Page 114 of The Brothers Hawthorne

He tried not to think about Ian.

He failed.

“You asked what the difference is between the deal you proposed and the one I did.” Jameson didn’t allow his voice to shake. “The difference is that under my deal, I win.”

All Jameson needed was to finish this. To prove that he could.

“You’d risk whateverthisis,” Branford said, holding up Jameson’s scroll. “A secret you claim is deadly, a price you never should have paid to be here, to win a prize that you don’t even want?”

To Jameson’s left, Avery looked up.

In the span of less than a second, Jameson considered his next move. If he ran, would Branford follow him? Would Avery be able to climb that chain, retrieve that box, unlock it?

One of them winning was both of them winning. Jameson knew that, almost believed it.

“You really are my nephew,” Branford said intently. “Far too much like my brother.”

That hurt. It hurt, but it didn’t matter that it hurt, because Branford was wrong.I’m nothing like Ian.

“I can’t take your deal, young man.” In one fell swoop, Branford returned Jameson’s secret to the inside pocket of his suit. “My father is not well. I’m the head of this family in every way that matters, and like it or not, you are our blood. If you’ve got yourself in too deep, ifyouare in danger, I’m afraid I need to know.” The expression on the viscount’s face was implacable. “I can’t give you your secret—not even for the final key.”

Family.That one word was seared into Jameson’s mind like a brand. He had the sense that it wasn’t one that Simon Johnstone-Jameson, Viscount Branford, used lightly.The bastard feels honor bound to protect me. And he’s willing to sacrifice Vantage to do it.

To Ian, Jameson had been disposable. To Branford, apparently, he was not.

That doesn’t change anything.It didn’t even matter if Jameson believed that, because the truth was that even if Branford’s wordsdidmean something to him, even if somethinghadchanged something—Jameson’s need to win hadn’t.

Hewasextraordinary. He had to be. There was no other choice.

Drawing in a breath that felt like needles in his lungs, Jameson made his way back to the chandelier and removed the five burning candles one by one, placing them on the floor. Then, without a word to anyone else—even Avery—he eyed the positioning of the chandelier’s chain, jumped, and caught it in his hands.

And then, he began to climb.

CHAPTER 77

JAMESON

The chain didn’t feel very sturdy, but it held his weight. The muscles in Jameson’s arms tightened and rippled as he climbed. Pain meant nothing. His bruises and battered ribs meant nothing.Just a few more feet.

Down below, Simon Johnstone-Jameson, Viscount Branford, still held his secret.Four words. AnH. The wordis. The lettersvande.

Jameson made it to the top. The final box—silver, antique, elaborately made—was attached to the chain with wire. Shifting his weight to his left hand, Jameson began pulling at the wires with his right. Eventually, the muscles in his arm began to burn. The wire bit into his fingertips, but Jameson pulled harder.

Even when his grip on the chain started to slip, even when the wire cut at his fingers and his right hand became slick with blood, he still kept at it. And finally, he ripped the box loose. “Heiress.” He looked back down over his shoulder, at the ground below. “Catch.”

He dropped the silver chest, and she caught it.

With slick hands and aching muscles, Jameson began to climb back down. He made it halfway—maybe a little more than that—and then just dropped. He landed in a crouch, his legs absorbing the shock, his entire body screaming.

And then, he turned to Avery and reclaimed the chest. She held out the key, but before he could take it, Zella spoke.

“I’m going to need that,” the duchess said, not specifying whether she was talking about the box or the key.Both.That was what Jameson’s gut said as Zella strolled across the room to stand toe-to-toe with Avery.

“The viscount here might not have been able to, in good conscience, make a deal for the final key,” Zella said. “But I am not so burdened.” There wasn’t any audible triumph in her tone—but there was something else, something deeper. “Branford doesn’t have your secret, Jameson. I do.” She tugged a flattened, folded piece of parchment out of the top of her dress. “My apologies,” she told Branford. “I made a little switch on our way here.”

Branford stared at her. Hard. “That’s not possible.”

The duchess gave a little shrug. “I happen to specialize in impossible.”