Page 16 of The Baron’s Reluctant Bride (Marriage Mart Scandals #4)
The air was brisk that morning as Jameson Brookfield stepped out of his carriage and approached the stately brick facade of the Hawthorne Trading Company.
It stood in the heart of Bishopsgate, dignified and unassuming, much like the man who had built it.
The street bustled with purposeful energy, gentlemen in well-fitted coats of navy and forest green, cravats pressed into perfect folds, their walking sticks clicking smartly on the cobbled street as they spoke in low, clipped tones about freight prices, overseas goods, and the state of the Baltic Exchange.
There were no idlers here. Only men of affairs.
Jameson paused momentarily before ascending the short flight of stone steps, adjusting his gloves with practiced precision. The morning fog had begun to lift, revealing a pale blue sky that promised fair weather. He had not slept well.
The house had felt unusually empty despite the addition of its newest occupant—or perhaps because of her. His wife of barely three weeks, Gemma, remained an enigma that disturbed his carefully ordered existence.
A clerk hurried past him, a leather portfolio clutched tightly to his chest, offering a hasty bow of recognition. Jameson acknowledged him with the barest inclination of his head before continuing up the steps.
Inside the polished halls of Hawthorne Trading, the scent of pipe smoke and parchment clung to the wood-panelled walls.
Jameson was greeted by the quiet nods of clerks who recognised him immediately, and then by Edward Hawthorne himself, standing near the large bay window that overlooked the street below.
Several other gentlemen—investors and advisors of various seniority—were already gathered, voices low but laced with agitation.
"Jameson," Edward said, inclining his head. "We were about to begin."
Jameson nodded and took his place beside the long oak table. The atmosphere was taut. Mr. Lennox, a portly man with a ruddy complexion, cleared his throat.
"There's no denying it now. Sinclair and Thorne were seen last night at White's. They had three investors from Harwood & Co. in their confidence."
"And they made no attempt to be discreet," added Mr. Fairchild, a thin, scholarly man whose family had been in shipping for four generations. "It was a deliberate display, meant to be noticed."
"Thorne never wastes his time unless he smells weakness," another murmured. This from Henry Blackwood, whose sharp features seemed carved from granite. "And Sinclair is worse—he strikes with precision where it will wound most deeply."
Jameson folded his arms, his expression unreadable. "I can confirm it. William Sinclair was there. I observed him in conversation with them myself. He and Thorne appeared... familiar."
The room grew still.
"And yet you speak of him with such remarkable detachment," Lennox said, his tone honeyed but his eyes cold as flint. "One might almost forget the... delicate circumstances. Considering the new family connection."
A ripple of discomfort passed through the room. All knew of Jameson's recent matrimony to Gemma Sinclair, William's younger half-sister.
"My matrimonial union," Jameson said crisply, "is no more relevant here than the style of my boots. William and I are not allies."
"But relations by matrimony, nonetheless," Lennox persisted with a thin smile. "One must wonder if your position might be compromised."
"You forget yourself, Lennox," Edward intervened, his voice quiet but commanding. "Lord Brokeshire's integrity has never been in question here."
Lennox inclined his head in reluctant deference, though the doubt lingered in his eyes. "Of course. I meant no offense."
Edward studied Jameson for a beat, then shifted the discussion. "Their objective is clear. If they erode confidence in our holdings, or suggest we are in any financial instability, they will fracture our alliances and press for a takeover."
"They've already approached the Pembroke consortium," offered Blackwood. "My sources inform me they presented quite a compelling case regarding our supposed vulnerability in the West Indies market."
"A fabrication," Jameson said flatly. "Our Barbados operations have never been stronger."
"Facts matter little when rumors fly," Fairchild sighed, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to dab at his brow. "Perception becomes reality in these matters."
"Then we must control the perception," Jameson replied.
His mind was already working, cataloging assets and alliances, strengths that could be leveraged against Sinclair's machinations.
"The shipment from Calcutta arrives next week.
The spice cargo alone will yield thirty percent above market projections. "
"If it arrives," Lennox muttered. "The monsoon season—"
"Has been accounted for," Jameson cut him off. "Captain Reynolds altered course three weeks ago. I had word from Lisbon yesterday."
Edward smiled thinly. "Excellent foresight."
The conversation swirled with figures, projections, risks.
Each man presented his domain of expertise and responsibility, charting a course through the troubled waters ahead.
But Jameson felt the press of something heavier—not numbers, not strategy, but a weight somewhere in his chest. The burden of two identities now: husband and businessman.
It was as if his every step forward in one role destabilised the other.
"Gentlemen," Edward concluded after two hours of intense discussion, "I believe we have established our course. Maintain confidence with our investors. Demonstrate our strength through steady performance. Present a united front." He glanced meaningfully at Jameson. "In all things."
The meeting came to a close with the promise of tightened operations and discreet counter-measures. As the men filtered out with rustling coats and murmured farewells, Edward lingered.
"Walk with me a moment," he said quietly.
Jameson followed him into the smaller study adjoining the main office. Edward closed the door.
"You are quite out of sorts," he perceived, coming directly to the point.
Jameson sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "The business weighs heavily, Edward. You said it yourself, we must stay vigilant."
Edward moved to a small cabinet of polished mahogany and withdrew a crystal decanter. He poured himself a modest finger of sherry. "And yet, I suspect it is not solely business that draws such shadows beneath your eyes."
The study was a sanctuary of sorts with walls lined with leather-bound volumes, a globe standing in one corner, maps of trade routes carefully framed. It smelled of beeswax and old paper, of decisions made and fortunes won and lost.
Jameson gave a dry laugh. "You speak with the gravity of a Vicar."
"You know I speak plainly, you believe you are detached from your wife but you are not."
"She is my wife that is all. The arrangement is mutually beneficial. She receives the protection of a husband and security from scandal while I get the satisfaction of knowing I can easily gather information concerning Thorne’s new pet, the Viscount Sinclair"
Edward took a slow sip. "She has changed something in you."
"Nonsense," Jameson said, turning toward the window. The street below continued its dance of commerce and civilization, unaware of the inner turmoil of one man.
"You've known me twenty years, Jameson. Since we were boys at Cambridge. I know when something disturbs your equilibrium."
Jameson scowled. "She reads Milton in silence and ignores me at breakfast. She does not even attempt to curry my favor. I do not care for her."
"And yet you noticed."
The observation struck with uncomfortable precision.
Indeed, he had noticed everything about Gemma Sinclair—now Brookfield—in their brief time sharing a household.
The way she held her teacup with three fingers instead of two.
How she hummed softly, almost imperceptibly, when engaged in needlework.
The slight furrow that appeared between her brows when reading something particularly absorbing.
"She is not like Caroline," Jameson said finally. "That is all."
"Precisely why you are afraid of her."
That stung more than Jameson liked to admit. He said nothing more, only offered a clipped farewell before quitting the room.
Outside, the day had fully blossomed, as the weak spring sun burnt away the morning mist. Jameson's carriage waited while his driver stood to attention. He climbed in, directing the man to his club on St. James Street.
As the carriage wheels clattered over cobblestones, Jameson closed his eyes. Edward's words echoed uncomfortably. Was he afraid of Gemma? The notion was absurd.
There was something in her large hazel eyes that suggested depths he couldn't fathom.
An observant intelligence that made him wonder what thoughts stirred behind that serene expression.
Occasionally, when she thought herself unobserved, he caught a look of such fierce determination on her delicate features that it startled him.
Jameson had taken her as his wife for reasons of the most pragmatic sort, the first was placing himself at an advantageous point in order to gain as much insight as possible into William Sinclair.
The second, truth be told, was his desire to preserve her reputation. As far as he was concerned, he was held in the lowest possible esteem and it was virtually beyond any repair.
The carriage slowed as it reached the gentlemen's club.
Jameson straightened his cravat and arranged his features into their customary mask of cool composure.
Whatever domestic complications existed, they would not intrude here, in the realm of business and politics where he moved with such natural authority.
But Edward's words followed him nonetheless.
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