A shout ripped through the room—then chaos.
Men sprang from the shadows. Lucas crossed the space in three swift strides, staff raised. The first came at him, steel glinting in the low light. Lucas turned aside, catching the man’s wrist and forcing it down. The knife fell harmlessly, skidding across the floor. A shove sent the man sprawling into a pile of crates.
Another rushed forward. Lucas met him squarely, deflecting the blow and sending him off balance. A swift movement, a push, and the man went down. The thud of bodies and boots filled the air.
From the far end of the warehouse came Henry’s voice, clear and commanding. Glass shattered—then the constable’s men poured in, their shouts cutting through the din. Lanterns flared, footsteps pounded, orders rang.
“Hold your ground! Take them!” a constable called, his voice sharp as a bell. The sound of the law rippled through the room.
William and Henry entered from the rear, steady and resolute, driving the confusion toward the centre. The hired men found themselves caught between two advancing lines.
Lucas reached Elowen in a few quick strides. His hands worked fast at the ropes—careful, sure—though his breath came unsteadily. The coarse fibres bit at her skin, leaving pale marks, but at last the bonds loosened.
“Elowen—look at me,” he said, his voice low and urgent.
She lifted her head. A trace of dust shadowed her cheek, a faint smear of blood along her temple, but her eyes—bright, fierce, unbroken—held his completely.
“Lucas,” she breathed. “You came for me.”
“And I would have done so a thousand times over.” His voice trembled with conviction. He longed to take her into his arms, but there was no time. She seemed to know it too. Her gaze flicked toward the table strewn with papers.
“I think that’s what you’ve been searching for,” she said.
He turned. She was right. Spread across the table lay everything—the proof they had sought for months. Manifests, ledgers, accounts, payments—all in plain sight. His hand was steady as he gathered them, though his heart thundered in his chest.
Behind them, Victor rose unsteadily, fury overtaking reason. He snatched for the fallen pistol, knife glinting in his other hand. But William moved first—quick and sure. The two collided, the weapon flying free once more.
Victor struggled, desperate and wild, but his strength was no match for trained resolve. Lucas advanced, but before he reached them, one of the constables struck cleanly from behind. Victor fell, his resistance spent. The sharp click of irons ended the struggle.
A shout rang out above the noise: “Secure the others!”
Men were taken down, pinned beneath bodies, bound. Henry had the nearest attacker, twisting an arm, stepping hard. William checked the exits, eyes sweeping for threats. One constable barked orders, and the others responded, the warehouse filling with the sounds of rope, harsh breaths, and the metallic ring of restraint.
Lucas helped Elowen to her feet. Her legs wobbled before finding him—leaning into him as if she needed his steadiness to remain upright. He felt a warmth at his forehead—blood trickling from a cut where he’d struck the floor—but he noticed it only afterwards. All that mattered was that she was safe.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked, his voice a mix of urgency and relief.
She gave a ragged, trembling laugh that was almost a sob. “I am. I was. I thought—” Her eyes darted to Victor as the constable hauled him upright. Rage, sharp and raw, flared in her gaze. “They have papers. They wanted the manifests. They wanted to accuse you of—” She broke off, her breath catching.
Henry, freed from his own fight, was already at the table, crouched and rifling through the scattered pages. “Invoices, shipping logs, private ledgers.” He looked up at Lucas. “This is it. Look—payments to men under false names, routes through shell companies. And here—notes about consignments cleared through Lord Orvilleton’s warehouses.” He turned another page. “Payments to ‘special contractors.’ Names, sums, dates. Someone tried to destroy them. They failed.”
William stepped to his side, face hard, voice steady. “Payments dated last autumn. Transfers from Lord Orvilleton’s account to a clearinghouse ledger, then funds withdrawn in specie. Here—‘A. Beaumont—settlement.’” He swallowed. “Aaron Beaumont.”
Henry’s usually composed face tightened, understanding dawning with grim clarity. “The late duke of Beaushire withdrew after threatening exposure,” he said. “He intended to go to Lord Trenton. He had evidence—and they stopped him.”
Lucas’s hands clenched, though he didn’t release Elowen. “Who arranged my father’s death?” he demanded.
Henry sifted through another stack and held up a letter. “Here. A warning to the late duke—‘cease inquiries for your own safety’—with veiled threats. The handwriting matches Victor’s notes.”
Victor’s face was taut with fury. “You twist the facts to suit your purpose,” he spat. “Connections mean nothing without context. Men move money. Trade happens. You make villains of men who are only—”
“Only men willing to buy silence,” William cut in, coldly. “Only men who bankroll the kind of violence that killed the late duke.” He jabbed a finger at a ledger. “Here—payments to ‘labour contractors’ the night the late duke died. Their names match the men we found at the docks last week.”
Lucas stood motionless beside Elowen, the warehouse’s stale air pressing close. The pattern was clear now: money, power, and betrayal, all connected like strands of a web.
“And my father?” Elowen asked softly, her voice almost lost.
William didn’t look up. “It’s all here. Our father’s inquiries drew too near. His disgrace was manufactured—the same men who laundered money now laundered accusation.”
