

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, it happened.

A sound shrieked from above. It was not the accustomed tread of guards, nor the groan of aged timbers, nor the scurrying of 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 cruelly into 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.”

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.”