Page 44 of The Baron’s Reluctant Bride (Marriage Mart Scandals #4)
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.”
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.
He sighed, a sound heavy with understanding. “I shall make the arrangements,” he said quietly. “But you will require an escort. Christopher—”
“I am here,” Christopher interjected, appearing instantly at his side. “And I shall not permit you to succumb to blood loss before you have the opportunity to utter some suitably poetic and ridiculous sentiment to your lady wife.”
Jameson gave a weak huff. “I’ll try to contain myself.”
They helped him to the carriage—gently, but even so, every step was agony. By the time they settled him against the cushions, Jameson’s breath was ragged, his vision swimming.
The journey commenced.
***
The carriage rolled to a halt before the Brookfield townhouse just as London’s sky shifted from ash to silver, the first strokes of dawn brushing across the rooftops like the delicate hand of a watercolourist. The street, still damp from last night’s rain, glistened faintly under gaslight.
Somewhere, a milkman clattered his way down the lane, blissfully unaware that one of the more dramatic chapters in the city's society pages was about to conclude, if not with a duel, then with an entirely public display of emotion.
Inside the carriage, Jameson drew a slow, pained breath and winced. Every jolt of the road had aggravated the wound at his side, and exhaustion pressed behind his eyes like a closing curtain. But still, he stirred.
The carriage drew to a halt before the Brookfield townhouse precisely as London’s sky underwent its transformation from the colour of ash to the sheen of silver, the nascent light of dawn painting the rooftops with hues as delicate as those applied by a watercolourist’s brush.
The street, still slick with the residue of the previous night’s rain, shimmered faintly beneath the gaslight’s glow.
In the distance, the clatter of a milkman’s rounds echoed down the lane, the purveyor of morning sustenance blissfully unaware that a particularly dramatic episode in the city’s chronicle of society was nearing its conclusion, if not with a duelist’s parry, then with an altogether public display of tender emotion.
Within the confines of the carriage, Jameson Brookfield inhaled slowly, a pained grimace etching itself upon his features.
Each jolt of the conveyance had served to exacerbate the wound at his flank, and a profound weariness pressed behind his eyelids like the descent of a final curtain.
Yet, despite his evident discomfort, he stirred with purpose.
As the footman stepped forward with the intention of opening the door and offering his assistance, Jameson raised a hand, trembling slightly. “Nay,” he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper. “I shall walk.”
Christopher Hartley, perched precariously on the carriage step like a disgruntled rook, turned to regard him with a disbelieving blink. “You shall what ?”
“Walk,” Jameson repeated, his posture straightening perceptibly despite the obvious agony it cost him. “To her. Upon my own two feet.”
“Do not be nonsensical,” Christopher muttered, swinging himself fully from the carriage. “You are losing blood through your coat. You require—”
“I require her,” Jameson interjected, his tone soft yet imbued with resolute clarity. “And I shall not stumble into my wife’s embrace like some sodden mariner dragged from the Thames. She has endured a vigil. Thus, I shall walk.”
A brief silence hung in the air. Then, Christopher expelled a sigh, the sound akin to a man resigned to the inevitable vagaries of human sentiment. “You are a most obstinate and sentimental fool.”