The head constable approached, holding another ledger. “Lord Redley,” he said grimly. “Entries marked ‘reassuranceto keep quiet,’ then ‘if fails, remove.’” His voice dropped. “He suspected too much, drank more, talked more. He must have become a liability.”
Victor’s jaw tightened. “You’re inventing conspiracies. You want guilt, you’ll find one in any set of papers.” He spat the words, but his voice trembled.
Lucas stepped closer until they stood eye to eye. “You ordered Ambrose’s silence. You arranged my father’s death. You disgraced Lord Trenton. You paid men to do the work you were too proud to touch. Why? For profit? For power? Or simply because you could?”
Victor’s eyes hardened. For a moment, he said nothing. Then, his voice sharp and stripped of civility, he hissed, “Because I will not have men like Lord Trenton ruin what I’ve built. Because fools like Tremaine and Beaumont think truth deserves freedom. They threaten order. I preserve it.”
“Preserve it with murder? With blackmail and kidnapping?” Lucas’s voice was low, dangerous.
Victor’s expression twisted. “With sacrifice,” he snapped. “Sacrifice to secure stability. You think yourself clean? You think your father never compromised for his ideals? We are all monsters in someone’s ledger.”
Lucas’s voice steadied, quiet but cutting. “Perhaps. But at least my father fought corruption. He didn’t build it.”
The constable straightened, weighing the evidence in his hands—dates, names, signatures. “This is no longer rumour. This is proof. We’ll take them in.”
“You’ll need more than papers,” Victor muttered, lowering his head. “You’ll need men who’ll confess—and they won’t. Power protects its own.” His gaze flicked to Elowen, softening with something like pity. “You’ve found my guilt, but it will vanish in court. The ship has sailed, Your Grace.”
“Enough,” Lucas said. His fury steadied into resolve. “Lord Cherrington,”—he leaned close, voice like iron—“you used a woman as bait. You used violence as argument. Those are not tactics. They are crimes. You will answer for them.”
A constable stepped forward, securing the cuffs with professional calm. “Lord Cherrington, you are under arrest for kidnapping, conspiracy, and murder. Further charges to follow.”
Victor’s glare burned, unrepentant. “You’ll never prove it all,” he hissed. “Power protects its own.”
William turned away, jaw set. Henry sheathed his knife with quiet finality. The constable’s men moved to bind the others, turning chaos into order.
Lucas stayed with Elowen as they cleared the room. She leaned against him again, her tremors still unspent.
“You did it,” she said softly. “You found me.”
He brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, tenderly. “You freed yourself,” he said. “You kept your courage.”
She blinked up at him. “You’re… bleeding.”
“Just a scratch,” he lied, dismissing it. Pain was nothing beside relief.
Across the table, the constable read aloud, voice clear and sure. “Cherrington to Orvilleton—payment schedule: ‘Finalise Beaumont—September 12. Ambrose—reassure. If fails, proceed.’” He looked up, eyes hard. “Someone will pay for this.”
Lucas’s jaw tightened. The names were nails, the ledgers their coffin. He thought of Eric, of William’s composure, of Elowen with the cloth against her face—and what filled him was not triumph, but a heavy, enduring resolve.
“Take it all,” he said at last. “Let the courts see it. Let the city see what men do in darkness.”
Elowen turned toward him. “And after?”
“After,” Lucas said, his voice low, “we put it right. What they’ve broken. And we make certain it never happens again.”
Her gaze lingered. “And after that?”
He allowed a faint smile. “Then you go home. Safe. And I’ll be there too—while justice finds them.”
When the prisoners were led away in rough cords and the constables promised swift justice, Lucas watched Victor go—head high, eyes darting, the swagger already hollow. He watched power stripped of its pretence.
Elowen’s hand found his. He squeezed once—a silent vow. Then he crouched, checked the wound at her temple. She barely flinched but followed the constable’s movement as they gathered the papers that would make their case.
Outside, the night stretched vast and indifferent. Inside, the warehouse smelled of tar, paper, and iron. The battle had been simple—crates, ropes, deceit, and courage—and the truth was now laid bare upon the table.
Lucas folded his hands on his knees, feeling the ache in his shoulder, the hot trickle at his brow. He had promised. The promise sat heavy, warm, unbreakable.
He looked at Elowen and said simply, “I love you, Elowen.”
