The rain fell in relentless sheets, turning the docks into a slick, shadowy labyrinth. Paul stood beneath the eaves of a crumbling warehouse, his collar turned up against the downpour, his gaze locked on the darkened silhouette of Dock Twelve. Beside him, Sandra huddled in a borrowed oilskin coat, her face pale but determined in the dim light. Eleanor, her arm in a sling from the graze she'd taken the night before, waited in the carriage two streets over with Mr. Davies and a contingent of trusted Barton men.
"You're certain this is the place?" Sandra whispered, her breath fogging in the damp air.
Paul gave a curt nod. "Jem confirmed it. The hound's been seen skulking around here since dusk." His hand brushed against the pistol concealed beneath his coat, the cold metal a familiar weight. "They'll come. And when they do—"
A flicker of movement near the dock's edge cut him off. Three figures emerged from the gloom, their forms distorted by rain and shadow. The largest—undoubtedly the hound, his shoulder bulky with bandages—gestured sharply to his companions. They fanned out, one heading towards a stack of crates marked with the Barton crest, the other towards the moored river barge.
Sandra's fingers dug into Paul's arm. "The crates—they're filled with raw cotton from the southern shipments. If they torch them—"
"Not tonight," Paul growled. He raised a hand, signaling the men hidden in the surrounding warehouses. Like specters, dark shapes detached from the shadows, converging on the dock.
The hound never saw them coming. One moment he was kneeling beside the crates, a flask of accelerant in hand; the next, he was flat on his back, Paul's boot planted on his wounded shoulder. His scream split the night.
"Looking for something?" Paul asked, his voice deadly calm.
The hound thrashed, his face contorted with pain and fury. "Bastard! You'll pay for—"
Paul leaned down, his grip iron around the man's throat. "Who sent you? Was it Hemsworth?"
The hound's lips peeled back in a bloody grin. "Wouldn't you like to know?"
A scuffle broke out near the barge as the other intruders were subdued. Sandra appeared at Paul's side, her eyes blazing. "The crates are safe. But we need answers, Paul."
Paul hauled the hound upright, slamming him against the warehouse wall. "Last chance. Talk, or I let the river have you."
The hound's bravado faltered as he glanced at the black, churning water. "Alright, alright! It was Hemsworth's orders. Wanted to hit your shipments, make you look weak in front of your investors." He coughed, spitting blood. "But the mill fire... that was his idea. Said if we couldn't have the riverfront, we'd burn it down around you."
Sandra exchanged a grim look with Paul. "We need proof," she murmured. "His word won't be enough."
The hound's grin returned, triumphant. "That's right, milady. No proof. Just my word against a lord's."
Paul's fist connected with the man's jaw, silencing him. "Wrong." He reached into the hound's coat, pulling out a folded slip of paper. Even in the dim light, the Hemsworth seal was unmistakable.
Sandra snatched it, scanning the contents with widening eyes. "Instructions. Detailed. With dates, times... and payment amounts." She looked up, her face alight with triumph. "This is it, Paul. This ties Hemsworth directly to the attacks."
The hound groaned, sagging against the wall. "He'll kill me for losing that."
Paul leaned close, his voice a whisper of steel. "Be grateful it's not me doing the killing." He motioned to his men. "Take them to the constable. And make sure this," he held up the damning letter, "gets into the right hands."
As the prisoners were hauled away, Sandra turned to Paul, the rain plastering her hair to her face. "It's over," she said, her voice barely audible over the storm.
Paul pulled her close, shielding her from the worst of the downpour. "Not yet. But soon." He pressed a kiss to her forehead, his lips cold but his touch warm. "Let's go home."
The carriage ride back to Blackwood was silent but for the drumming of rain on the roof. Eleanor, her face drawn with exhaustion, clutched a blanket around her shoulders. "Did we get what we needed?" she asked softly.
Sandra unfolded the letter again, the Hemsworth seal gleaming in the lamplight. "More than we hoped for."
Paul stared out the window, watching the city blur past. The war wasn't over—not with Hemsworth still free, not with Reginald's shadow still stretching long—but tonight, they'd struck a decisive blow. And for the first time in months, the weight on his shoulders felt just a little lighter.
As Blackwood's gates loomed ahead, Sandra's hand found his in the dark. Their fingers intertwined, a silent promise passing between them. Whatever came next, they'd face it together. The trap had been sprung, and the hunters had become the hunted. And Blackwood, for all its ghosts, stood waiting—a fortress, a home, a beacon against the storm.