Page 23 of The Baron’s Reluctant Bride (Marriage Mart Scandals #4)
Jameson stood at the window of his study, watching as Gemma's carriage returned to Brokeshire House, he was familiar with her absence. He had given instructions to his most trusted servants to keep him informed about her happenings.
His brow furrowed slightly as he observed his wife descend.
He moved to his desk, where reports from Christopher's network of informants lay in neat stacks, organized by urgency and credibility.
One particular document caught his eye, a list of young noblemen rumored to be in Thorne's debt.
Lord William Sinclair's name featured prominently, the figure beside it substantial enough to raise eyebrows.
Perhaps , Jameson thought grimly, it is time I became better acquainted with my wife's family.
A discreet knock at the door interrupted his contemplation. "Enter," he called, quickly covering the sensitive documents with more innocuous correspondence.
The butler appeared with his usual dignified air. "Lady Brokeshire and Viscount Sinclair have arrived, My Lord. They await you in the drawing room. Her ladyship requests the pleasure of your company for tea."
Jameson nodded, mentally shifting from businessman to aristocrat with practiced ease. "Inform them I shall join them presently."
As the servant withdrew, Jameson stood, adjusting his cuffs and schooling his features into the pleasant mask of indolent charm that had served him so well in society.
Whatever game was afoot—whatever connection might exist between Thorne, William Sinclair, and his own unexpected matrimony—would require careful navigation.
And perhaps, he acknowledged with reluctant interest, an unexpected alliance with the perceptive woman who now bore his name and shared his home.
After all , he reflected, a wry smile tugging at his lips as he made his way toward the drawing room, if one must have a wife, one might as well make strategic use of her talents.
Particularly when those talents include an uncommon intelligence and a refreshing dedication to truth, "however unadorned or inconvenient it might be. "
For the first time since the hasty ceremony that had bound them together, Jameson found himself genuinely curious about what the future might hold for this unconventional partnership.
***
The dining room of the Brookfield townhouse glowed with soft candlelight, casting long shadows across the polished mahogany table.
Gemma adjusted the lace at her wrist, a motion born more of nervousness than necessity as she observed the two men seated at the table.
The air between them crackled with an unspoken tension that even the most exquisite roast pheasant could not disguise.
"Tell me, Lord Sinclair, have you frequented White's much of late?
" Jameson inquired, his voice carrying the casual indifference of one discussing the weather rather than delving into matters of significance.
He lifted his wine glass with elegant precision, taking a measured sip before returning it to its exact position on the table.
William's smile dimmed momentarily. "Oh, here and there. A gentleman must maintain certain appearances, must he not?"
"Indeed." Jameson's lips curved in what could hardly be called a smile. "And what of Boodle's? I heard mention that you've become quite the fixture there as well."
Gemma's gaze darted between the two men.
In her brother's suddenly stiff posture, she recognized the discomfort he attempted to mask with charm.
Though her husband's demeanor appeared relaxed—almost bored—there was something distinctly predatory in his manner that she had never before witnessed directed at herself.
"One does circulate," William replied with forced lightness. "Though I find the company at Boodle's somewhat... mixed of late."
"How fascinating." Jameson reached for the decanter, refilling first William's glass, then his own, with the motion deliberate and unhurried.
"I've heard similar observations. Lord Pemberton mentioned seeing you in deep conversation with Thorne there just last week. An unusual acquaintance, is it not?"
The crystal decanter clinked slightly as Jameson returned it to the table, the sound sharp in the sudden silence.
William's laugh held a brittle edge. "Mr. Thorne? The merchant? I may have exchanged pleasantries. One encounters all manner when out in society."
"Hmm." The sound that escaped Jameson's throat conveyed volumes of disbelief without a single word being spoken.
How peculiar , Gemma thought, watching her husband with newfound fascination.
It was almost as if though he knew. Throughout their brief matrimony, she had grown accustomed to his distant courtesy, his careful adherence to propriety in their private interactions.
The man before her now, coolly dissecting her brother's falsehoods with surgical precision, seemed transformed.
His green eyes, typically guarded, now held a keen intelligence that missed nothing—not William's nervous adjustment of his cravat, nor the slight tremor in his hand as he reached for his wine.
"William," Gemma interjected, unable to bear her brother's discomfort despite her own concerns about his activities, "did you mention to Lord Brokeshire your interest in the new botanical exhibition? I recall you expressing curiosity about the specimens from India."
William seized upon the change of subject with palpable relief. "Yes! Most illuminating. Though I confess my knowledge of such matters is rudimentary at best."
"Perhaps you acquired this newfound interest in botany during your meetings at the Anchor and Crown tavern near the docks?
" Jameson inquired, his tone still conversational, though the question landed like a stone in still water.
"I believe Mr. Thorne maintains offices nearby. A curious coincidence."
William's face drained of color. "I—that is to say—"
"The roast is particularly excellent tonight," Gemma interrupted again, shooting a pleading glance at her husband. "Mrs. Harrison has outdone herself. Do you not agree, My Lord?"
For the first time that evening, Jameson's gaze met hers directly. His demeanour changed.
"Indeed, Mrs. Harrison is a treasure," he conceded, inclining his head slightly in acknowledgment of her intervention. "Though I find myself curious about many things this evening."
William cleared his throat. "Brookfield, I wonder if I might trouble you for another glass of that excellent Madeira?"
"Of course." Jameson signaled to the footman. "Though one must be cautious with indulgences, must one not? They have a way of leading a man down paths he never intended to travel."
The double meaning hung heavy in the air.
Gemma observed as her husband leaned back in his chair, every inch the aristocrat at leisure, yet there was nothing relaxed about the intensity of his focus.
The candlelight caught the small scar above his eyebrow, throwing it into sharp relief against his skin.
She wondered, not for the first time, how he had acquired it, and realized with a start how little she truly knew of the man she had wedded.
"Speaking of travels," William said with forced joviality, "did I mention I encountered Lady Caroline Hargrove at Lady Pemberton's rout last week? She inquired most particularly after your health, Brookfield."
Good heavens.
Things had taken a most unfortunate turn.
For a fleeting instant a dangerous spark briefly ignited Jameson's gaze, causing Gemma to question if her eyes had deceived her.
His posture, however, had subtly altered. His shoulders fractionally more rigid, the fingers around his wine glass marginally tighter.
"Did she indeed?" he replied, his voice smooth as glass. "How considerate of Her Ladyship to spare a thought for my well-being amidst her undoubtedly busy social calendar."
Gemma felt rather than saw the barb hidden within those words.
"I understand the Duchess of Hargrove's confinement approaches," Jameson continued, his expression unreadable. "Her second child, I believe. How fortunate that the Duke's advanced age has not proven an impediment to establishing his nursery."
William shot a quick, uncertain glance between Jameson and Gemma. "Yes, quite, though I—"
"Shall we adjourn to the drawing room?" Gemma suggested, rising from her seat with deliberate grace. "I find myself in need of fresher air than these dinner conversations provide."
"As ever, your wisdom prevails. Lord Sinclair and I can continue our botanical discussions over brandy later this evening."
William looked as though he'd rather face a firing squad than endure more of Jameson's pointed inquiries, but social convention left him no choice but to nod in agreement.
As they proceeded to the drawing room, Gemma's mind worked furiously.
Throughout the weeks of their matrimony, she had come to view her husband as cold but just, a man who fulfilled his marital obligations with polite detachment.
Tonight revealed a different facet altogether, a man of razor-sharp perception who deliberately concealed the extent of his intelligence behind a facade of rakish indifference.
Why, then, had he never turned that penetrating gaze upon her? Why maintain the pretense of disinterest in their private moments? And most troublingly, what was his interest in William's association with Thorne?
A new suspicion took root in her mind, one that both alarmed and intrigued her. Perhaps Lord Brokeshire was not merely the dissipated nobleman he presented to society. Perhaps, like a chess master, he moved pieces on a board whose dimensions Gemma had yet to fully comprehend.
And if so, where did she herself stand in his calculations? Pawn or queen?
***