Page 35 of The Baron’s Reluctant Bride (Marriage Mart Scandals #4)
Gemma had been seated in the library for barely an hour, a book opens on her lap and not a word absorbed, when the butler's entrance interrupted her.
"Lord William Sinclair, My Lady."
She rose at once, the book tumbling forgotten to the floor. "Send him in immediately."
William entered in a rush—coat askew, face pale, his usually composed expression replaced by wide-eyed desperation.
Lately, it seemed this was the only state in which she got to see her brother.
Frankly, she was growing tired of it. His fair hair, so like her own, was disheveled, as though he had ridden through a gale to reach her.
"I haven't long," he said, before she could speak, his voice pitched low and urgent. "I only came to say goodbye. I—I must leave town."
"Leave? William, no." She crossed to him, grasping his arm. The fine wool of his sleeve felt damp beneath her fingers, had he been riding in the rain? Or was it perspiration born of fear? "You can stay here. Jameson can help you. You don't need to run."
"I do," he said, shaking his head, his eyes darting to the windows as though expecting to see someone watching. "You don't understand. They're watching me. I've brought enough shame to our family. I won't add danger as well."
"William—" Her voice caught, fear tightening her throat. "Please, tell me what's happened. Let me help you."
He caught her hands in his, and she was shocked by how cold his fingers felt. "It's gone too far this time, Gem. The debts... I thought I could win it back. I was so sure."
"How much?" she asked quietly.
He laughed, a hollow sound utterly devoid of humor. "More than father's estate is worth. More than your dowry. More than I can ever hope to repay."
"And Thorne?" she pressed, recalling Jameson's warning. "Is he involved?"
William's eyes widened, genuine surprise breaking through his panic. He swallowed hard. "Yes. He... he bought my vowels from the gaming hell. Said he'd forgive them if I did him a small favor."
“No…you did not. You did not! How could you?” Gemma nearly shrieked. It was the most emotional she had been in years.
"I had to give him information," he replied, his voice dropping to barely a whisper. "About Jameson. About his company. I didn't think... I didn't realize..." His shoulders slumped. "I've been a fool, Gemma. And worse than a fool."
She squeezed his hands. "Whatever you've done, it's not too late. Jameson already suspects Thorneis plotting something. Jameson is a good fellow, he can help. If you tell him everything, perhaps together—"
"I have to go." William pulled away abruptly, moving toward the door. "It's safer for everyone if I simply disappear for a while."
"William, wait!" Gemma called, hurrying after him. "At least tell me where—"
But as he turned toward the door, two men appeared in the entryway.
Not household staff—too still, too sharp.
Their coats were well-cut but unremarkable, designed to blend into any genteel gathering.
Yet there was something in their stance, in the cold assessment of their eyes as they surveyed the room, which marked them as something other than gentlemen.
Their eyes met Gemma's only briefly before they flanked her brother without a word.
"Who are—?" she began, alarm raising her voice.
William paled further, shrinking between the two men. "Please, Gemma. Just forget this.”
He was out the door before she could stop him, the two strangers moving with him like shadows. She rushed to the window, heart thundering against her ribs, skirts tangling around her ankles in her haste and saw it.
William, escorted—no, herded—into a dark carriage waiting in the street.
One man climbed in beside him, boxing him against the far door.
The other shut the door with a decisive click and mounted the rear step, his eyes scanning the row of elegant townhouses as though memorizing who might have witnessed their departure.
The carriage rolled away at once, wheels clattering on the cobblestones with unnatural haste.
Gemma's hand flew to her mouth, a strangled sound escaping her. Her legs gave way, and she gripped the windowsill, breathless. Good heavens, he hadn't left, he'd been taken.
The realization hit her with physical force, driving the air from her lungs. Those men—their cold efficiency, their silence—they hadn't been William's escorts to some place of refuge. They had been there to ensure he didn't escape. To take him to Thorne, or to someone even more dangerous.
For several moments, she remained frozen at the window, trembling with shock and fear. She should send for Jameson immediately, as he had instructed. But how? The footmen couldn't be trusted to deliver such sensitive information; who knew where their loyalties might lie?
A note, then. But would it reach him in time? And where, precisely, had he gone? He'd mentioned town, but London was vast, and his business interests numerous.
Gemma pressed her hands to her temples, forcing herself to think clearly through the rising panic.
She had promised Jameson she would alert him if anything seemed amiss, but she hadn't anticipated something so immediate, so blatant.
William, taken in broad daylight from her own home.
It spoke of a boldness, a certainty of success that chilled her to the bone.
Moments later, she was still in the foyer, too stunned to move, when the bell rang again. The butler appeared, his face a careful mask of professional neutrality, and opened the door to reveal Abigail and Christopher Harrington.
Abigail swept in with Christopher behind her, her pretty face animated as she laughed about some goat that had eaten the picnic basket last week.
"You simply must hear this, Gemma," Abigail was saying, unwinding a delicate lace shawl from her shoulders. "Christopher took me to the most charming country inn, and there was this goat—"
But the moment they saw her face, everything changed. Abigail's laughter died, replaced by immediate concern.
"Gemma?" Abigail whispered, crossing quickly to her side. "Good heavens, you're white as a ghost. What's happened?"
"They've taken him," she said hoarsely, her voice sounding strange even to her own ears. "William, he's gone. Two men. A carriage."
Christopher paled, his normally jovial expression hardening into something grim. "Confound it. This is grave."
Gemma turned at the sound of the door opening again, hope surging briefly—had William somehow escaped?
But it was Jameson, he'd returned unexpectedly, clutching a folder, his hat still in hand as though he had rushed back without bothering to properly conclude his business. He stilled the moment he saw her, taking in her pallor, her disheveled appearance, the gathering of friends in the foyer.
Their eyes met. The room fell utterly silent.
“What happened?” he rushed to her. He seemed to worry that something had happened to her, but it was far worse. For Gemma could stand her own demise, but nothing fatal happening to her brother.
"They've taken him," Gemma repeated, voice cracking.
Jameson drew a breath, his expression shifting from confusion to understanding to a cold fury that transformed his handsome features. Then he looked at Christopher. A long, loaded pause passed between them, some unspoken communication that excluded the women entirely.
And then, Jameson turned to the women.
"There is something you both need to know," he said, his voice low and resolute. "It's time."
He crossed to the table in the entrance hall, laying the folder down with a thud that seemed to echo in the silence.
He addressed Abigail. “My wife has known this for a while now, and I fear I dallied too long in revealing the whole truth to her.
As you are well aware, Christopher and I are shareholders in Hawthorne Trading Company.
Major ones. And Thorne has been trying to dismantle it from the inside using debts. Threats. People."
"People such as my brother," Gemma told.
Jameson nodded grimly. "Yes. William Sinclair was his latest leverage."
Abigail clutched Christopher's arm, her eyes wide with disbelief. "You've known all this—and didn't inform me?"
Christopher looked pained, placing his hand over hers in a gesture of reassurance. "I wanted to. But the risk—"
"The risk was too great," Jameson cut in, his voice tight with controlled anger. "Thorne has eyes and ears everywhere. If word had gotten out, if he'd suspected we knew of his plans..."
"Thorneis hosting a soirée in three days," Jameson continued, pacing the length of the foyer. "One of his usual displays of power. We believe he'll use it to advance his schemes and possibly, he'll have William there. Hidden in plain sight."
Gemma's hands clenched at her sides, the momentary relief of understanding giving way to fresh determination. "Then we must go."
Jameson met her gaze, his expression a complex mixture of admiration and concern. "It's dangerous."
"So is doing nothing."
His eyes lingered on hers for a long moment, searching for something—hesitation, perhaps, or fear. He found only resolve.
Then he nodded. "Very well."
"Wait," Abigail interjected, looking between them with growing alarm. "You can't simply walk into what may well be a trap. If Thorneis as dangerous as you say—"
"He is," Christopher confirmed, his normally cheerful countenance grave. "More than you can ever imagine.”
"Then we require a plan," Abigail insisted, her initial shock giving way to practical determination. "A strategy."
Jameson gestured toward the drawing room. "We should continue this conversation away from potential... listeners," he said, his gaze flicking meaningfully toward the servants' entrance.