Chapter 16
Dominic kept his gaze fixed on both men, his tone even. “Why are you doing this?” he asked Blackthorn, lowering the pistol.
Blackthorn’s eyes glinted with something far darker than amusement—hatred. “Because I’ve been waiting for the chance to kill you for years,” he said. “And Whitmore here has handed me the perfect excuse.”
“What did I ever do to you?” Dominic asked.
Blackthorn’s expression twisted. “You took the love of my life,” he stated. “You may not have struck the final blow, but you condemned her all the same. So when Whitmore came to me, whispering about revenge for his dead sister, I knew this was my chance to make you pay.”
Dominic’s brow furrowed. “Whitmore’s sister… she was your lover?”
Blackthorn nodded once, his jaw clenched. “Yes. She was everything to me. And you took her from me.”
“I had no idea,” Dominic said.
Blackthorn’s nostrils flared. “Of course you didn’t. Because to you, she was just another thief. But to me… she was my future.”
“She stole from half the households in Mayfair,” Dominic pointed out.
Whitmore scoffed from the side, still holding his weapon steady. “Can we kill him now?”
“Not yet,” Blackthorn murmured. “I think it would be far more satisfying to keep him alive long enough to see us kill his precious wife.”
Dominic’s entire body went rigid. “You will not go anywhere near Dorothea.”
“Oh?” Blackthorn sneered. “And what exactly do you plan to do about it? You’ve no allies here. No army. You’re just a man that is cornered and outnumbered.”
Dominic’s eyes flicked towards Whitmore. “You’d murder a defenseless woman? That’s your grand revenge?”
Whitmore didn’t flinch. “And you didn’t? My sister was left to rot on a floating coffin because of you. What’s the difference?”
“She made a choice,” Dominic growled. “She knew the risks when she stole what she did. She wasn’t some innocent flower caught up in a misunderstanding.”
“She stole from people who wouldn’t even miss what she took,” Whitmore spat. “People with more wealth than sense. You should have let her go.”
“The law doesn’t work like that.”
“The law,” Blackthorn drawled, “was always a cudgel in your hand, wasn’t it? You used it to crush people like her—like us. And now you want to cry foul because the tables have turned?”
Blackthorn took a step closer as he continued. “I must say, I was surprised when I heard you were given a title. The king must’ve been scraping the bottom of the barrel.”
Dominic tilted his head. “It was for valor and service to the Crown. Something you wouldn't understand.”
Blackthorn gave a humorless laugh. “Oh, I understand sacrifice, Dominic. I just never got a medal for mine.”
Dominic’s grip tightened around the pistol in his hand. “I must say that the most insulting part of all this is that you believe I came here alone.”
Blackthorn’s confident sneer faltered, the barest flicker of uncertainty flashing through his eyes. “You’re bluffing,” he said with a glance over his shoulder. “I see no one else.”
“I may be many things but a bluffer is not one of them. You each have one chance,” Dominic added, raising the pistol until it aligned with Blackthorn’s chest, “to lower your weapons and walk away. I won’t offer it twice.”
Whitmore gave a barking laugh. “And why would we do that?”
“Because,” Dominic replied, his tone clipped and deliberate, “if you don’t, you’ll either end up in Newgate or you’ll be dead before you hit the ground.”
Whitmore’s gaze darted towards Blackthorn. “Can I kill him now?”
Blackthorn gave a shallow nod. “We’ll do it together. On three.” He raised his pistol higher. “One…”
Dominic tensed, feet braced and finger ready on the trigger.
“Two—”
“Wait!” Blackthorn shouted.
Dominic let out a long breath of relief as Lord Alcott stepped into view, his pistol pressed up against Blackthorn’s head.
“You took your time,” Dominic said, not lowering his weapon.
Alcott smirked. “I wanted to make sure the constables heard every word of their charming little conspiracy before we stepped in.”
“The constables?” Whitmore asked, a tremor creeping into his voice.
“Yes, we’ve been listening from just beyond the alley,” Alcott confirmed. “We heard your confession about conspiring with your sister, your plan to harm Lady Warwicke, and your attempt on Lord Warwicke’s life. Very compelling testimony, really.”
At that moment, three broad-shouldered men emerged at the far end of the alleyway, their pistols drawn and aimed, their expressions grim.
Dominic moved towards Blackthorn without ceremony, wrenching the pistol from his hand. “You played your hand and you lost.”
Alcott stepped closer, eyes still on Whitmore. “It wasn’t a very good hand to begin with,” he quipped.
Blackthorn’s jaw tightened. “You think you’re clever, do you?”
“No,” Dominic answered, tucking the seized pistol into his coat, “but I was wise enough to know you were never to be trusted.”
Whitmore let out a furious growl and suddenly raised his pistol, the barrel trembling in his grasp. “No! You won’t win! You can’t!”
Dominic turned slowly to face him, his own pistol once again raised. “It’s over, Whitmore. There’s no need for anyone to die today.”
Whitmore’s eyes were wild now, darting between Dominic, Alcott, and the constables. “There is,” he hissed, desperation etched across his face. “If you die with me!”
Alcott smoothly shifted his aim, the pistol now trained on Whitmore. “If your finger so much as twitches, I will put a hole through you.”
Whitmore stood frozen, sweat beading at his brow as the weight of the moment crashed down upon him. The alley now hung in brittle silence—waiting for someone to flinch.
At last, Whitmore’s shoulders sagged and he lowered the weapon fully, letting it dangle at his side. A long, bitter sigh escaped his lips. “I suppose,” he muttered, his voice rough with defeat, “I do want to see another sunrise.”
Dominic stepped forward, his own pistol still drawn as a precaution. He reached out and relieved Whitmore of his weapon.
“I’m sorry about your sister,” Dominic said, sincerity laced through his words. “I never meant for her to die.”
Whitmore’s eyes flashed with a mixture of grief and fury. “Well, your choices made it happen,” he bit out. “You can dress it up with good intentions, but she’s still dead.”
Dominic knew there was nothing more that he could say.
Two of the constables stepped forward with heavy, purposeful steps. They seized Whitmore and Blackthorn by the arms. Neither man struggled as they were escorted out of the alleyway and into the night beyond.
Dominic turned towards Lord Alcott, knowing what needed to be said. “Thank you,” he said. “For saving my life.”
Alcott merely smiled. “The way I see it, I still owe you for saving my life a time or two on the battlefield.”
Dominic tucked his pistol back into the waistband of his trousers and cast a glance around the narrow alley, its walls slick with grime and its air still thick with damp rot. “Shall we get out of here?”
Alcott chuckled. “I thought you’d never ask.”
They stepped out of the alley and onto the cobbled pavement. The misty night wrapped around them, but it felt less oppressive now. The danger had passed. For the moment, all was quiet.
As they walked, Dominic let the silence stretch, each footstep marking a strange, unfamiliar sensation—peace. The threat to Dorothea was gone. The men who had plotted against her were in custody. She was safe.
For now.
Was Mr. Haverleigh right, after all? Could Dominic truly protect Dorothea if he went through with the annulment?
Beside him, Alcott broke the silence. “You’ve gone rather quiet,” he observed.
Dominic didn’t look at him. “I’m thinking.”
“If I had to guess, you are thinking about your wife.”
“I am.”
Alcott shook his head with exaggerated dismay. “Women. Burdensome creatures, the lot of them. You can’t live with them.”
Dominic’s brow creased, half-amused, half-weary. “I believe the quote you’re butchering is by Desiderius Erasmus: ‘Women, can’t live with them, can’t live without them.’”
Alcott snorted. “No, no. I maintain you can live without them. Happily, in fact. They spend our money, test our patience, and tangle our lives into knots.”
He grew silent, retreating to his own thoughts once more. Dorothea wasn’t simply a woman. She was his. His wife. His responsibility.
And he was beginning to fear that letting her go might not protect her after all.
It might, in fact, destroy him.
Dorothea sat in the drawing room, her hands folded neatly in her lap as she waited for the dinner bell to ring. The day had passed slowly—too slowly—and she had spent most of it in a state of restless anticipation. Though she had tried to rest, her thoughts kept returning to one person: Dominic.
When they had first met, she hadn’t been looking for love.
She had long since convinced herself that she didn’t need it, that it was a foolish notion meant for others, not for her.
But Dominic had come crashing into her world with that intense gaze and wounded soul, and suddenly all of her carefully laid beliefs had begun to unravel.
He hadn’t asked for her heart, but somehow, he had taken it anyway.
How was it fair to love a man who seemed so determined to push her away?
And yet… she did love him. Fiercely. Unshakably.
Her head turned at the faintest rustle, and her breath caught in her throat. There he stood, leaning casually in the doorway, dressed in his fine clothes and a crooked grin playing at the edges of his mouth. Just the sight of him made her heart swell.
Why did her heart feel so at ease with him? Little by little, without even realizing it, she felt more drawn to him.
“Good evening, Thea,” he said.
A soft smile curved her lips. “Good evening, Dominic.”
He pushed away from the doorframe and stepped into the room. “You’re safe now. I made certain of it.”
Her brows lifted. “How?”
“The footman is no longer a threat,” he said. “He’s in Newgate now. And if justice prevails, he’ll be transported soon enough.”