Page 3 of The Baron’s Reluctant Bride (Marriage Mart Scandals #4)

Gemma Sinclair woke up to do something she hated.

The morning light filtered grudgingly through the study's heavy curtains as she hunched over her father's mahogany desk, a mountain of ledgers spread before her like the ruins of some ancient civilization.

Outside, London was only beginning to stir—servants' footsteps on cobblestones, the distant calls of vendors setting up for the day—but Gemma had been awake for hours, sleep banished by both the previous night's events and the arithmetical reckoning that could no longer be postponed.

She rubbed her eyes, gritty from too little rest, and dipped her quill into the inkpot once more.

If Papa could see these figures, he would weep, she thought, tracing a finger down a column of steadily diminishing numbers. Two years of William's "minor indiscretions" translated into pounds and shillings.

The Sinclair estate, once comfortably prosperous, now teetered on the edge of ruin. Not dramatically enough to be interesting, she reflected wryly, just the slow, undignified slide into genteel poverty that no one discussed in polite company.

"Miss Gemma?" Mrs. Winters, their housekeeper of twenty years, appeared in the doorway with a steaming cup of tea. "You've been at it since before the servants were up. You'll strain your eyes in this poor light."

Gemma accepted the tea gratefully. "Thank you, Mrs. Winters. I wanted to complete these calculations before the rest of the household began stirring."

"Before your mother sees you doing work she believes beneath a lady's dignity, you mean." The older woman sniffed disapprovingly. "As if keeping a household running were somehow less respectable than embroidering yet another cushion."

"Mama means well," Gemma said, hiding a smile. "She simply wishes to preserve the illusion that all is as it was."

"Illusions don't pay the butcher's bill," Mrs. Winters muttered, then immediately looked contrite. "Forgive me, Miss. It's not my place."

"But you are entirely correct." Gemma sighed, running her finger along a particularly distressing column of numbers. "And if matters continue as they are, I fear we shall soon discover exactly how many illusions one can consume for dinner."

The housekeeper's weathered face softened. "Your father would be proud of you, Miss Gemma. Not many young ladies could shoulder such burdens."

Not many young ladies have a brother who gambles away their future one card game at a time, Gemma thought, but merely nodded her thanks as Mrs. Winters withdrew.

She returned to her meticulous calculations, trying to determine which creditors could be temporarily appeased with partial payments and which would need more creative solutions.

Perhaps she could part with her mother's second-finest string of pearls.

Helena rarely wore it anyway, and if Gemma's estimates were correct, it might cover the most pressing debts.

Except I'd have to explain where it had gone, and Mama would insist on knowing why, and then we would have the same exhausting conversation about "maintaining appearances" while somehow also maintaining a roof over our heads.

The sound of the front door opening and closing broke her concentration.

Odd—it was far too early for callers, and all the servants should already be in the house.

Familiar footsteps stumbled in the hallway, followed by a muffled curse that made Gemma close her eyes briefly in resignation. It was unfortunately William.

Her brother lurched into the study moments later, still dressed in his evening clothes from the night before. His cravat hung limply around his neck, his once-pristine waistcoat spotted with what appeared to be wine, and his eyes—bloodshot and wary, darted around the room before settling on her.

"Gemma! What the devil are you doing awake at this ungodly hour?" he demanded, attempting a jovial tone that fell painfully flat.

"Solving the mysteries of the universe," she replied dryly. "And you? Did you misplace your bed, or have you taken to treating Lord Ashbury's ball as merely the first engagement of a much extended evening?"

William had the grace to look abashed as he collapsed into the chair opposite the desk. At twenty-five, he was handsome in the Sinclair way—honey-blond hair and hazel eyes like Gemma's own, but dissipation had begun to soften his jawline and shadow his once-bright gaze.

"Don't scold, Gem. My head feels as though a cavalry regiment is using it for maneuvers." He reached for her teacup, grimacing at the taste. "Good God, how do you drink this without sugar?"

"Perhaps I find sweetness overrated," she said, deliberately moving the ledgers out of his line of sight. “In any event, apparently you failed to upkeep your promise to attend the Ashbury’s ball.”

"I fully intended to come," he protested, rubbing his temples. "Truly I did. But I encountered Fanworth and Ridley at White's, and there was a matter that required my immediate attention."

"A matter involving cards, no doubt, and perhaps dice for variety's sake?" Gemma kept her voice mild, but her eyes hardened. "Lord Fanworth made a point of inquiring after you last night. He seemed particularly interested in an 'arrangement' you had discussed."

William's face drained of what little color it had retained. "He spoke to you? What exactly did he say?"

"Nothing explicit. He was far too proper for that." Gemma leaned forward, lowering her voice. "But his meaning was clear enough. You've been gambling again, haven't you? Despite your promise after the last time."

Her brother looked away, his expression that of a cornered animal. For a terrible moment, Gemma thought he might lie to her—or worse, storm out in injured dignity, as he had done so often with their mother. Instead, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

"It's worse than you think, Gem," he whispered, his voice cracking. "So much worse."

Cold dread pooled in Gemma's stomach. "How much have you lost?"

"Four thousand pounds."

The figure hung in the air between them, monstrous and impossible.

"William, that's—" She stopped, unable to find words adequate to the catastrophe. Their entire annual income was scarcely more than that. "We don't have such sums. You know that. The estate hasn't recovered from Papa's illness, and with the poor harvest last year—"

“Do you suppose I am unaware of it?" he hissed, suddenly angry. "Don't you understand that I lie awake every night remembering that I'm meant to be the man Papa was? The perfect Viscount, the responsible son, the provider for the family?"

"I'm not asking you to be perfect," Gemma said quietly. "Just responsible enough not to destroy what's left of our livelihood."

William's anger deflated as quickly as it had flared. "It's not just the money, Gem. That is distressing enough as it stand, but it's... it's who holds the debt now."

Something in his tone raised the fine hairs on Gemma's arms. "What do you mean? Is it not Lord Fanworth?"

"It was." William swallowed hard. "Until yesterday. Now Thorne holds all my markers."

"Mr. Thorne?" Gemma recalled the silver-haired merchant from the ball, the unsettling coldness of his eyes despite his charming smile. "But why would he—"

"Because he wants something from me." William's voice dropped so low she had to strain to hear him. "Information. About the investments and trading ventures of certain noble families I know. He's particularly interested in Hawthorne Trading Company."

Gemma stared at her brother, horror dawning. "You cannot mean to suggest that Mr. Thorne is blackmailing you."

"He prefers to call it an 'exchange of favors,'" William said bitterly.

"He didn't threaten me outright—he's far too clever for that.

But he made it abundantly clear that if I don't provide him with what he wants, my debts will become public knowledge.

The scandal would destroy us, Gem. Not just socially, but financially.

Every creditor we've been keeping at bay would descend at once. "

"But what you're describing is... highly improper, William. It's dishonorable." She could hardly believe she needed to say this aloud. "Whatever information Mr. Thorne seeks, it cannot be for honest purposes."

“Are you under the impression that I am impervious to that?” William ran a shaking hand through his disheveled hair.

"I was foxed, Gem. Three bottles of claret and too much pride.

I was trying to impress Ridley and those other dandies, boasting about my connections to half the peerage.

Thorne was there, in the shadows. Listening.

And now he expects me to be his... his spy. " His voice broke on the last word.

Gemma tried to think through the implications, her mind racing despite her exhaustion. "How did this begin? When?"

"About a month ago. I lost heavily at Fanworth's—almost a thousand pounds I didn't have. Thorne appeared the next day, offering to settle my debt. Said he'd heard I was in a tight spot and wanted to help 'a promising young nobleman.' I should have known better."

"Indeed you should have," Gemma agreed, unable to keep the edge from her voice. "What have you told him so far?"

William looked miserable. "Nothing important.

Mostly gossip about who's investing in what shipping ventures, which families are expanding their interests in the West Indies.

But he's growing impatient. Last night, he made it clear he expects more substantial information, particularly about Hawthorne Trading Company and its investors. "

"Why that company specifically?"

"I have no idea. But he seems to have a particular interest in Lord Brokeshire's involvement." William grimaced. "Apparently, the rakish baron is a significant investor, despite his reputation for dissipation."

Gemma's mind flashed to Lord Brokeshire's penetrating green eyes, his surprisingly perceptive observations during their dance. Had there been some purpose behind his attention to her? A chill ran through her at the thought.