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 withyour 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 sighescaped 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.”
