Page 38 of The Baron’s Reluctant Bride (Marriage Mart Scandals #4)

All the while, her eyes catalogued every detail: exits, the position of servants, which footmen possessed the unmistakable bearing of hired muscle rather than domestic staff.

She identified Thorne's known associates—some familiar from the intelligence Jameson had shared, others marked by their watchful silence and strategic placement throughout the room.

"Lady Brokeshire," came a silken voice at her elbow. "How delightful to see you gracing our humble gathering."

She turned to find Lord Harrington regarding her with poorly disguised interest. A notorious gossipmonger and one of Thorne's most reliable informants.

"Lord Harrington," she replied, offering her hand with calculated warmth. "I confess myself quite overwhelmed by Mr. Thorne's hospitality. Such magnificence."

"Indeed," he agreed, pressing his lips to her gloved fingers a moment longer than propriety dictated. "Though I must say, you outshine even the chandeliers this evening. That gown is most becoming."

"You flatter me excessively, sir."

"Not at all. I merely speak truth." His eyes narrowed slightly. "I confess myself surprised to see you in attendance. I had understood there to be some... tension between your husband's business interests and our host's."

Gemma laughed lightly, the sound practiced to perfection.

"My dear Lord Harrington, surely you are acquainted with the fact that in matters of commerce, today's rival may be tomorrow's partner.

Besides," she added, her fan fluttering with deliberate coyness, "I find I enjoy Mr. Thorne's musical selections exceedingly. "

"Ah, a diplomatic answer! You would make an excellent ambassador, Lady Brokeshire."

"You are too kind." She glanced about the room as if seeking someone. "I wonder, have you seen my husband? He promised to fetch me a refreshment, but appears to have been waylaid."

Lord Harrington's smile thinned. "I believe I observed him engaged in most animated conversation with the Countess of Mellbury and her companions not five minutes past."

Gemma allowed her expression to change just enough to suggest a wife's momentary displeasure. "How vexing. The Countess does so enjoy monopolizing gentlemen's attention."

"Shall I escort you to him?"

"No, no," she demurred. "I should hate to interrupt. Perhaps instead you might direct me to where I might find some cool air? The room grows rather warm."

His gaze brightened with interest. "Allow me to show you to the terrace. The gardens are particularly fine in the moonlight."

"You are most kind, sir, but I should not wish to deprive the other ladies of your company." She touched his arm lightly. "If you would but point the way, I shall manage admirably."

Reluctantly, he indicated a set of glass doors across the ballroom. "Through there, My Lady. But do not tarry overlong in solitude. Beauty such as yours should be admired."

With a gracious nod, Gemma slipped away, moving not toward the terrace but instead taking a circuitous path that brought her closer to the corridor she had observed earlier.

As she navigated the crowd, she caught sight of Jameson across the room.

Tall and distinguished, he was engaged in conversation with several ladies.

One, undoubtedly the Countess, laughed with excessive animation, her gloved fingers hovering near his sleeve with unmistakable intent.

A sharp, unexpected pang of... something... pierced Gemma's composure.

She reminded herself sternly that this was the man she had wed for reasons of pragmatism, not passion. The man whose trust she had earned only through recent trials. The man who had crafted a social persona so meticulously that it had become nearly indistinguishable from his true self.

And yet, the sight wounded her, for she had felt his lips upon hers. Had known the tenderness of his touch. And now understood that beneath the carefully maintained facade beat a heart of genuine feeling. A heart that, were she to acknowledge her deepest truth, she wished ardently to safeguard.

She averted her gaze and across the glittering expanse, she caught a glimpse of Abigail, who offered a subtle, encouraging glance before disappearing down a side passage with Christopher at her side.

The musicians began a new quadrille and the perilous charade continued. In a house such as Thorne Hall, disappearing required merely the confidence to act as though one belonged precisely where one ought not be.

The dazzling spectacle of the soirée receded with each measured step, the music fading to a distant murmur, gay laughter giving way to weighted silence.

Gemma proceeded along a narrow corridor adorned with ancestral portraits and somber wood paneling, the whisper of her satin slippers against thick Persian carpets the only sound.

Her heart beat with such vigor she feared it might betray her presence.

She had excused herself with a convincing pretext, a claim of requiring a moment's composure after a particularly energetic country dance, and none had questioned her withdrawal. A genteel lady was ever permitted brief solitude. Fortunate for her.

Particularly when none suspected she hunted for treachery.

As she ventured deeper into the house, the opulent grandeur of Thorne's public rooms yielded to austere functionality. Here were no gilded mirrors or perfumed air, only confined passageways, dimly lit sconces, and the faint aroma of aged parchment and beeswax polish.

With delicate precision, she tried each door she encountered, her gloved fingertips barely brushing the brass handles. Most were secured against intrusion or revealed nothing more significant than vacant studies or linen cupboards.

Then she detected voices, so she halted abruptly, breath suspended, and advanced with utmost caution toward a door left marginally ajar.

Beyond the threshold, candlelight wavered, and voices, hushed, tense, distressingly familiar, reached her ears. Peering through the narrow aperture, Gemma felt ice course through her veins.

Her brother sat in a high-backed leather chair beside a desk littered with papers and accounting ledgers.

His shoulders were bowed as if beneath an invisible weight, his complexion ashen in the subdued illumination.

He appeared somehow diminished, aged beyond his years, like a man who had relinquished all hope. Opposite him stood Thorne.

No longer had the polished host of London’s elite, Thorne now reclined like a predator at leisure— his cravat loosened carelessly, his tailored coat draped across his chair. His expression maintained calculated serenity, yet his eyes gleamed with cruel triumph.

"You affixed your signature of your own volition," Thorne was saying, his tone smooth as warmed brandy. "I trust you shall recall that fact when questioned. We cannot permit your sister to claim duress in the matter."

William's response emerged as little more than a hoarse whisper. "You assured me I might remedy the situation. You swore that if I but cooperated—"

"Indeed I did. And so you shall. By midnight, the documents will be properly arranged. The investors shall panic when news breaks. And our friends in Parliament shall complete what we have initiated. Hawthorne Trading Company will lie in ruins before the week concludes."

Gemma felt her knees threaten to betray her.

"Dozens of families depend upon—" William managed, his voice scarcely audible.

Thorne's laughter cut through the air like a blade. "Truly, William. If gentlemen wish to preserve their fortunes intact, they ought not entrust them to impractical idealists with account books. Your esteemed brother-in-law shall survive the calamity. He invariably secures his own interests."

A small gasp escaped Gemma's lips before she could prevent it.

A floorboard protested beneath her weight.

Thorne's head snapped toward the door with alarming swiftness.

Their gazes locked.

In that instant, his charming disguise dissolved completely. His smile vanished. What remained chilled Gemma to her core, an expression of pure, calculated menace, honed to lethal precision.

Gemma turned to flee, but hands that were powerful and swift seized her from behind.