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“It should,” Gideon replied with quiet understanding.

“But the job is done.” Ian handed him a thick bundle of papers. “Everything you asked for.”

Gideon accepted the documents, feeling the weight in his hands. “Thank you, Ian. This might be exactly what we need.”

They clasped hands once more.

“Send my regards to your wife,” Gideon called as Ian turned to leave.

“I will. Right after I grovel.” Ian offered a wry smile and vanished into the night.

Back upstairs, Gideon returned to the drawing room, the documents in hand.

St. John raised an eyebrow. “What are those?”

Gideon began untying the string. “I stole these from Norfolk the night I killed him. He documented everything—his transactions, his contacts, his crimes. I’m hoping they lead us to the Cardinal.”

The table soon filled with pages—letters, records, shipping logs, even encrypted notes. The men gathered around. Only Roth and Leila remained focused on the sketch.

Gideon scanned the documents, noting foreign postmarks and familiar dates. One by one, patterns emerged—confirmations of places where Leila had lived while under the Cardinal’s watch.

“Look at this,” Payne said, holding up a letter. “Dated eight years ago. This looks like when the leadership changed hands.”

Gideon read it. His jaw tightened. “So the current Cardinal took over eight years ago. He’s not the one who killed my family.”

But he’d destroyed Leila’s life. And that was enough.

Across the room, Roth was finishing his sketch.

“Yes!” Leila said suddenly. “That’s him. That looks like him.”

Everyone turned toward her, then to the drawing. They crowded around.

Gideon’s heart stopped.

He stared at the familiar face. The refined cheekbones. The cold, calculating eyes.

Recognition hit like a blade to the gut.

“I can’t believe this,” Payne whispered, white as a sheet.

The room held its breath. Silence wrapped around them like a noose.

Gideon found his voice, though it came out low and hoarse.

“Mr. Marcus Townsend.”

Lord Payne’s cousin.

Helen and Ian

Helen’s eyes fluttered open to the sound of silence—a quality of quiet that felt wrong, incomplete. Instinctively, her hand reached across the expanse of cool linen to Ian’s side of the bed, finding only empty space where his warm body should have been. The sheets were cold to the touch, suggesting he had been gone for some time.

Cold sweat began to bead along her spine as she sat up abruptly, her heart hammering against her ribs. The curtains were drawn tight against the night, but thin slivers of moonlight filtered through the gaps, casting silver shadows across the empty pillow beside her.

“Ian?” she called softly into the darkness, though she already knew he wouldn’t answer.

This was the first time in their short marriage that he had simply vanished without explanation. Even when his work for the Crown required his absence, he always informed her beforehand, always kissed her goodbye with promises of his return.