Page 42 of The Baron’s Reluctant Bride (Marriage Mart Scandals #4)
Pain dragged him upward with merciless persistence.
Not gently, like a mother's tender hand rousing a slumbering child on a sunlit morning, but cruelly, like a vicious hook through the ribs, tearing at his very sinews.
Jameson groaned, the sound escaping his parched lips before he could master himself.
His side throbbed with a pulsing, insistent burn that radiated outward in waves of agony, setting every shallow breath alight with fresh torment.
The world around him materialized first as a disorienting blur—shadow and rough-hewn stone, stale air thick with pervasive damp. Gradually, brutally, consciousness sharpened like an executioner's blade, and with it came the pitiless awareness of his predicament.
It was a cold that bit deep, a damnably bone-penetrating chill.
The stone beneath him radiated a chill that seemed to rise from the earth's very core, and he realized with mounting horror that he was seated—nay, bound—in a splintered wooden chair of crude design.
Thick ropes bit into his wrists and ankles, coarse and unyielding, tied with the practiced efficiency of men who had performed such villainy many times before.
His fine silk cravat had been removed. His formerly immaculate evening coat, tailored by London's most discerning hand, now stuck to his frame, stiff with drying blood—his blood.
A thin sliver of weak, leaden light filtered through a high, narrow window, its iron bars casting skeletal shadows across the damp floor.
Dust motes swirled lazily in its feeble beam, dancing to some unheard measure.
The cloying stench of mildew, old coal, and something disgustingly metallic assaulted his senses.
"A cellar," he murmured, his aristocratic voice reduced to a cracked whisper. "How utterly predictable." And what a stark difference from the last time he was in a cellar, back then he was in his own house with his new bride.
And he was very much not alone, neither then nor now. Footsteps echoed from beyond the weathered oak door—measured, deliberate, the unhurried stride of a man confident in his advantage—and Jameson's heart quickened despite his determination to maintain composure.
With immense effort that sent fresh lances of agony through his wounded side, Jameson lifted his head, blinking away the persistent fog that threatened to claim his consciousness.
He forced his back ramrod straight against the chair, channeling every lesson of deportment ingrained since childhood, despite the fire flaring in his side.
He would not be found slumped and pitiful.
Not by him. A Brookfield died standing, as his father had oft reminded him between brandies.
The door creaked upon ancient hinges, the sound reverberating through the subterranean chamber like a mournful dirge.
Thorne stepped inside, a figure of elegant menace.
No longer playing the role of gregarious host or silver-tongued merchant prince that society knew so well, he moved like a vulture with impeccable breeding—smooth, sure-footed, his eyes gleaming with controlled malice beneath the carefully styled sweep of his dark hair.
"Well, well," Thorne said, his voice smooth as oiled steel. "What a lamentable tableau you present, Brookfield."
Jameson said nothing. His jaw clenched with such force he feared his teeth might shatter.
Thorne removed his immaculate gloves with deliberate slowness, slapping them against his palm as he considered his captive.
"Is that how we greet an old business friend?
After everything we have shared? The finest wines at Cambridge, the most delectable opera boxes in Vienna.
.." He clicked his tongue against his teeth. "Most ungentlemanly, I must say."
He stepped closer, circling the chair with the measured pace of a predator, each footfall deliberate upon the damp stone floor.
"You hid your true nature with remarkable skill, Brookfield.
That carefully crafted rakehell act, positively brilliant in its execution.
Charming the right duchesses, drawing all the wrong attention at every society event.
Dancing too vigorously, drinking too visibly.
" He made a small gesture of appreciation.
"No one among the ton suspected you were the clever mind behind Hawthorne's commercial expansion.
They believed you merely the idiot son-in-law who had somehow entrapped the Hawthorne heiress.
A decorative noble with a taste for scandal and little between the ears. "
He stopped behind Jameson, his voice lowering to a confidential tone that raised the hairs on the back of Jameson's neck.
"But I knew better. I have always known better about you."
Jameson shifted, the movement driving a spike of excruciating pain through his ribs. "You always did mistake cynicism for intelligence, Thorne. A common error among the nouveaux riches, I find."
Thorne let out a soft chuckle, circling back into Jameson's view. "Ah, there it is. Still wielding that aristocratic tongue like a rapier, even when bleeding profusely upon my floor. How frightfully tedious of you."
"One must maintain standards," Jameson replied with affected weariness. "Even in the most... uncivilized of circumstances."
"Indeed." Thorne removed his exquisitely tailored coat, folding it with care before draping it over a nearby crate. He adjusted his waistcoat—an ostentatious affair of gold thread upon midnight blue silk—and loosened his cravat a fraction.
"You must be parched. Would you care for refreshment? I fear I cannot offer Madeira of the quality your cellars boast, but there is tolerable water."
"I would sooner drink from the Thames at low tide," Jameson replied.
Thorne moved again, now leaning with affected casualness against the edge of a nearby crate, arms folded across his broad chest.
"You and your little cohort of well-connected gentlemen built something rather formidable, I must acknowledge.
Hawthorne Trading—subtle in its machinations, expansive in its reach, woven through every port and counting house from here to Calcutta.
" He gave a small, admiring nod. "Quite the achievement.”
Jameson's breathing grew shallow, but he forced himself to remain still. To listen. To commit every word to memory.
"I confess myself curious," he said, voice steady despite the pain lancing through him. "What prompts a man of your character and background to such extraordinary measures? Surely there are easier paths to fortune that do not require such criminal activities and extortion.”
Thorne's eyes narrowed momentarily, the barb finding its mark.
"My background, as you so delicately reference, is precisely why I understand what you and your privileged circle can never comprehend.
You see, born and bred gentlemen like you believe the game of commerce is about building.
About honor and partnerships and long-term growth, all those lofty principles espoused at your gentlemen's clubs over brandy and cigars. "
He pushed himself away from the crate, moving with liquid grace.
"But the real fortunes, Brookfield, are made in collapse during panic. I need not own the entire board—I need only set it ablaze at the opportune moment and sell the ashes to desperate men.
A cruel, unfeeling smile touched his lips.
"Your investors are already uncommonly skittish.
A whispered word here, a forged ledger there, and they shall turn upon you like starving rats upon a carcass.
By week's end, I shall own their holdings, their debts, their very names.
I will control the docks, the tariffs, and every trade route worth the ink with which it is recorded. "
Jameson's eyes flickered, a thought forming through the haze of pain. "And Lord Sinclair? What role does he play in your grand design?"
Thorne raised a perfectly arched brow. "Collateral damage. Convenient in his timing. Weak enough in character to be expertly exploited, noble enough in birth to provoke your guilt. A most delightful combination of attributes, would you not agree?"
Jameson's jaw tightened, his voice steady despite the pain. "You are utterly mad if you believe this sordid affair concludes with me tied to a chair in your cellar. My friends and wife have not yet played their hand. The board of directors—"
"The board?" Thorne laughed, the sound echoing harshly against the stone walls.
"Half of those illustrious gentlemen will flee at the first hint of scandal in the broadsheets.
The others will deny ever having made your acquaintance, let alone having entrusted their fortunes to your schemes.
And your wife, well, I hardly think she cares enough about a man she is arranged matrimony to. "
Jameson grimaced. He would not fall for Thorne's lies, he knew that his wife favoured him from her heart with genuineness.
Thorne leaned forward, his smile narrowing to something predatory.
"The only person who might conceivably thwart my designs now is you, Brookfield.
Which is why I must confess, I find myself in something of a quandary, whether to allow you to bleed out quietly here, forgotten beneath the feet of society, or to return you to your devoted wife in several carefully wrapped parcels.
Symbolism carries such powerful weight in these matters, do you not agree? "
Jameson's head fell forward slightly, a lock of his once-immaculate dark hair falling across his brow. His vision blurred, but not from fear or failing strength but from fierce, unwavering focus.
He meticulously etched every word, boast, and accidental revelation into his memory with the precision of a master engraver, his mind clinging to shell companies, docks, tariffs, forged ledgers, and whispered names like a drowning man to flotsam.
Gemma would find him. His brilliant, indomitable wife would move heaven and earth.
She would not stop. She would never stop.