“All he tried to do was help you. This is your fault!”
“I never told him to set that fire—or to threaten Foxbourne—” Crossings bit out.
“Not in so many words!”
Malum’s gaze flicked between them. With this stroke of luck, he needn’t ask any questions at all—they were doing a fine job of incriminating themselves, and Northwoods, of course.
Just before he went to interject, a knock sounded on his study door and Tipton entered. The butler inclined his head toward Malum. “The officers have arrived, Your Grace.”
Malum let out a deep sigh, his shoulders loosening slightly for the first time in hours. He wanted to know more of the details, of course he did, after putting so much time and effort—years of his life—into this investigation, but it was a significant relief to be able to pass it on to the proper authorities at long last.
He might never uncover the full extent of Crossings’ crimes, but he knew enough. The man who had worked side-by-sidewith his father was finally facing justice. The reckoning had come.
All of the lies and treachery would be unraveled with evidence, courtesy of Melanie and the late Roland Rutherford, to back everything up.
Admittedly, though, it wasn’t as satisfying as Malum had imagined it might be. There was no feeling of victory, of triumph. Just a sense that it was finished. A knowing.
But it was enough.
The officers entered shortly after, bearing an official-looking document, the ink on it still fresh—a warrant, issued by the Home Secretary himself, for the arrest of the Duke of Crossings.
Malum’s gaze lingered on Crossings for a moment longer, then he turned away, the matter settled in his mind. “These two are all yours now,” Malum instructed, his voice hard.
There was a moment of silent confusion, and then, “The lady too?”
“Mrs. Flora Green here is one of Crossings’ previous accomplices,” Beckworth cut in helpfully. “Based on the conversation we’ve had today, I’m sure she has much to say about all this unpleasant business.” The woman winced, shrinking in on herself as the reality of her situation appeared to sink in fully. “Lord Helton, the owner ofThe Gazette, has some notes for you as well, which I believe the Home Office will find quite useful.”
“You’ll also want to speak with Ewan and Bram Harcroft—for arson. My head of security at theDomuscan help you track them down.” Malum’s voice was flat.
“Excellent, Your Grace.” One of the detectives took note.
As the officers collected both prisoners, Malum’s thoughts shifted, and a quieter urgency replaced the one that had driven him through the past several hours.
He was done here. Now, there was only one place he wanted to be.
And that was upstairs.
At Melanie’s side.
NOT ALONE
Feeling unusually lethargic, at first, Melanie didn’t move. Her body ached, gradually bringing her to remember the events of that day. Her throat was dry and her head throbbed, but all was blissfully quiet—safe.
Slowly, fragments came back, pieces of an unbelievable dream. That horrid man with the gun—the Duke of Crossings. The fire. The letters, and the memories of her father…
And then, Harry.
Her breath hitched at the memory of his steady voice calling to her, urging her to keep climbing down that trellis.
“I love you,”he had said.
If it had been anyone else, she might have dismissed the words as mere encouragement—a lifeline to keep her moving despite the splinters digging into her palms, the ache in her legs threatening to give way before she’d even reached the halfway point.
But Harry wouldn’t do that.
Those words hadn’t been spoken carelessly; they had been rather blunt, actually, as solid as the man himself.
And if she’d had any doubts, he’d told her again, after bringing her…
