Page 41 of The Baron’s Reluctant Bride (Marriage Mart Scandals #4)

And in that terrible, clarifying instant, she saw Jameson through the haze.

He was being dragged away by Thorne's men, a ghastly trail of blood marking his passage, his proud head lolling against one shoulder. Yet even in his grievously wounded state, his eyes—those eyes that had softened only for her—sought her face through the billowing smoke.

"Jameson!" His name tore from her lips like a prayer.

She lunged forward, heedless of the flames and William's arms locked around her waist, dragging her back from certain death. "No! You'll perish in that inferno!"

"Release me!" she shrieked, struggling with the desperation of a madwoman, kicking and clawing at her brother's restraining embrace. "I must reach him—he's—he's—"

"You cannot help him if you're dead!" William's voice broke on a violent cough, yet he maintained his grip, pulling her forcibly away as a fresh wave of flames swept through the passage, blackening the walls and filling the air with blistering heat.

The smoke thickened until breathing became torment. Heat pressed against their exposed skin like hot irons. The path to Jameson vanished entirely behind a curtain of merciless flame.

Gemma screamed his name one final time but her cry was swallowed by the roaring inferno.

"We must escape now!" Christopher shouted, materializing beside them, his face streaked with soot and blood. "The entire east wing is ablaze!"

Together, they stumbled into the main corridor, where the panic from the ballroom had reached its zenith.

Guests whom Gemma had observed only an hour earlier sipping champagne with affected boredom now screamed and sobbed, trampling one another in their desperate flight toward the main doors.

Once-immaculate gowns trailed blackened hems. Discarded gloves littered the marble floor.

Jeweled hairpins crunched beneath panicked feet as London's elite fought like animals to reach safety.

Footmen shouted contradictory instructions over the din. "Water! Bring water!"

"Abandon the east wing!"

"Has anyone seen Mr. Thorne?"

No one knew, because no one could see clearly through the thickening smoke.

"Gemma!" A familiar voice pierced the cacophony of terror.

Abigail appeared through the swirling haze, her golden skirts gathered in one hand, her elaborate hairstyle entirely undone, her eyes wide with fear and relief.

"I found them!" she called to an unseen companion. "Thank God, you live! Christopher escaped through the servants' passage and he sent me to find you while he pursues them!"

Gemma stared at her sister-in-law through a veil of ash and bitter tears.

"Jameson, Thorne has taken him—he's gravely wounded—Abigail, there was so much blood, and I could not reach him—"

"I know, dearest, I know." Abigail gathered her close, her embrace fierce and steadying. "But we must flee this place. Now. Come."

William, his face haggard with guilt and smoke, glanced toward the grand entrance. "The front portico appears clear still. We must make haste!"

Together, they fought their way through the pandemonium, past overturned furniture and smoldering draperies, past a viscountess weeping hysterically into her ruined fan and a government clerk shouting desperately for his missing wife.

And then, mercifully they were outside, grateful for the night air that struck them like a physical blow, cold, sharp, blessedly real.

Their carriage, by some miracle of Providence, remained where they had left it, the driver white-faced with terror but standing firm at his post.

"To the Sinclair townhouse," William commanded, wrenching open the carriage door with trembling hands. "With all possible speed!"

Gemma collapsed onto the leather seat, clutching Abigail's hand as if it were the only thing tethering her to sanity. Her own hands were streaked with blood and soot, her once-elegant gown torn beyond repair, her lungs burning with each labored breath.

But her heart, her heart pounded within her breast with such violence that she feared it might shatter her ribs.

Jameson was gone, he had been abducted, and she had allowed him to slip through her fingers like water. The streets of London passed in a blur of shadow and gaslight. Street lamps flickered against the night sky.

Curious onlookers gathered at street corners, pointing toward the ominous orange glow rising above the tree line from the direction of Thorne Hall.

Within the relative safety of the carriage, Gemma's trembling slowly subsided.

Not because her fear had diminished, but because it had transformed—crystallized into something harder, sharper, more dangerous. It was pure rage and absolute resolve.

By the time their carriage clattered to a halt before the elegant facade of the Sinclair townhouse, Gemma had already begun to formulate what must follow.

Helena Sinclair, Christopher's mother and matriarch of the family, awaited them in the entrance hall, her face pale with dread beneath her hastily donned nightcap. "What calamity has befallen you all? Where is Lord Brokeshire?"

"Mama," William said, his voice raw from smoke and remorse. "There is no time for gentle explanations. You must listen carefully."

He took her veined hand in his soot-blackened one. And began to reveal the terrible truth.