Page 37 of The Baron’s Reluctant Bride (Marriage Mart Scandals #4)
In the Sinclair’s drawing room, Helena sat beside the fireplace, embroidery forgotten in her lap, as Gemma and Abigail entered.
The sunlight cast long lines across the rug, catching on the silver threads in her gown.
She looked up with a soft smile that faded the moment she saw her daughter’s expression.
"Gemma?" Helena inquired, her voice laced with concern as she rose from her seat. "Pray tell, what troubles you?"
Gemma moved with gentle purpose, crossing the drawing-room to take her mother's hand. "Mama," she said softly, her touch reassuring. "You must compose yourself and sit."
A tremor of unease ran through Helena as she slowly obeyed, her gaze darting between her daughter and Abigail, her alarm growing with each passing moment. "Good heavens," she breathed, "what dreadful thing has occurred?"
Gemma drew a steadying breath before delivering the news. "It is William, Mama. He has been... abducted."
Helena's spine straightened, her composure momentarily shattered. "Abducted? What can you possibly mean by such alarming pronouncements?"
"He came to me this very morning, Mama," Gemma explained, her voice measured despite the gravity of the situation.
"He indicated a need to depart for a few days hence.
However, as he took his leave, two men – individuals unknown to the household – forcibly escorted him into a carriage.
It was plain he was not a willing participant in his departure. "
The color drained from Helena's face, her hand now trembling visibly within Gemma's grasp.
"And no one has caught sight of him since that dreadful moment," Abigail added quietly, her expression somber. "Our gravest suspicion falls upon Mr. Thorne."
Helena stood, her composure cracking. “That man— that man has preyed on my son for months. He lent him money, threatened him, sent letters I was not permitted to see!”
Gemma swallowed. “It’s worse than that.”
And so she told her everything she knew, she told her about Hawthorne Trading Company, about Jameson’s involvement, about Thorne's threats, his pattern of manipulating debts to bring down noble families, about the upcoming soirée and most importantly…about the danger.
Helena sat in stunned silence, one hand at her throat.
“I—I knew William had debts,” she murmured, “but I had no notion… no understanding of how deep they ran.”
“I didn’t either,” Gemma whispered.
“And Jameson,” Helena said faintly. “He’s been fighting this from the shadows?”
“Yes.”
The silence that followed was long and aching.
Finally, Helena looked at her daughter. “What do you intend to do?”
Gemma’s spine straightened. “We’re going to the soirée.”
***
The bedchamber was suffused with the delicate scent of lavender pomade mingled with the sharper note of heated iron.
Candles flickered upon the mahogany dressing table, their light casting a golden glow across the polished silver implements and catching the faceted crystal buttons adorning Gemma's evening gown.
She remained perfectly still before the looking glass while Betsy, her lady's maid, secured the final twist of her coiffure with steady hands.
"There now, My Lady," Betsy murmured, stepping back to admire her handiwork. "Not a single strand amiss. You look every inch a lady awaiting her prince."
Gemma's lips curved in a wistful smile. "If only this evening were so simple a tale as that."
"Why, is it not?" Betsy replied with cheerful innocence, arranging the silver-backed hairbrushes upon the table. "'Tis a fine soirée with music and dancing."
Yes , Gemma thought, but with considerably more peril and far fewer merry fiddlers than one might wish .
She released a measured breath, her countenance settling into practiced serenity as she regarded her reflection.
Dark tresses swept up in elegant waves, eyes subtly enhanced to sharpen their gaze, and a gown of midnight-blue silk that shimmered like moonlight upon water when she moved.
She appeared a lady prepared merely to dance, engage in pleasant flirtation, and sip champagne from crystal flutes.
None would suspect she ventured forth to infiltrate a viper's nest.
"I thank you, Betsy," she said softly.
The maid curtsied, perceiving her mistress's shift in demeanor. "You shall be splendid tonight, My Lady. I am certain of it."
With a final glance at her reflection—checking that her expression betrayed nothing of her true purpose, Gemma gathered her composure and stepped into the corridor.
Her husband stood waiting.
His posture was impeccable, hands clasped behind his back in military precision.
He cut a magnificent figure in formal black evening attire, his waistcoat of deep hunter green embellished with subtle embroidery, his cravat a marvel of intricate folds.
But it was his eyes that captured her attention—eyes that softened perceptibly the moment they beheld her.
"You..." he began, then faltered, his voice descending to a whisper. "You appear quite remarkable."
A smile touched Gemma's lips. "I daresay you are rarely without words, My Lord."
"Then perhaps you might consider how utterly devastating you look when fortified with determination," he murmured, stepping closer.
With exquisite gentleness, he took her gloved hand, his fingers enfolding hers with quiet intimacy.
"Were I not consumed with trepidation regarding this evening's outcome, I might find myself entirely bewitched. "
His thumb traced a tender path across her knuckles.
"Exercise the utmost caution," he whispered, his breath warm against her cheek. "Observe for any sign of danger. You must not deviate from our strategy. And should anything—I implore you, anything at all—arouse your suspicion, you must withdraw immediately. Give me your word."
"You have my solemn promise," she replied, her voice barely audible.
A moment of weighted silence passed between them. Then, with infinite care, he leaned forward to press his lips against her temple in the lightest of kisses. "You are, without question, the most courageous woman it has ever been my privilege to know."
Her breath caught in her throat, the sensation of his lips lingering upon her skin like a whispered secret.
They descended the grand staircase hand in hand, the ghost of that tender gesture still warming her temple.
At the foot of the stairs awaited Christopher and Abigail—the latter resplendent in a gown of soft golden silk, while Christopher adjusted his gloves with the practiced nonchalance of a gentleman prepared for anything.
"Are all assembled ready?" he inquired, his gaze traveling between them with calm assessment.
"As prepared as circumstances permit," Jameson replied with grim resolve.
***
The carriage wheels rolled with rhythmic purpose through the cobbled streets of London, their steady cadence strangely comforting in its familiarity. Within the confines of the conveyance, the four passengers sat in taut silence.
Gemma kept her gaze fixed upon the darkened window, the gas lamps of Mayfair passing like distant stars. Abigail's hand rested upon hers with a gentle pressure that anchored her to reality.
Jameson sat opposite, his jaw set in rigid tension, his eyes betraying the calculations surely racing through his mind.
It was Christopher who at last fractured the silence. "We must circulate independently of one another. I shall examine the lower salons and the eastern corridor. Jameson, you must undertake the western wing. Observe for indications of guards. William would not be permitted solitude."
Gemma inclined her head in agreement. "I shall mingle among the guests. Observe discreetly. Should anything appear amiss, I can withdraw without arousing suspicion."
Christopher's answering nod was solemn. "And I shall remain within proximity. We must all maintain an appearance of perfect contentment."
They each arranged their features accordingly.
"Lady Brokeshire," Jameson said suddenly, his voice low and urgent as he leaned forward to clasp her hands. "Should you encounter Thorne himself—"
"I shall play the vapid society wife to perfection," she assured him, squeezing his fingers. "Fear not, My Lord. I have observed such performances all my life."
His eyes searched hers. "It is not your ability to dissemble that concerns me, but rather his capacity for cruelty."
"Then perhaps," she replied with quiet conviction, "it is time someone matched his cruelty with cunning."
Thorne Hall rose before them like a monument to unseemly pride, its broad stone steps illuminated by rows of ornate lanterns, the strains of a string quartet spilling through tall windows like honeyed poison.
A liveried footman opened the carriage door with practiced deference, and the four companions descended into the cool evening air.
Gemma's fingers tightened upon Jameson's sleeve. He glanced down, meeting her gaze. In that silent exchange passed not fear, but steadfast determination.
"Remember," he murmured, for her ears alone. "At eighteen minutes after ten we meet at the library."
She gave an almost imperceptible nod. Together, they ascended the steps and entered the lion's den.
The ballroom gleamed like an overturned casket of jewels, ceilings adorned with gilt moldings, chandeliers dripping with crystal pendants, and guests bedecked in gowns and gems whose value might purchase entire country estates.
Laughter tinkled like delicate glass, violins soared in elegant harmony, and champagne flowed with ostentatious abundance.
Gemma moved through the assembly with the graceful ease that had been instilled in her since childhood.
She smiled at acquaintances. She acknowledged compliments with perfect civility.
She responded to society gossip with precisely calibrated interest. None would suspect her purpose was far from social.