Page 10 of The Baron’s Reluctant Bride (Marriage Mart Scandals #4)
Jameson Brookfield stood near the hearth, his arms folded across his chest whist an undeniable severity settled upon his face.
Seated across from him at the heavy mahogany desk was Edward Hawthorne, his father’s old associate and a man whose salt-and-pepper hair lent him an air of unassailable gravity.
“The matter has gained a momentum entirely disproportionate to the event itself,” Edward said, folding his hands with steepled precision. “A young lady’s reputation compromised on a terrace at a musicale—hardly a novelty in London, but this? This has spread like fire through dry brush.”
Christopher gave a low whistle. “I heard Lady Beresford referred to it as a ‘calamity of Grecian proportions.’ And you know she only brings in the Greeks when she’s truly scandalised.”
Jameson’s jaw tightened. “It was a conversation. A brief one.”
“A private conversation. In full view of Lady Winfield’s French windows,” Christopher pointed out with mock solemnity. “You might as well have stood on a table and declared your undying passion.”
Jameson shot him a warning glare.
Edward, ever the pragmatist, ignored the levity. “This affair, if left unchecked, may do more than tarnish Miss Sinclair’s reputation. It risks attaching your name, and ours, to impropriety.”
“I hardly have much to leave when it comes to impropriety,” he said.
“The problem is that you have never engaged mistresses from nobility which is a very important distinction, Brookefield. Let alone the sister of one of Thorne’s new pawns. Investors are watching. If Thorne intends to exploit this, we are giving him a golden opportunity.”
At the mention of Thorne, Jameson’s eyes darkened. “He is behind this,” he said quietly. “The timing is too convenient. He thrives on quiet ruin—on whispers and insinuation. Mark me, he’s pulling threads somewhere.”
“Which is why we must act before he does,” Edward said firmly. “And blunt the edge of this gossip before it becomes a blade.”
Christopher pushed away from the windowsill, his languid posture giving way to something altogether more deliberate. His gaze settled on Jameson with the quiet satisfaction of a man about to drop a rather unwelcome truth.
“There is, of course, a remedy to all this unpleasantness,” he said with studied casualness.
Jameson narrowed his eyes. “Good God. I recognise that tone. I want no part of it.”
Christopher ignored him. “Matrimony is the only solution.”
Jameson blinked. “To Miss Sinclair ?”
“To Miss Sinclair,” Christopher confirmed. “Think of it as a timely, respectable alliance. It would silence the wagging tongues, shield her honour, and render any further slander both tasteless and ineffective.”
“It would certainly draw you into closer acquaintance with her brother.” Edward added, watching Jameson with a calculating gleam. “William is young, impressionable, and currently dancing far too near Thorne’s fires. A brother-in-law is rather more difficult to ignore.”
Jameson rubbed a hand across his jaw. “You speak as though I have no say in the matter.”
“Oh, you have a say,” Christopher said cheerfully. “You’re just surrounded by men who will do their utmost to convince you that the logical choice is also the inevitable one.”
“Inevitable?” Jameson echoed. “You make it sound like a weather pattern.”
“Much the same, really,” Christopher replied. “Impossible to avoid, mildly inconvenient, and best weathered with a decent coat, or in this case, a matrimonial contract.”
Jameson threw him a look of withering disapproval. “You are a terrible friend.”
“And yet, here I am, advising you to wed a lovely, clever lady before Thorne uses this situation to drive a wedge through your business and your good name. I dare say I’m the best friend you’ve got.”
Edward gave a rare smile. “And, if I may speak plainly, Miss Sinclair would not be the worst possible match.”
Jameson fell silent, staring out toward the distant masts bobbing gently in the harbour. Such a sudden and bold conceit should by rights have been dismissed entirely. Yet, it remained fixed in the mind—stubbornly unsettling.
Miss Sinclair, with her arch glances and barbed wit, her barely restrained exasperation with society’s hypocrisies, and her calm dignity in the face of whispered ruin...
He let out a breath. “You’re both out of your minds.”
“Possibly,” Christopher said. "But our timing, I assure you, is quite capital."
Edward regarded Jameson with fatherly concern. "Consider carefully, my boy," he advised. "Remember what happened with Lady Caroline. Guard your heart in whatever you decide."
The mention of Caroline sent a familiar pang through Jameson's chest. He had sworn never to make himself vulnerable again, never to trust another with his heart.
Yet there had been something in Miss Sinclair's eyes—intelligence, strength, and a hint of vulnerability that had stirred feelings he thought long dead.
***
The next day, further argument in the Sinclair household was forestalled by the sudden appearance of Simmons.
The butler moved with his usual quiet efficiency, yet there was a faint tension in his posture, one Gemma had learned to read over the years.
He paused just inside the drawing room door, his face a careful mask of professionalism, though his eyes flickered briefly toward her.
“My Lady,” he said, bowing low to Helena. “Forgive the intrusion, but... Lord Brokeshire has arrived. He requests an immediate audience with Lord Sinclair.”
A sudden hush descended upon the drawing-room. Gemma's breath hitched as her fingers, which had barely worked upon the embroidery, now lay quite motionless. Lord Brokeshire? Here?
William visibly blanched, the colour draining from his already pale features. “Brookfield?” he echoed, half-rising from his chair, as though unsure whether to flee or stand his ground.
Helena stared at Simmons, as though he had spoken in some foreign tongue. “Lord Brokeshire is here?” she repeated, her voice thin with disbelief. “Now? At this hour?”
Gemma’s heart began to pound in her chest, loud and insistent. Jameson Brookfield, the very man whose name had lingered unspoken between whispered gossip and pointed glances these past few weeks, stood at their threshold? Unannounced? With business for William?
Whatever warmth the fire offered did little to ease the chill that crept up Gemma’s spine. Something was amiss.
She rose slowly, eyes flicking from her brother’s guilty expression to her mother’s stricken one. Only Simmons remained composed, though his knuckles whitened slightly around the silver tray in his hands.
“Shall I show him in, My Lady?” he asked, voice low but steady.
No one answered immediately, and the silence was suffocating. Gemma’s lips parted, but the words wouldn’t come. Jameson Brookfield—the infamous rake, the man she had hoped to never see again outside the ballrooms of London, was now waiting in their entryway.
“Why is he here? Can you not stall him?” her mother said.
"No, My Lady. He was most insistent on the immediacy of the matter."
William squared his shoulders, visibly gathering his composure. "Very well. Show him in, Simmons."
"William, you cannot be serious," Helena protested. "After what occurred last night—"
"It is precisely because of last night that we must receive him," William interrupted. "Whatever his purpose, it would be foolish to turn him away."
The moments that followed were a blur of hasty preparation. Helena straightened her cap and smoothed her skirts while Gemma attempted to arrange her features into a semblance of dignified composure. William hastily tied his cravat and ran a hand through his hair in a futile attempt to tame it.
Simmons returned moments later, announcing with practiced solemnity, "Lord Brokeshire.”
Jameson Brookefield entered the morning room with measured steps, his expression grave but determined.
He was impeccably dressed in a bottle-green coat that enhanced the color of his eyes, his cravat was tied in a simple yet elegant style.
Despite the early hour, he appeared perfectly groomed and alert, giving no indication of having spent the previous night embroiled in scandal.
Gemma felt an intense resentment towards him for what had transpired between them.
He bowed first to Helena, then to Gemma, whose eyes he politely avoided, and finally to William, before speaking. "Lord Sinclair, Lady Sinclair, Miss Sinclair. I apologize for the intrusion at this early hour, but I believe the circumstances warrant immediate attention."
William gestured stiffly to a vacant chair. "Please, be seated, Lord Brokeshire."
"Thank you." Jameson settled himself with casual elegance, seemingly oblivious to the tension suffusing the room. "I shall come directly to the point. Last night's unfortunate incident has placed Miss Sinclair in a compromising position, for which I bear full responsibility."
Gemma opened her mouth to protest, but a warning glance from her mother silenced her.
"Indeed, it has caused quite a stir," William replied carefully. "Though I understand from my sister that the encounter was entirely innocent."
He certainly had not acted like he understood so, Gemma internally fumed.
"Innocent or not, the damage to Miss Sinclair's reputation has been done," Jameson said bluntly. "Lady Montford's tongue works faster than a weaver's shuttle. By now, the tale has likely reached every breakfast table in Mayfair, growing more scandalous with each retelling."
Helena made a small sound of distress, quickly muffled behind her handkerchief.
"Which brings me to the purpose of my visit." Jameson turned to William, his expression solemn. "Lord Sinclair, my purpose in calling is to propose for your sister's hand."
The room fell still. The gentle ticking of the longcase clock in the corner became suddenly pronounced, marking each heartbeat of silence that followed this extraordinary declaration.