Page 8 of The Baron’s Reluctant Bride (Marriage Mart Scandals #4)

"Perhaps not," he conceded with a slight smile. "But I've always prided myself on being an excellent judge of character. It's a necessary skill in both business and pleasure."

"And which category does our acquaintance fall into?" The words escaped before Gemma could think better of them.

Jameson's smile deepened, revealing a dimple in his left cheek that softened his rakish appearance. "That remains to be determined, does it not?"

Before Gemma could formulate a suitable response to this mildly improper remark a sudden movement across the room caught her attention.

She spotted William in deep conversation with Thorne in a quiet corner.

The older gentleman's hand rested on William's shoulder in a gesture that appeared friendly, but Gemma sensed an underlying tension in her brother's posture.

Alarm bells rang in her mind, remembering William's confession about his gambling debts and Thorne's growing hold over him. "If you'll excuse me, My Lord," she murmured, already moving away.

"Of course," Jameson replied, his own gaze following hers to where William stood with Thorne. His expression darkened momentarily, but Gemma was too preoccupied to notice.

Determined to intervene, Gemma made her way across the room. However, her path was blocked by a group of matrons eager to engage her in conversation.

Confound it!

Lady Montford, a notorious gossip with a razor-sharp tongue, waved her over imperiously.

"Miss Sinclair, we were just discussing your brother's absence from Lord Pembroke's dinner last week. Such a pity he couldn't attend—it was quite the enlightening evening."

"My brother had a prior engagement," Gemma replied smoothly, trying to edge past the formidable woman.

"Indeed? How curious. I was given to understand he was seen at a certain gaming establishment that very night, in the company of Mr. Thorne." Lady Montford's eyes gleamed with malicious delight as she delivered this barb.

What a vile vixen of a woman she was.

Gemma's stomach clenched, but she maintained her composure. "I'm afraid you've been misinformed, Lady Montford. Now if you'll excuse me, I believe my mother requires my attention."

By the time she extricated herself, both William and Thorne had disappeared from view. Worry gnawing at her, Gemma decided to search for her brother. She slipped out of the main salon, making her way down a dimly lit corridor.

As she passed by a partially open door, she overheard Thorne's voice, low and menacing.

"Your gambling debts mount higher each week, Sinclair," Thorne said silkily. "But keep providing me with information about our mutual acquaintances' business ventures, and I'll ensure your markers never come due."

William's reply was too quiet for Gemma to hear, but the defeat in his tone was clear. She heard a rustle of papers and Thorne's satisfied chuckle.

"Excellent. Now, what can you tell me about Brookfield's latest investment in Hawthorne Trading Company? I understand they're expanding their fleet with three new merchant vessels."

Gemma backed away from the door, her mind whirling with the implications of what she'd overheard.

William was indeed being used as Thorne's pawn, trading gossip and business information for temporary relief from his gambling debts.

And worse, he was now being asked to gather intelligence about Lord Brokeshire.

In her haste to find a moment alone to collect her thoughts, she stepped out onto the terrace, not realizing that the small group gathered there earlier had dispersed. The cool night air was a momentary balm to her flushed cheeks and racing heart.

She moved to the stone balustrade, gripping it for support as she gazed unseeingly at the moonlit garden below.

How had things come to such a pass? William's gambling was not merely a financial threat but had entangled him in what sounded suspiciously like corporate espionage.

And Lord Brokeshire—what was his connection to all this?

Gemma recalled their dance at the Ashbury ball, the intense way he had studied her, the inquiries, which at the time had appeared of trifling importance now acquired an altogether new and startling import.

Had he been attempting to extricate information about William even then?

Was his attention tonight similarly motivated?

The thought brought an unexpected pang of disappointment.

She had found herself drawn to the enigmatic baron despite his reputation, sensing depths beneath his rakish facade.

To consider that his interest might arise from matters of business rather than genuine affection was, surprisingly, a source of considerable mortification.

"Stop being a goose," she muttered to herself. "As if the attentions of a notorious rake would be any better than those of a calculating businessman."

"I beg your pardon?" a deep voice inquired from the shadows.

Gemma whirled around, her heart leaping to her throat as she realized she was not alone on the terrace. A tall figure stepped forward, moonlight illuminating familiar features.

Lord Brokeshire stood before her, one eyebrow raised in questioning amusement.

Gemma felt blood rush to her face. "Lord Brokeshire! I—I didn't realize anyone was out here."

"Evidently," he replied, his lips quirking upward. "Are you unwell, Miss Sinclair? You seem distressed."

"I'm quite well, thank you," Gemma managed, trying to compose herself. "I merely needed a moment of fresh air. The salon was rather warm."

Jameson stepped closer, his brow furrowed with what appeared to be genuine concern. "Are you certain? You're rather pale."

"Perfectly certain," Gemma insisted, unsettled by his proximity and her own conflicting emotions. She needed time to process what she'd overheard, to determine what threat Thorne posed to both her family and, apparently, to Lord Brokeshire.

Before she could formulate an excuse to return inside, the sound of approaching voices startled them both. Like cold water, the impropriety of their situation dawned on them simultaneously. To be discovered alone together would be scandalous, potentially ruinous for Gemma's reputation.

Jameson looked around for an escape route, but it was too late.

The terrace doors swung open, spilling light and laughter and a group of guests into the night.

The chatter died immediately as they took in the scene before them—Gemma and Jameson, alone in the moonlight, standing far closer than more than was deemed proper.

Leading the group was none other than Lady Viola Montford, her eyes widening with scandalized delight as she assessed the situation.

Behind her stood Christopher and Abigail, the latter's expression shifting from surprise to dismay as she realized the precarious position in which her friend now found herself.

"Well, well," Lady Montford drawled, her voice carrying clearly in the sudden silence. "What a charming tableau. Lord Brokeshire and Miss Sinclair enjoying a private moment under the stars. How... romantic."

Gemma felt the blood drain from her face as she realized the implications of their discovery. Years of careful propriety, of maintaining her reputation despite her family's declining fortune, threatened to crumble in an instant.

She could not believe this was happening.

Of all the wretched, horrible situations to find herself in!

Her heart hammered so violently against her ribs she feared it might burst through her bodice.

She continued mentally spiraling as the women in front of her took in the view with delight.

Heavens above, what catastrophe was this?

She was undone, most thoroughly undone! Nothing remained but to accept his hand or retire to some distant relation in the country as a cautionary tale for young ladies of good breeding.

Mama would never recover from the shock; her nerves were already so delicate.

Jameson stepped forward, his expression a careful mask of nonchalance, but Gemma could see the seriousness in his eyes.

"Lady Montford, you misinterpret the situation entirely," he said smoothly. "Miss Sinclair was feeling overcome by the heat inside and stepped out for air. I happened upon her quite by chance and was just inquiring after her welfare."

"Indeed?" Lady Montford replied, skepticism dripping from every syllable. "How gallant of you, My Lord. Though I must say, your concern for young ladies' welfare is becoming rather... notorious."

A titter ran through the assembled group, and Gemma felt herself shrinking under their collective gaze.

This was disaster. Not merely for her, but for her entire family.

The mortification was beyond endurance. Beyond all rational comprehension!

She daresay no young lady had ever found herself in such a predicament since the very founding of polite society.

"If you will excuse me," she managed, moving toward the doors with as much dignity as she could muster. "I should return to my mother."

But she knew, as she slipped past the watching crowd, that it was already too late. Lady Montford's tongue was the fastest in London, and by morning, the story would have spread throughout the ton, growing more scandalous with each retelling.

As she hurried through the salon in search of her mother and brother, Gemma caught a final glimpse of the terrace.

Jameson stood surrounded by the curious crowd, his posture relaxed but his jaw tight with suppressed emotion.

For a brief moment, their eyes met across the distance, and she thought she glimpsed genuine regret in his gaze.

But she knew she had imagined him. Because a cad like him could never empathize with women, only ruin them. How foolish she had been to consider him for even a moment to be something other than what everyone said. Surely, there was good reason behind why people warned young girls of his presence.

Then her mother was at her side, alerted by Abigail to the unfolding disaster, and the moment was lost in a flurry of hasty goodbyes and an ignominious retreat from Lady Winfield's musicale.

Around them, conversation had not ceased, but it had certainly shifted.

Heads turned. Eyes followed. A ripple of delighted confusion passed through the crowd as the Sinclair party made their way toward the vestibule with the precise grace of a family not being thrown out , but rather regally deciding to withdraw for reasons that were entirely their own .

Behind them, whispers bloomed like garden weeds.

“Did you see—?”

“Quite the scene—”

Outside the carriage, the glow of the streetlamps danced across the damp cobbles, flickering like watchful gossips—keen-eyed and tireless, ever ready to report on those who came and went under cover of night.

Within, the Sinclair carriage rolled onward in silence, broken only by the soft creak of leather and the rhythmic clatter of hooves against stone.

No one spoke. Shoulders were held just a touch too stiffly; breaths were measured with the care of those who feared what might tumble out if given voice.

It had been a withdrawal, no, a strategic departure , executed with all the poise one could muster when fleeing a drawing room thick with whispers.

Yet all her grace could not disguise the true state of affairs. Unfortunately elegant, unkind London always remembered which families had taken their leave early. More pointedly, it remembered why.