The carriage ride to Riverside Mills was a blur of tense silence and jostling shadows. Sandra sat wedged between Paul and Eleanor, the latter gripping the seat with white-knuckled hands as the carriage careened through the darkened streets. Paul's profile was a study in controlled fury, his jaw clenched so tightly Sandra could see the muscle twitching beneath his skin. The scent of smoke grew stronger as they neared the riverfront, acrid and ominous, blotting out the usual smells of the city.
When they arrived, the scene was chaos. The mill's courtyard swarmed with workers, their faces smudged with soot, their voices raised in a cacophony of shouts and questions. Firemen wrestled with hoses, pumping water onto the smoldering remains of the weaving shed. The roof had partially collapsed, and thick, black smoke still curled from the shattered windows. Sandra's stomach twisted at the sight, her mind racing. *Deliberate. Accelerant.* The words echoed in her skull.
Paul was out of the carriage before it fully stopped, striding towards the cluster of foremen and fire officials. Sandra followed, Eleanor hesitating only a moment before joining her. The workers parted for Paul, their murmurs a mix of respect and apprehension. The head foreman, a burly man named Higgins with a soot-streaked face, turned towards them, his expression grim.
"Lord Barton," Higgins said, touching his cap. "Thank God you're here. The men are shaken. The night shift was just starting when it went up. Could've been worse, but—"
"Casualties?" Paul cut in, his voice clipped.
"Three injuries. Burns and smoke. Doc's with 'em now. No deaths, by some miracle." Higgins swallowed hard. "Lord Barton… it weren't no accident. Smelled the oil soon as we got close. And look here." He led them around the side of the building, where the fire seemed to have originated. The brick was scorched black, the wooden framing reduced to skeletal remains. Higgins pointed to a shattered window. "Broke in through here. Left the canister." He held up a blackened metal container, the stench of kerosene unmistakable.
Paul took the canister, his fingers tightening around it. "Who saw anything?"
Higgins shook his head. "No one, sir. Too early for the night watch. But…" He hesitated, glancing around before lowering his voice. "There's talk. A stranger asking questions down at the docks yesterday. Asking about shift changes, which sheds held the new looms."
Sandra's pulse quickened. "Description?"
"Tall, lean. Wore a cap low. But one of the lads said he walked like a toff, not a dockhand. And he had a ring—gold with a dark stone. Flashy for a laborer."
Paul and Sandra exchanged a glance. Hemsworth's signet ring—black onyx set in gold—flashed in Sandra's memory. *Too obvious. Or a deliberate taunt?*
"Secure the site," Paul ordered Higgins. "Double the watch. And spread the word—anyone who can identify that man gets a year's wages." He turned to Sandra, his voice dropping. "We need Davies. And the investigator. This was a message."
"Not just a message," Sandra murmured, her gaze scanning the milling workers, the fear and anger on their faces. "It's a wedge. Undermine your control, your ability to protect what's yours. Make the workers doubt you. Make *investors* doubt you." She thought of Hemsworth's smug face at the ball. "And it's working."
Eleanor, who had been silent until now, stepped forward. "The workers," she said quietly. "They need to see you now, Paul. Not just as the enforcer, but as their protector. The fire was an attack on *them* as much as on you."
Paul studied Eleanor for a moment, then nodded. He strode towards a makeshift platform where crates had been stacked for unloading. The workers' murmurs died down as he climbed up, his imposing figure silhouetted against the glow of the dying fire.
"Men of Riverside," Paul's voice carried over the crowd, deeper and more resonant than Sandra had ever heard it. "Tonight, someone tried to break us. They thought fire and fear would make us crumble." He held up the blackened canister. "They were wrong."
The crowd stirred, a low rumble of agreement.
"This mill is more than brick and loom. It's your livelihoods. Your families. And I swear to you now—it will be rebuilt. Stronger. And those responsible will answer." Paul's gaze swept over them, the intensity in his grey eyes like flint striking steel. "No one attacks what's ours and walks away. Not while I draw breath."
A cheer erupted, rough and fervent. The workers' faces, moments ago fearful, now burned with determination. Sandra watched, a strange tightness in her chest. This was the Paul Barton few saw—the leader, the protector, not the Beast of rumor.
As Paul stepped down, Higgins approached, a wiry young man in tow. "Lord Barton, this is Jem. Works the docks. Says he might know something."
Jem twisted his cap in his hands, glancing nervously between Paul and Sandra. "I seen 'im, m'lord. The toff with the ring. Met with a cove from Hemsworth Shipping down at the Black Boar. Overheard 'em talking 'bout 'timing' and 'distractions.' Thought it were just business, but…" He gestured to the smoldering mill.
Paul's expression darkened. "You're certain it was Hemsworth's man?"
Jem nodded. "Aye. Wore their colors. And the toff called 'im 'Hemsworth's hound.'"
Sandra's mind raced. Too obvious. Too easy. Unless Hemsworth *wanted* them to know. Unless this was another layer of the game.
Paul dismissed Jem with a generous coin and a firm handshake, then turned to Sandra and Eleanor. "We need proof. Not just whispers. Hemsworth is careful. He'll have layers between himself and this."
"Then we peel them back," Sandra said, her voice low and fierce. "Starting with the 'hound.'"
Eleanor surprised them both by speaking up. "The Black Boar. It's… not the sort of place a viscountess can go. But a woman down on her luck, perhaps…" She met Sandra's gaze. "I know those streets. The shadows. Let me help."
Paul stiffened. "Absolutely not. It's too dangerous."
"More dangerous than exile?" Eleanor countered softly. "More dangerous than living in fear?" She straightened her shoulders. "This is my fight too, Paul. Let me do this."
Sandra studied Eleanor—the quiet resolve in her eyes, the steel beneath the fragility. She thought of the ledger books, the way Eleanor had spotted patterns others missed. "She can do it," Sandra said to Paul. "But not alone. We'll have Davies arrange backup. Watchers."
Paul looked between them, conflict warring in his gaze. Finally, he exhaled sharply. "Fine. But minimal risk. And we pull her at the first sign of trouble."
As they turned back towards the carriage, Sandra cast one last look at the ruined mill, the workers already beginning the grim task of salvage. The fire had been meant to weaken them. But as she watched Paul's broad back, straight and unyielding, and Eleanor's quiet determination, she knew—it had only forged them stronger. The game had escalated. And Blackwood would answer, not with panic, but with precision. Smoke and mirrors only worked if you didn't know where to look. And Sandra had always been very, very good at seeing through the haze.