The morning after the confrontation at Dock Twelve dawned unnaturally bright, sunlight spearing through the lingering storm clouds like golden blades. Sandra stood at the window of Paul's study, the Hemsworth letter clutched in her hand, watching as a carriage emblazoned with the crest of the city constabulary rattled up the drive. Behind her, Paul and Mr. Davies pored over legal documents, their voices low and urgent.
"They'll want a statement," Davies said, adjusting his spectacles. "And the original letter, of course. But with this evidence, coupled with the testimony of the captured men, Hemsworth won't dare show his face in society, let—"
A sharp knock interrupted him. Mrs. Bell entered, her usual composure ruffled. "Lord Barton, the chief constable is here. And... he's brought reporters."
Paul's head snapped up, his expression darkening. "Reporters? This is a legal matter, not a spectacle."
Mrs. Bell wrung her hands. "He insists, sir. Says it's a matter of public interest, given the attacks on Barton property and the... the nature of the accused."
Sandra turned from the window, her back straight. "Let them come," she said, her voice calm but edged with steel. "If Hemsworth wanted a spectacle, we'll give him one. But on *our* terms."
Paul studied her for a long moment, then nodded. "The great hall. Ten minutes. And Mrs. Bell?" He fixed the housekeeper with a look. "Make sure Miss Vance is comfortable in the east wing. She's not to be disturbed."
As Mrs. Bell hurried out, Sandra smoothed her skirts, her mind racing. This was no longer just about proving Hemsworth's guilt—it was about controlling the narrative, about reclaiming the Barton name from the mud of scandal and rumor. She met Paul's gaze. "Ready?"
He crossed to her in two strides, his hands closing over hers. "Together," he said, and the word was a vow.
The great hall of Blackwood had seen countless gatherings over the centuries—feasts, balls, celebrations, and mournings. Today, it became a stage. The chief constable, a florid-faced man named Harris, stood near the fireplace, flanked by two junior officers. A handful of reporters clustered nearby, their pencils poised, their expressions a mix of curiosity and barely concealed hunger for drama.
Paul and Sandra entered side by side, their footsteps echoing on the ancient stone. The murmurs died instantly. Paul didn't sit; he took up a position before the hearth, his imposing frame backlit by the fire, every inch the lord of the manor. Sandra stood slightly to his left, her posture regal, her hands folded neatly—but not so neatly as to hide the Hemsworth letter she held.
"Chief Constable," Paul said, his voice carrying effortlessly in the cavernous space. "You have questions. Ask them."
Harris cleared his throat, clearly unnerved by Paul's directness. "Yes, well. Regarding the incident at Dock Twelve last night—"
"An incident *prevented*," Sandra interjected smoothly. "Thanks to Lord Barton's vigilance and the bravery of his men." She stepped forward, offering the letter to Harris. "This was found on one of the would-be saboteurs. I believe it speaks for itself."
The chief constable took the letter, his eyes widening as he scanned the contents. The reporters leaned forward, their pencils scratching furiously. "This... this appears to be instructions from Lord Hemsworth himself," Harris stammered. "Detailing payments for the attack on Riverside Mills and—"
"And the planned sabotage at Dock Twelve," Paul finished. "Along with references to previous acts of industrial espionage against Barton interests." He fixed the reporters with a steely gaze. "Gentlemen, you wanted a story? Here it is. Not the Beast of Blackwood, but a respected peer of the realm conspiring to burn, steal, and manipulate his way to dominance. All while hiding behind a façade of respectability."
One of the reporters, a sharp-eyed man from the *Times*, stepped forward. "Lord Barton, these are serious accusations. Do you have proof beyond this letter? Witnesses?"
"We do." Sandra's voice was calm but carried an undercurrent of quiet fury. "The men captured last night have already given statements implicating Hemsworth. And there are others—workers, dockhands—who've seen Hemsworth's agents skulking around Barton properties in the weeks leading up to these attacks."
Paul's hand settled at the small of her back, a silent show of solidarity. "This isn't just about Barton Industries," he said. "It's about the rule of law. About whether men like Hemsworth can operate above it simply because of their titles and wealth."
The reporters scribbled furiously. The *Times* man looked up, his expression unreadable. "And what of your father, Lord Barton? Given his... current circumstances, some might say this is a case of the pot calling the kettle black."
A hush fell. Sandra felt Paul tense beside her, but his voice, when it came, was measured. "My father is facing justice for his crimes. As should Hemsworth. The Barton name is no longer a shield for corruption. Let Hemsworth's be the same."
The reporters erupted into a flurry of questions, but Sandra barely heard them. Her gaze was fixed on the far doorway, where Eleanor stood half-hidden in the shadows. Their eyes met, and in that silent exchange, Sandra saw something unexpected—pride. Pride in Paul, in how he was wielding his power not for vengeance, but for justice. Pride in herself, for standing unflinching at his side.
The chief constable, sensing the shift in the room, drew himself up. "This evidence will be thoroughly investigated, of course. But given the seriousness of the accusations, I've already sent men to bring Lord Hemsworth in for questioning."
Paul nodded. "See that you do. And Chief Constable?" He waited until Harris met his gaze. "No special treatment. The law is the law."
As the officials and reporters filed out, the great hall seemed to exhale. Eleanor emerged from the shadows, her expression unreadable. "You did it," she said softly. "You've turned the tide."
"*We* did," Sandra corrected, reaching for her hand. "This was never just our fight."
Paul watched them, something unguarded in his face. "It's not over yet. Hemsworth won't go quietly."
"No," Sandra agreed. "But he'll go. And when he does, the world will see the truth—that the real monsters aren't the ones in chains, but the ones who've been hiding in plain sight all along."
Outside, the sun climbed higher, its light streaming through the stained-glass windows, painting the ancient stones of Blackwood in hues of gold and crimson. The shadows, for once, seemed to retreat. And in that moment, standing between the woman who'd become her unlikely ally and the man who'd defied his own darkness, Sandra felt something she hadn't dared hope for in months—the first, fragile stirrings of peace.