Page 5 of The Baron’s Reluctant Bride (Marriage Mart Scandals #4)
"Business with a viscount who's known more for his losses at the gaming table than his head for figures?
Hardly likely." Sir Henry snorted. "No, there's something rum about it.
Still, not our concern, eh? The Sinclairs have been on the decline since the old viscount passed. Sad business, but there it is."
"Indeed," Jameson murmured noncommittally.
Sir Henry, having exhausted his stock of gossip, soon took his leave with a cheery wave. Jameson continued his ride, his outward demeanor unchanged while his thoughts raced.
William Sinclair spending hours with Thorne immediately after Jameson had danced with Miss Sinclair could not be coincidence. Had his attention to the lady somehow accelerated Thorne's timeline? The very possibility sent a strange pang of guilt through him.
He recalled Miss Sinclair's composed expression during their dance, the flashes of wit and intelligence beneath her social mask.
Had she any inkling of her brother's predicament?
The strength he'd sensed in her suggested she was not a woman who would crumble easily under pressure, but the burden William appeared to be carrying would test anyone's resilience.
None of this is my concern, Jameson reminded himself sternly. My priority is protecting Hawthorne Trading Company and Mr. Hawthorne himself. The Sinclairs' domestic troubles are irrelevant.
And yet, the memory of Miss Sinclair's direct gaze lingered uncomfortably in his mind. There had been something in that brief connection—a spark of recognition between two people accustomed to hiding behind social facades—that he couldn't quite dismiss.
Don't be absurd, he thought harshly. You learned your lesson with Caroline. Trust leads only to betrayal.
He had carefully constructed his rakish reputation precisely to avoid genuine entanglements. Better to be feared or desired than trusted. Trust made one vulnerable, and vulnerability was a luxury Jameson could ill afford, especially now with Thorne circling like a shark scenting blood.
No, whatever troubles plagued the Sinclair family, they were not his responsibility. Miss Gemma Sinclair, with her perceptive eyes and sharp tongue, would have to navigate her family's difficulties without his intervention.
Jameson urged his horse to a canter, as if he could outrun his own unwelcome thoughts.
The wind in his face and the powerful animal beneath him provided a momentary distraction from the nagging sense that, despite his best intentions, the orbit of his life had somehow become entangled with that of the Sinclairs.
And in his experience, such entanglements rarely ended well for anyone involved.
***
In a distinguished corner of the city, where the gas lamps glowed softly against the dusky sky and the streets were lined with carriages bearing crests of consequence, Mr. Thorne reclined in the luxurious solitude of his study.
The room was a gentleman’s sanctuary, lined with shelves of well-bound volumes, scented faintly of pipe tobacco and old paper, and lit by the steady glow of the fire which hissed softly in the grate.
The hour was late, the household quiet, save for the occasional creak of settling timber or the rustle of the wind beyond the windowpanes.
Thorne sat at ease in a chair of green leather, a fine claret resting in one hand, and a satisfied curl upon his lips. It was not the smile of a man merely pleased, it was the expression of one who sees the world laid bare before him and finds it pliable to his will.
Young William Sinclair, he mused, had proven even more useful than anticipated.
Vain, impressionable, and eager to secure a name for himself amongst gentlemen of influence, he had walked straight into Thorne's snare with all the heedlessness of a lamb presented for slaughter. How easily the boy had parted with tidings not meant for another soul. Idle gossip over port, veiled confessions masquerading as bravado—each revelation a stroke upon the canvas of Thorne’s design.
Fools ought not to play at commerce, he thought idly, when they have neither the temperament nor the wit for war.
Already, Thorne had gained insight into the financial underpinnings of Hawthorne Trading Company, knowledge of wavering investors, murmurs of discontent among the ranks, and hints of internal discord.
These were not mere trifles. No, these were the cracks in the foundation, the flaws he would exploit with care until the whole venerable edifice crumbled beneath its own weight.
He took a slow draught of his wine, letting the warmth bloom across his tongue as his mind turned to further designs.
Miss Gemma Sinclair was a charming creature, by all accounts.
She was known to be spirited, intelligent, with that peculiar air of quiet dignity which gentlemen so often mistake for simplicity.
Thorne had not yet had the pleasure of prolonged acquaintance, but he had observed enough to know that she might prove even more valuable than her brother.
There was influence there, she held sway over William, no doubt.
Perhaps over others as well. She might serve as the key to tightening his grip.
Could one sow discord in her affections? Entangle her in scandal? Or simply use her as a lever to bend William further to my cause? His thoughts flickered through possibilities with the same delight a huntsman might feel when surveying the tracks of promising quarry.
Still, care must be taken. Gemma was no fool. The wrong move might rouse suspicion. But oh, the satisfaction of using the Sinclair name to undermine both their pride and their allegiance to that sanctimonious cur, Hawthorne...
Thorne allowed himself a soft chuckle.
Let them call me ruthless. Let them call me cold. They may call me what they please, so long as they call me victorious.
He leaned forward, placing the empty glass upon the side table, the fire reflecting in his keen eyes. This was not vengeance born of temper. This was strategy. Precision. Justice, perhaps of a particular kind.
The game had begun, and Albert Thorne played to win.
And if a few pawns must be sacrificed along the way, well, that was the nature of such pursuits, was it not?