Page 4 of The Baron’s Reluctant Bride (Marriage Mart Scandals #4)
"This is dangerous, William," she said slowly. "Mr. Thorne is not someone to be trifled with. And if Lord Brokeshire is involved..."
"I am fully aware." William looked younger suddenly, vulnerable in a way she hadn't seen since their father's death. "I've made a terrible mess of things, Gem. I've been such a bloody fool."
"Language," she admonished automatically, then sighed. "But yes, you have."
"What am I to do?" There was real fear in his eyes now. "If I refuse Thorne, he'll ruin us. If I continue... it's not just dishonorable, it's likely illegal. And who knows what damage I might cause to innocent parties?"
Before Gemma could respond, a soft knock preceded the opening of the study door. Helena Sinclair stood on the threshold, her face pale but composed, dressed in a morning gown of faded lavender.
"William! When did you arrive home? Mrs. Winters said Gemma has been working since dawn, and I—" She stopped abruptly, taking in the tableau before her: William's disheveled appearance, Gemma's obvious distress, the ledgers spread across the desk.
"What has transpired here? Why do you both look so grave? "
Gemma exchanged a quick glance with William. Their mother's health had been fragile since their father's death; the entire truth of the circumstances would only cause her unnecessary suffering.
"William has incurred some gambling debts, Mama," Gemma said carefully. "We were discussing how best to address them."
Helena's hand fluttered to her throat. "Oh, William. Not again."
"Forgive me, Mother," William said, looking genuinely contrite. "I've been irresponsible."
A masterpiece of understatement, Gemma thought.
“Pray, what does it amount to?” Helena asked, her voice steadier than Gemma had expected.
William hesitated, then said, "A significant sum. But I shall make it right, I give you my word."
Helena studied her son's face for a long moment. "Your father would be very disappointed," she said at last, her quiet words landing with more force than a shout. "He taught you better than this."
William flinched. “I am completely aware, Mama.”
"Well." Helena squared her shoulders with dignity. "We shall simply have to economize further. Perhaps we can let go of another footman, and I'm certain my quarterly allowance can be reduced."
"That won't be necessary," Gemma interjected quickly, unable to bear the thought of further sacrifices from her mother. "I have a few ideas for addressing the situation."
None of which involve telling you that your son is being blackmailed by one of London's most powerful merchants, or that our family name could be ruined beyond repair if we cannot find a way out of this mess.
"We'll manage, Mama," William added with forced brightness. "You mustn't worry yourself."
Helena looked unconvinced but nodded slowly. "Very well. But William, I must insist that you comport yourself with greater restraint in the future. We cannot afford—in any sense—a repetition of such behavior."
"Yes, Mother," William said meekly.
"Now, I suggest you change out of those clothes before Mrs. Winters sees you and has an apoplexy," Helena continued, her maternal authority reasserting itself. "And Gemma, dear, you really shouldn't be concerning yourself with such matters. These ledgers are William's responsibility now."
If only that were true in practice rather than merely in principle, Gemma thought, but she merely smiled. "Of course, Mama. I was merely helping temporarily."
With a final worried look at her children, Helena withdrew, closing the door softly behind her.
"She suspects there's more," William said as soon as their mother's footsteps had faded. "She's not as fragile as you tend to believe, Gem."
"Perhaps not. But she has suffered enough." Gemma began carefully arranging the ledgers into a neat stack. "We need to devise a strategy, William. One that extricates you from Mr. Thorne's influence without destroying our family in the process."
"I have given the matter considerable thought, however, no solution offers itself." William confessed. "Unless we suddenly discover a hidden fortune in the attic, I see no way forward."
Gemma fell silent for a moment, considering possibilities, none of them pleasant. "We need more information. About Mr. Thorne, about his interest in Hawthorne Trading Company, about Lord Brokeshire's involvement."
"And how do you propose we obtain such intelligence? I can hardly ask Thorne directly, and Brokeshire moves in circles far removed from ours."
A memory surfaced—Lord Brokeshire's intense gaze during their dance, his unexpected perceptiveness. We all have our masks, Miss Sinclair. Some are simply more entertaining than others.
"Perhaps not as far removed as you might believe," Gemma murmured.
***
The early morning mist had completely dissipated by the time Lord Brokeshire guided his magnificent black stallion onto Rotten Row. Hyde Park was beginning to fill with the fashionable set, enjoying their morning promenade or showing off their horsemanship to admiring spectators.
Jameson controlled his mount with negligent ease, one hand loose on the reins as he navigated between slower riders.
His posture was relaxed, and his expression was one of mild amusement, as if the very concept of morning exercise held a particular amusement for himself.
A flash of white teeth, a rakish tilt to his hat, a nod which was a trifle too daring to a group of young ladies who tittered behind their gloves as he passed—all elements of the performance he had perfected over the years.
Lord Brokeshire: infamous rake, dedicated hedonist, the despair of matchmaking mamas throughout London.
If only they knew how tiresome it all becomes, he thought, maintaining his lazy smile as he acknowledged a bow from Lord Pennington. The same meaningless courtesies, the same scandalized whispers, the same expectations of outrageous behavior.
His true thoughts, as usual, were far from the frivolous concerns of the ton.
Behind the facade of careless charm, his mind worked methodically through the information he had gathered at last night's ball.
Christopher's intelligence about Thorne's recent activities was troubling—the merchant had been systematically targeting investors in Hawthorne Trading Company, using methods that skirted the edges of legality.
And now his apparent interest in William Sinclair, Jameson mused, automatically adjusting his seat as his horse sidestepped a puddle. A young viscount with a reputation for gambling and loose talk—precisely the sort of weak link Thorne excels at exploiting.
Which had led Jameson to Miss Gemma Sinclair, the viscount's sister. He had approached her with clear purpose: to assess how much she knew of her brother's activities and whether she might be unwittingly involved in Thorne's schemes.
He hadn't expected her to be quite so... memorable.
Jameson's mouth quirked in a genuine smile as he recalled her dry observations, so at odds with the vapid flattery he typically encountered.
Most young ladies treated him as either a thrilling danger or a redemption project.
Miss Sinclair had done neither. She had simply seen through him—at least partially—with those perceptive hazel eyes.
"You're quite observant for someone whose primary occupation appears to be shocking the ton with increasingly outlandish behavior."
Her words echoed in his mind, unexpectedly discomfiting. No, she couldn't possibly have seen through the carefully constructed persona he had spent years perfecting. The very suggestion was absurd.
"Brookfield! By God, it is you. Out and about at this ungodly hour?"
The booming voice interrupted Jameson's thoughts. He turned to see Sir Henry Blackwood trotting toward him on a sturdy bay gelding. The baronet was one of Christopher's connections—a jovial, red-faced gentleman who seemed perpetually to be on the brink of an alarming seizure.
"Blackwood." Jameson inclined his head, his drawl deliberately languid. "I find the morning air occasionally beneficial for clearing the excesses of the previous evening."
"Hah! I can imagine," Sir Henry chuckled, clearly delighted to be speaking with the notorious Baron. "Heard you caused quite a stir at the Ashburys' ball last night—dancing with that Sinclair girl. Planning to add another broken heart to your collection?"
Jameson's smile remained fixed, though something cold slithered through him at the casual cruelty of the question. "Miss Sinclair seemed in need of rescue from a particularly tedious conversation. A momentary impulse of chivalry, nothing more."
"Chivalry! From Lord Brokeshire?" Sir Henry laughed heartily. "The ton will be devastated to learn you've developed a conscience."
"A temporary affliction, I assure you," Jameson replied smoothly. "Already fading in the face of more interesting pursuits."
"Well, if you're looking for distraction, I heard something that might pique your interest." Sir Henry leaned closer, lowering his voice despite there being no one nearby to overhear.
"Thorne was at Fanworth's club again last night, closeted with young Sinclair for hours.
The boy left looking like death warmed over, while Thorne appeared positively triumphant. "
Jameson kept his expression mildly interested, though his mind immediately sharpened. "Fascinating. I wasn't aware Thorne frequented gaming establishments."
"Oh, he doesn't play. Just... observes. Makes one damned uncomfortable, if you ask me. Like being watched by a hawk while you're holding your cards." Sir Henry shuddered. “ Thorne's designs on the youth, I fear, promise to come to no good.”
"Perhaps merely business," Jameson suggested idly. "Thorne has his hand in every venture.”