Amanda StoNeS
Historical Regency Romance Author
The Baron's
Reluctant Bride
Reluctant Bride
First Chapters
Chapter 1
The true grief of losing a beloved one lies not merely in the celebrations of birthdays or anniversaries, but in the constant void felt even amongst life’s simplest, most ordinary moments.
Take a Tuesday morning for example, with a deafening silence or even a crowded ballroom where one’s absence feels louder than the music.
Lord and Lady Ashbury’s townhouse was alight with the peak of the Season, the air thick with perfume, laughter, and the clink of crystal. It was teeming with the cream of London society—peeresses clad in the finest of satin, ambitious mamas, and young gentlemen with carefully tousled curls and well-rehearsed compliments.
Amidst them stood Miss Gemma Sinclair, her expression serene and posture immaculate as she engaged in quiet conversation with her dearest companion, Miss Abigail Winfield or at least, she appeared to.
In truth, Gemma was staring somewhere just above Abigail’s eyebrows—an expertly chosen point that gave the illusion of rapt attention while her mind wandered elsewhere.
Her late father would have had a name for this expression. “Society Smile No. 3: Alert but Not Invested.” He used to tease her about it as she sat through tedious dinner parties with the patience of a governess and the wit of a general.
The memory coaxed a smile to her lips—soft, bittersweet, which quickly disappeared. How different life might have been if he were still alive.
Not far from her, Helena Sinclair hovered like a fretful sparrow adorned in silk. Gemma’s mother wore the same pale lilac she had chosen for three seasons in a row. It was a color meant to symbolize dignity and mourning, though by now it mostly signaled frugality.
Was Helena worrying about her brother? William had disappeared upon their arrival. He had grown accustomed to such acts of making himself scarce at social gatherings lately, and it rendered both Gemma and her mother anxious.
Her mother’s hands clutched her reticule somewhat a bit too tightly, her eyes flitting from guest to guest with barely concealed anxiety. When Helena’s gaze lingered on an eligible bachelor before quickly darting to Gemma, Gemma realized that her mother was not worrying about her brother.
Ah, there it is, Gemma mused silently. The annual Sinclair panic: ‘Marry or perish.’
This was her third Season. Statistically speaking, she ought to have been wedded or betrothed by now.
“—and then Lady Harrington had the audacity to suggest her daughter’s watercolors were superior to mine,” Abigail was saying, her eyes bright with indignation. “As if smudged landscapes and lopsided teacups could compare to my botanical studies.”
“Absolutely unforgivable,” Gemma replied automatically, her gaze drifting across the ballroom. I wonder how many of these fine gentlemen would still smile and bow if they knew our house is mortgaged to the hilt and William’s gambling debts could sink us all.
“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?” Abigail nudged her ribs gently.
Gemma turned, genuinely apologetic. “Forgive me. I was contemplating whether I could fashion a new bonnet from the drawing room curtains. The trim would make a divine embellishment.”
“Your resourcefulness never ceases to amaze me.” Abigail laughed, the sound bright and free in a way Gemma had almost forgotten to allow herself to laugh freely as well. “Though I was actually telling you that Lord Hampton seems to be looking in your direction with marked interest.”
“Lord Hampton is looking in the direction of my dowry, which he incorrectly assumes to be substantial.” Gemma sipped her lemonade, the tartness matching her mood. “His estate borders Sinclair Park. He’s been eyeing our east fields since Papa’s demise.”
“Such cynicism for one so young,” Abigail tsked softly. “One might think you—”
Her words died abruptly as a hush fell over the ballroom, as the plethora of guests parted slowly like the Red Sea. Gemma followed her friend’s widened gaze to the entrance, where a tall figure now stood beside Lady Belinda Brookfield.
Lord Brookfield, Baron Brokeshire, had arrived.
And so enters the villain of every matchmaking mama’s nightmares, Gemma thought, taking in his broad shoulders and the slight dishevelment of his dark hair that seemed too artful to be accidental.
“They say he once climbed out of the Duchess of Merrivale’s bedchamber window,” Abigail whispered, leaning close. “In nothing but his waistcoat.”
“I doubt that very much,” Gemma replied dryly. “One would certainly catch a chill in this weather dressed so impractically.”
The infamous Baron’s ill repute preceded him very much like a foul miasma. Stories of gambling, drinking, and scandalous liaisons with opera dancers, widows, and occasionally both simultaneously. Yet there he stood, looking frustratingly respectable in impeccably tailored evening clothes of midnight blue. His pristine cravat added the final touch to his impeccable attire. His expression bore the look of polite boredom as he surveyed the room with his piercing green eyes, which did not accord with the remainder of his countenance.
Those eyes, they didn’t match the rest of him. His eyes possessed a sharp keenness which seemed overly observant for a dissipated rake, such as himself.
“His poor mother,” Abigail murmured. “Lady Belinda looks as though she’s escorting an untamed wild creature rather than a son.”
Indeed, Lady Belinda’s smile was varying and brittle as she navigated the social currents around her notorious offspring. She nodded graciously to acquaintances who either pretended not to notice her son or observed him with poorly concealed fascination.
Across the room, Gemma spotted Lord Christopher Hartley, a lean, fair-haired gentleman whose amiable demeanor was much sought after in society circles. To her surprise, Lord Brokeshire made his way directly to Christopher, where the two men and greeted each other in a heartfelt embrace.
“How curious,” Gemma observed. “Lord Hartley is known for his impeccable character. I wouldn’t have expected him to associate with—”
“A scoundrel like Brokeshire?” Abigail completed, her eyes twinkling. “Perhaps there’s more to our rakish Baron than meets the eye.”
“Or less to Lord Hartley,” Gemma countered, though without conviction. She surveyed closely as the two men conversed, their expressions suddenly serious despite the festive surroundings. “They appear to be discussing something of grave importance.”
“Business matters, I expect. They’re both investors in that trading company… Hawthorne, I believe?”
Before Gemma could respond, the orchestra struck the opening notes of a waltz. Couples slowly began forming on the dance floor, ladies dipping into curtsies as gentlemen bowed before them.
“Oh!” Abigail’s grip on Gemma’s arm tightened painfully. “Pray, do not look now, but …”
Naturally, Gemma looked. And found herself staring directly into the green eyes of Lord Brokeshire, who was making his way through the crowd—directly towards her person.
Surely not, she thought, glancing behind her to see who might have caught his attention. But no eligible beauty stood in her vicinity, only Mrs. Weatherby, who was approaching her sixth decade and third husband.
The Baron stopped before her and executed a bow of perfect depth—neither too shallow to be insulting nor too deep to be mocking.
“Miss Sinclair,” he said, his voice a pleasant baritone that carried just a hint of gravel. “Might I have the honor of this dance?”
Gemma felt the weight of every gaze in the room upon them. Her mother’s worried frown did not lessen her predicament. Abigail’s wide-eyed astonishment. Lady Viola Montford’s calculating stare from across the room, already mentally composing tomorrow’s gossip.
This will either elevate my standing or ruin me entirely, Gemma thought with the odd detachment that came from two years of constant financial anxiety. Either way, it shall be something different, at least.
“You may, My Lord,” she replied, placing her gloved hand in his outstretched palm.
His fingers closed around hers with surprising gentleness as he led her onto the floor. Gemma was acutely aware of his height as he positioned them for the dance, his hand resting lightly at her waist.
***
Meanwhile, on the polished ballroom floor, Abigail was mid-turn in the arms of Christopher Hartley. He really was the sort of gentleman who wore ease like a perfectly tailored coat. Gemma’s gaze caught on them as they passed, his dark head bent slightly as he murmured something that made Abigail laugh outright, a clear, unrestrained sound that turned a few heads and, Gemma suspected, made more than one chaperone wince.
Abigail, for all her vivacity, danced with the lightness of someone thoroughly amused rather than deeply enchanted. And yet there was something in the way her fingers rested just a moment too long on Christopher’s sleeve as they completed a turn. There was something in his countenance which betrayed his depth of enjoyment whenever he looked upon her, as though surprised by the depth of his own enjoyment.
Their conversation was inaudible over the swell of strings, but Gemma knew Abigail’s expressions well enough to read the familiar rhythm of their exchange: his teasing remarks met with quick-witted rejoinders, her brows lifting in mock outrage before dimpling into laughter. It was a private sort of language, forged in banter and laced with an energy Gemma could not quite name, something bright and unspoken humming beneath the surface.
They interacted with the kind of ease that made one wonder if love might a deep, caring attachment might not be long in forming.
Gemma looked away, her lips tightening faintly not from jealousy, precisely, but from something adjacent. A quiet awareness soon enveloped her as she realised that such uncomplicated encouragement of a man’s attentions were not for girls such as herself, not at least any longer.A father’s passing brought with it responsibility and trials.
“I confess, Miss Sinclair,” Jameson said as they began to move with the music, “I’ve observed you these past few balls.”
Well, that’s not alarming at all, Gemma thought, maintaining her placid expression. “Have you indeed, My Lord? I hope I’ve provided adequate entertainment.”
“You have, though perhaps not in the way you imagine.” His steps were fluid and confident, guiding her through the turns with ease. “You possess the remarkable ability to look perfectly engaged while your mind is clearly elsewhere.”
Heat crept up Gemma’s neck. “Pray, enlighten me, I am entirely at a loss as to your meaning.”
“Come now, Miss Sinclair. We both know you’ve perfected the art of society’s most valuable skill—appearing interested in tedious conversations.” His eyes twinkled with unexpected humor. “Your gaze fixes approximately one inch above your companion’s eyebrow, your smile refreshes precisely every forty seconds, and you nod at perfectly timed intervals.”
Gemma nearly missed a step. No one had ever noticed before—not even Abigail, who knew her better than anyone.
“You’re quite observant for someone whose primary occupation appears to be shocking the ton with increasingly outlandish behavior,” she replied, recovering her composure.
“We all have our masks, Miss Sinclair.” Something flickered in his expression—a momentary weariness that vanished so quickly she might have imagined it. “Some are simply more entertaining than others.”
The music swelled around them as he guided her through a particularly complex turn. His hand at her waist was steady, his steps perfectly synchronized with hers. For a rake, he danced with remarkable precision.
“Are you enjoying the Season, Miss Sinclair?” he asked, smoothly changing the subject.
“Oh, immensely,” she replied, her tone deliberately light. “There’s nothing quite as stimulating as hearing the same conversations at different locations while wearing increasingly uncomfortable gowns.”
Lord Brokeshire’s laugh was unexpected—a warm, genuine sound that startled both of them. Several nearby dancers glanced their way in surprise.
“My apologies,” he said, though he didn’t look particularly sorry. “I wasn’t prepared for honesty. Most young ladies assure me they adore every moment of these affairs.”
“Most young ladies haven’t attended three Seasons with diminishing prospects and increasing desperation,” Gemma mouthed the words before she could check herself. Good heavens, what is wrong with me? One does not discuss such matters, especially with notorious rakes.
Instead of being scandalized, Lord Brokeshire regarded her with new interest. “Three Seasons? How have London’s gentlemen proven to possess so little foresight?”
“Perhaps they are too perceptive,” she countered. “A viscount’s daughter gifted with plain features, and with her dowry having dwindled to almost nothing, will find herself sadly shunned in the eyes of many.”
I must hold my tongue. Mother would faint dead away if she heard such candor.
The Baron’s expression sobered. “Miss Sinclair, I find your company refreshingly direct. But I suspect your assessment of yourself is flawed in several important respects.”
“You needn’t offer pretty compliments, My Lord. I’m quite comfortable with reality.”
“As am I.” His gaze held hers steadily. “Which is why I can state with certainty that your looks are far from modest. As for your other concerns…” He paused, seeming to consider his next words carefully. “Value isn’t always measured in pounds sterling.”
The music began its final refrain. Gemma felt oddly bereft at the thought of their dance ending. Lord Brokeshire might be a scoundrel, but he was undeniably the most interesting conversation partner she’d encountered all Season.
As the last notes faded, he executed another perfect bow. “Thank you for the dance, Miss Sinclair.”
“Thank you, Lord Brokeshire,” she replied with a curtsy. “It was… unexpected.”
A shadow of something, perhaps regret or resignation crossed his features. “I find the most meaningful encounters often are.”
With that cryptic statement, he escorted her back to where Abigail waited, wide-eyed with curiosity. He bowed to both ladies before disappearing into the crowd, leaving Gemma with the strange sensation that something significant had just occurred—though she couldn’t possibly fathom what it was.
Nonsense, she chided herself as Abigail immediately began a breathless interrogation. It was just a dance with a notorious rake who will have forgotten my name by morning.
Across the room, Lord Brokeshire rejoined Christopher, their heads bent close in serious conversation. As if sensing her gaze, the Baron glanced up, his eyes meeting hers for one brief moment.
At that very moment Gemma had the most unsettling feeling that forgetting was the last thing on his mind.
Yet as he took his leave with an almost imperceptible nod in her direction, Gemma couldn’t shake the notion that there was more to their encounter than mere social pleasantry. Something purposeful lurked beneath his flirtatious banter, such as a chess player calculating several moves ahead.
“Well?” Abigail demanded, practically vibrating with curiosity. “What did the infamous Lord Brokeshire say to make you look so thoughtful?”
“Nothing of consequence,” Gemma replied, smoothing her gloves. “Merely the usual flattery, delivered with slightly more wit than is common.”
And observations far too perceptive for comfort, she added silently.
Before Abigail could press further, a ripple of whispers spread through the ballroom, drawing their attention to a new arrival. Albert Thorne, a distinguished-looking gentleman in his forties, entered with an air of quiet authority. His silver-threaded dark hair and impeccable attire spoke of wealth, while the sharpness in his eyes suggested a formidable intellect.
“Mr. Albert Thorne,” Abigail murmured. “That’s a man a lady should avoid, despite his wealth. They say his influence extends from the docks to Parliament itself.”
Gemma observed how conversations hushed as he passed, how even the most influential members of society seemed to defer to him with subtle nods. There was something in his bearing that spoke of power and danger, carefully concealed beneath a veneer of charm.
“My father once called him ‘the most dangerous man in London,'” Gemma said off-handedly. “I never understood why.”
As if conjured by their discussion, Mr. Thorne’s gaze swept over the ballroom and landed squarely on Gemma. His lips curved into a smile that never reached his eyes as he offered her a slight bow. She returned it with a polite nod, suppressing a shiver.
Across the room, she noticed Lord Brokeshire watching the exchange, his expression suddenly guarded.
“How curious,” Abigail remarked. “It seems you’ve captured the attention of London’s most notorious rake and its most powerful merchant in a single evening. Whatever shall you do for an encore?”
“Find a wealthy husband before we lose the house?” Gemma suggested with grim humor. “Or perhaps learn to juggle while reciting Greek poetry backward.”
The rest of the evening passed in a blur of dancing, polite conversation, and careful observation. Gemma partnered with Lord Hampton (who indeed spent most of the dance extolling the virtues of proper crop rotation along mutual property lines) and a retired colonel who stepped on her toes with military precision.
The night wore on. William was nowhere to be seen, and a sixth-sense that only a sister could have lead Gemma to begin feeling uneasy as to his whereabouts. He had promised to make an appearance, but as the hours wore on, there was still no sign of him. It would not be the first time William had failed to fulfill his social obligations, but each absence began to ruin the family’s already fragile reputation.
Her mother approached, anxiety evident in the tight lines around her mouth. “Have you seen your brother?” she whispered, her smile fixed for the benefit of onlookers.
“Not as yet, Mama,” Gemma replied, already anticipating the familiar host of flimsy excuses she would need to fabricate. “Perhaps he was detained by important business.”
Like losing more money we don’t have at the gaming tables, she thought with a pang of both worry and irritation.
“Lord Fanworth inquired after him,” her mother continued, nervously adjusting her lace cap. “He mentioned something about an arrangement they had made.”
Gemma’s stomach tightened. Lord Fanworth owned one of the most exclusive gambling establishments in London, one that William had been explicitly forbidden from entering after his last disastrous losses.
“I’m more than certain there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation,” Gemma assured her mother, knowing full well there likely wasn’t. “I shall speak with him when we return home.”
Chapter 2
Gemma Sinclair woke up to do something she hated.
The morning light filtered grudgingly through the study’s heavy curtains as she hunched over her father’s mahogany desk, a mountain of ledgers spread before her like the ruins of some ancient civilization. Outside, London was only beginning to stir—servants’ footsteps on cobblestones, the distant calls of vendors setting up for the day—but Gemma had been awake for hours, sleep banished by both the previous night’s events and the arithmetical reckoning that could no longer be postponed.
She rubbed her eyes, gritty from too little rest, and dipped her quill into the inkpot once more.
If Papa could see these figures, he would weep, she thought, tracing a finger down a column of steadily diminishing numbers. Two years of William’s “minor indiscretions” translated into pounds and shillings.
The Sinclair estate, once comfortably prosperous, now teetered on the edge of ruin. Not dramatically enough to be interesting, she reflected wryly, just the slow, undignified slide into genteel poverty that no one discussed in polite company.
“Miss Gemma?” Mrs. Winters, their housekeeper of twenty years, appeared in the doorway with a steaming cup of tea. “You’ve been at it since before the servants were up. You’ll strain your eyes in this poor light.”
Gemma accepted the tea gratefully. “Thank you, Mrs. Winters. I wanted to complete these calculations before the rest of the household began stirring.”
“Before your mother sees you doing work she believes beneath a lady’s dignity, you mean.” The older woman sniffed disapprovingly. “As if keeping a household running were somehow less respectable than embroidering yet another cushion.”
“Mama means well,” Gemma said, hiding a smile. “She simply wishes to preserve the illusion that all is as it was.”
“Illusions don’t pay the butcher’s bill,” Mrs. Winters muttered, then immediately looked contrite. “Forgive me, Miss. It’s not my place.”
“But you are entirely correct.” Gemma sighed, running her finger along a particularly distressing column of numbers. “And if matters continue as they are, I fear we shall soon discover exactly how many illusions one can consume for dinner.”
The housekeeper’s weathered face softened. “Your father would be proud of you, Miss Gemma. Not many young ladies could shoulder such burdens.”
Not many young ladies have a brother who gambles away their future one card game at a time, Gemma thought, but merely nodded her thanks as Mrs. Winters withdrew.
She returned to her meticulous calculations, trying to determine which creditors could be temporarily appeased with partial payments and which would need more creative solutions. Perhaps she could part with her mother’s second-finest string of pearls. Helena rarely wore it anyway, and if Gemma’s estimates were correct, it might cover the most pressing debts.
Except I’d have to explain where it had gone, and Mama would insist on knowing why, and then we would have the same exhausting conversation about “maintaining appearances” while somehow also maintaining a roof over our heads.
The sound of the front door opening and closing broke her concentration. Odd—it was far too early for callers, and all the servants should already be in the house. Familiar footsteps stumbled in the hallway, followed by a muffled curse that made Gemma close her eyes briefly in resignation. It was unfortunately William.
Her brother lurched into the study moments later, still dressed in his evening clothes from the night before. His cravat hung limply around his neck, his once-pristine waistcoat spotted with what appeared to be wine, and his eyes—bloodshot and wary, darted around the room before settling on her.
“Gemma! What the devil are you doing awake at this ungodly hour?” he demanded, attempting a jovial tone that fell painfully flat.
“Solving the mysteries of the universe,” she replied dryly. “And you? Did you misplace your bed, or have you taken to treating Lord Ashbury’s ball as merely the first engagement of a much extended evening?”
William had the grace to look abashed as he collapsed into the chair opposite the desk. At twenty-five, he was handsome in the Sinclair way—honey-blond hair and hazel eyes like Gemma’s own, but dissipation had begun to soften his jawline and shadow his once-bright gaze.
“Don’t scold, Gem. My head feels as though a cavalry regiment is using it for maneuvers.” He reached for her teacup, grimacing at the taste. “Good God, how do you drink this without sugar?”
“Perhaps I find sweetness overrated,” she said, deliberately moving the ledgers out of his line of sight. “In any event, apparently you failed to upkeep your promise to attend the Ashbury’s ball.”
“I fully intended to come,” he protested, rubbing his temples. “Truly I did. But I encountered Fanworth and Ridley at White’s, and there was a matter that required my immediate attention.”
“A matter involving cards, no doubt, and perhaps dice for variety’s sake?” Gemma kept her voice mild, but her eyes hardened. “Lord Fanworth made a point of inquiring after you last night. He seemed particularly interested in an ‘arrangement’ you had discussed.”
William’s face drained of what little color it had retained. “He spoke to you? What exactly did he say?”
“Nothing explicit. He was far too proper for that.” Gemma leaned forward, lowering her voice. “But his meaning was clear enough. You’ve been gambling again, haven’t you? Despite your promise after the last time.”
Her brother looked away, his expression that of a cornered animal. For a terrible moment, Gemma thought he might lie to her—or worse, storm out in injured dignity, as he had done so often with their mother. Instead, his shoulders slumped in defeat.
“It’s worse than you think, Gem,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “So much worse.”
Cold dread pooled in Gemma’s stomach. “How much have you lost?”
“Four thousand pounds.”
The figure hung in the air between them, monstrous and impossible.
“William, that’s—” She stopped, unable to find words adequate to the catastrophe. Their entire annual income was scarcely more than that. “We don’t have such sums. You know that. The estate hasn’t recovered from Papa’s illness, and with the poor harvest last year—”
“Do you suppose I am unaware of it?” he hissed, suddenly angry. “Don’t you understand that I lie awake every night remembering that I’m meant to be the man Papa was? The perfect Viscount, the responsible son, the provider for the family?”
“I’m not asking you to be perfect,” Gemma said quietly. “Just responsible enough not to destroy what’s left of our livelihood.”
William’s anger deflated as quickly as it had flared. “It’s not just the money, Gem. That is distressing enough as it stand, but it’s… it’s who holds the debt now.”
Something in his tone raised the fine hairs on Gemma’s arms. “What do you mean? Is it not Lord Fanworth?”
“It was.” William swallowed hard. “Until yesterday. Now Thorne holds all my markers.”
“Mr. Thorne?” Gemma recalled the silver-haired merchant from the ball, the unsettling coldness of his eyes despite his charming smile. “But why would he—”
“Because he wants something from me.” William’s voice dropped so low she had to strain to hear him. “Information. About the investments and trading ventures of certain noble families I know. He’s particularly interested in Hawthorne Trading Company.”
Gemma stared at her brother, horror dawning. “You cannot mean to suggest that Mr. Thorne is blackmailing you.”
“He prefers to call it an ‘exchange of favors,'” William said bitterly. “He didn’t threaten me outright—he’s far too clever for that. But he made it abundantly clear that if I don’t provide him with what he wants, my debts will become public knowledge. The scandal would destroy us, Gem. Not just socially, but financially. Every creditor we’ve been keeping at bay would descend at once.”
“But what you’re describing is… highly improper, William. It’s dishonorable.” She could hardly believe she needed to say this aloud. “Whatever information Mr. Thorne seeks, it cannot be for honest purposes.”
“Are you under the impression that I am impervious to that?” William ran a shaking hand through his disheveled hair. “I was foxed, Gem. Three bottles of claret and too much pride. I was trying to impress Ridley and those other dandies, boasting about my connections to half the peerage. Thorne was there, in the shadows. Listening. And now he expects me to be his… his spy.” His voice broke on the last word.
Gemma tried to think through the implications, her mind racing despite her exhaustion. “How did this begin? When?”
“About a month ago. I lost heavily at Fanworth’s—almost a thousand pounds I didn’t have. Thorne appeared the next day, offering to settle my debt. Said he’d heard I was in a tight spot and wanted to help ‘a promising young nobleman.’ I should have known better.”
“Indeed you should have,” Gemma agreed, unable to keep the edge from her voice. “What have you told him so far?”
William looked miserable. “Nothing important. Mostly gossip about who’s investing in what shipping ventures, which families are expanding their interests in the West Indies. But he’s growing impatient. Last night, he made it clear he expects more substantial information, particularly about Hawthorne Trading Company and its investors.”
“Why that company specifically?”
“I have no idea. But he seems to have a particular interest in Lord Brokeshire’s involvement.” William grimaced. “Apparently, the rakish baron is a significant investor, despite his reputation for dissipation.”
Gemma’s mind flashed to Lord Brokeshire’s penetrating green eyes, his surprisingly perceptive observations during their dance. Had there been some purpose behind his attention to her? A chill ran through her at the thought.
“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.”
“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?
Chapter 3
Three days after the Ashbury ball—an event still being dissected over teacups and sherry decanters—the very tip of the Ton, of London society reconvened at Lady Winfield’s much-anticipated musicale. The lady herself was renowned not so much for her ear for music (which was, by most accounts, rather unfortunate), but for the excellence of her ices and the absurd number of chandeliers in her drawing room. It was said one could catch frostbite near the lemon sorbet and be blinded by crystal reflections before reaching the harpsichord.
The Sinclair family arrived fashionably late, or rather, fashionably in theory, for the reality of it was rather less elegant. William, as a younger brother might very well do, had misplaced a cravat, then reappeared with it tied in a knot so offensive that even their mother had blinked twice. Gemma, with the weary patience of one well-acquainted with male incompetence, had re-tied it herself with such force that William yelped and claimed she was throttling him.
“Pray cease your fidgeting,” she murmured, her fingers deftly manipulating the folds of the neck cloth. “I am rescuing you from looking like a footman in mourning.”
Lady Sinclair, ever serene, trailed behind them with the tranquil air of a woman who had long since relinquished control over her offspring’s punctuality.
By the time the trio swept into the already bustling drawing room, the performance had not yet begun, but the performance of Society was well underway. Fans fluttered. Brows arched. And whispers passed like breezes over a calm pond, rippling wherever the Sinclairs walked.
Gemma felt it at once, the weight of a hundred barely-suppressed smirks, the lift of lorgnettes, the precise dip of conversation that signaled one had just been caught discussing you. It was a fine skill, honed by years of London living, to know precisely when one’s name had been uttered without it being spoken aloud.
She straightened her spine, lifting her chin just so. Let them whisper. It wasn’t as if she were the one frequenting gaming hells and avoiding morning calls like a fox evading the hounds.
Unfortunately, William chose that precise moment to trip over the train of her gown.
“Oh, do forgive me,” he muttered, catching his balance with a graceless hop. ““Pray forgive me. I failed to notice it dragging behind like a bridal veil on parade.”
Gemma smiled, but it was the tight kind of smile that said, I am restraining the urge to murder you in public, and only just.
“Perhaps if you looked where you were going, rather than trying to make eyes at Lady Arabella, you wouldn’t be performing interpretive dance with my hem.”
“I wasn’t making eyes,” he grumbled, clearly lying. “I was merely observing.”
“You were ogling with poor finesse.”
Their mother, drifting ahead like a duchess on a cloud of rosewater perfume, turned with mild amusement. “Children, do stop bickering. People are beginning to stare.”
“They’ve been staring,” Gemma said under her breath, glancing around.
Indeed, the whispers had grown more pointed. No doubt the ton had noticed William’s increasingly erratic attendance at social functions. Pair that with a few late payments, some faint talk of debts, and the Sinclair name was just barely keeping its place on the gilt-edged guest lists of Mayfair.
Gemma sighed inwardly. Of course they’re gossiping. This crowd would speculate if the Dowager Countess of Densbury changed the cut of her bonnet.
Still, she pasted on the smile she had perfected over three seasons and walked forward with the confidence of a duchess, despite not even having a title to her name. If the walls were closing in, she would meet them with grace, wit, and if necessary, a swift elbow to William’s ribs to keep him upright and socially acceptable.
As the family found their seats, far enough forward to be seen, yet not so forward as to appear eager, Gemma allowed her gaze to drift over the room. She could spot all the usual suspects. Lady Templeton wore a peacock-feather turban, an accessory far too ostentatious for public observation, the smirking Lord Montague whose neck cloth stood out with an almost alarming stiffness…and….
Seated three rows ahead with perfect composure, a perfectly tailored suit, and a perfectly annoying presence was Lord Brokeshire.
He turned his head at that very moment, as if her thoughts had summoned him, and offered a slight bow of his head. Just enough to be polite, not enough to be warm.
Of course he’s here, she thought. Where else would a man go to listen to twenty-seven variations of the same Italian aria performed by a girl who thinks breath control is optional?
She returned the nod, with exactly the same amount of restrained civility. Let the musicale begin. Should the music not be the cause of her untimely demise, then surely, the company might just procure her departure to the after world.
“Do hold your head high, William,” Gemma murmured, adjusting her brother’s slightly askew cravat as they paused in the entryway. “Half the battle of maintaining one’s position in society is simply appearing as though one belongs.”
William batted her hand away with a scowl. “I am not a child in need of grooming, Gemma. And I daresay I know more about maintaining our position than you do.”
Gemma bit back a retort, because now was not the time for fraternal squabbles, not when so many curious eyes were upon them. Instead, she arranged her features into a serene smile and guided her family further into the room.
Lady Helena clutched her daughter’s arm, her fingers betraying a slight tremor. “I do wish your father were here,” she whispered. “He always knew precisely how to navigate these waters.”
“We shall manage admirably without him, Mama,” Gemma assured her, though the knot of anxiety in her stomach tightened. The weight of their precarious social standing had started pressing upon her shoulders, and she was, in all honesty, struggling to appear dignified.
As they made their way through the crowd, Gemma caught snippets of wretched hushed conversations.
“…heard the Sinclair estate is mortgaged to the hilt…” “…the son gambles away what little remains…” “…poor Miss Sinclair, playing mother hen when she should be securing a match…”
She lifted her chin higher, refusing to give the gossipmongers the satisfaction of seeing her discomfort. They would find new targets soon enough; the ton’s appetite for scandal was voracious and indiscriminate.
However, Abigail Winfield was always a delight to see. She was resplendent in a gown of pale blue silk that complemented her dark curls. Abigail appeared at Gemma’s side. Her warm smile was a balm to Gemma’s frayed nerves. Thank heavens for good companions.
“There you are at last! I was beginning to fear you’d abandoned me to suffer through Lady Montford’s daughter’s pitiful attempt at Beethoven alone,” Abigail whispered, linking her arm through Gemma’s.
“First of all, do not be so rude. Second, I would never inflict such torture upon you without sharing in the misery,” she replied, grateful for her friend’s unwavering loyalty.
Abigail leaned closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “Lord Hartley is here. He’s been asking after you, though I suspect his true interest lies in my whereabouts.”
“Shameless creature,” Gemma teased, momentarily forgetting her worries. “One would think you’d developed a tendre for the gentleman, given how frequently you mention him.”
A becoming blush colored Abigail’s cheeks. “Nonsense. I merely find his conversation stimulating. And his eyes… well, they are rather fine, are they not?”
“Indeed, they are uncommonly fine eyes,” Gemma agreed.
As they exchanged pleasantries with other guests, Gemma kept a watchful eye on William. Her brother had already been approached by a group of young bucks, their grins too wide, and their eyes too bright. She recognized several faces from William’s tales of high-stakes card games and reckless wagers.
“Excuse me,” she murmured to Abigail, preparing to intervene before William could be lured into yet another potentially ruinous situation.
But before she could move, Lady Winfield announced the commencement of the evening’s performances, and the crowd began to settle into the arranged seating. William and his companions, thankfully, separated as decorum demanded.
Gemma found herself seated between her mother and an elderly dowager whose prodigious use of lavender water made her eyes water. From her position, she had a clear view of most of the room, including the far corner where Jameson Brookfield stood in quiet conversation with Christopher Hartley.
***
Across the room, Jameson observed the Sinclairs’ entrance with keen interest. He noted William’s slightly disheveled appearance and the protective way Gemma guided her brother through the crowd. He did not envy the position she was in.
“Miss Sinclair possesses a rather commanding presence, does she not?” Christopher observed, his gaze mirroring Jameson’s.
“Indeed,” Jameson replied, his gaze lingering for a moment longer. “A certain decisive air about her. Miss Sinclair appears to have assumed responsibilities beyond her years,” Jameson replied, careful to keep his tone neutral despite his growing fascination. How unexpected to see her take on such an adult role at her relatively young age—she must be what, twenty? He himself was nearly a decade older at nine-and-twenty.
“Not unlike someone else I know,” Christopher said with a knowing smile. “Though you had the advantage of my guidance, poor unfortunate girl.”
Jameson arched an eyebrow. “Your guidance consisted primarily of showing me which establishments served the finest brandy and which tavern wenches were most accommodating.”
“Precisely! Vital intelligence for a young man of quality,” Christopher grinned, unrepentant. His expression grew more serious as he nodded toward William Sinclair. “The young viscount appears to be in deeper waters than he can navigate. Word at my club is that his words are changing hands at an alarming rate.”
“And ending up in Thorne’s possession, I’d wager,” Jameson replied quietly.
Christopher nodded grimly. “I fear you’re correct. Thorne was seen at White’s last night, engaged in rather intense conversation with Lord Pembroke, whose shipping company, as you’ll recall, suffered a mysterious series of misfortunes last season after refusing Thorne’s offer of ‘partnership.'”
Jameson’s jaw tightened. Thorne’s methods were becoming increasingly transparent to those who knew where to look, yet the man somehow maintained his veneer of respectability among the ton. It was maddening.
His attention was drawn back to Gemma as she conversed with her friend Miss Winfield. There was something compelling about the way she carried herself—shoulders straight, chin lifted slightly, her eyes alert and intelligent. She bore the weight of her family’s troubles with remarkable grace for one so young.
Jameson found himself wondering what circumstances had thrust her into such a position of responsibility. He noticed the flash of worry that crossed her face when William was approached by a group of young bucks, no doubt eager to draw him into another high-stakes game.
A strange twinge of something uncomfortably like empathy stirred in his chest. He knew all too well how it felt to watch someone you love being manipulated. After all, he had stood by helplessly as Caroline had been seduced away by a man he had never even considered.
The man was the Duke of Hargrove, someone that hadn’t even registered on Jameson’s radar. But his title and fortune had attracted Caroline. Jameson had learned too late that her affections had been as shallow as a summer puddle.
“Your thoughts are straying into dangerous territory, my friend,” Christopher murmured, interrupting Jameson’s reverie. “I recognize that particular crease between your brows. It only appears when you’re contemplating either business or pleasure with equal seriousness.”
“Nonsense,” Jameson scoffed. “I was merely considering whether Thorne’s interest in young Sinclair might provide an opportunity to discover his plans for Hawthorne Trading Company.”
Christopher’s eyebrows rose skeptically. “Of course. And Miss Sinclair’s rather fetching appearance in that gown plays no part in your calculations.”
“The lady could be draped in sackcloth and it would make no difference to me,” Jameson lied smoothly. In truth, Gemma looked enchanting in her gown of deep emerald silk. Her slim silhouette was enticing, the color of her dress highlighting the golden undertones in her honey-blonde hair. But such observations were irrelevant to his purpose.
“As you say,” Christopher replied, clearly unconvinced. “Ah, it appears the music is about to begin. Miss Winfield is to perform first, I believe.”
The first notes of Mozart filled the air as Abigail took her place at the pianoforte, her fingers dancing across the keys with impressive dexterity. The room fell silent, the audience captivated by both her talent and her evident enjoyment of the piece.
Jameson watched with amusement as Christopher stood transfixed, his expression one of utter admiration. “And you accuse me of being distracted by a pretty face,” he murmured.
“Miss Winfield’s appeal extends far beyond her admittedly pleasing countenance,” Christopher replied without taking his eyes from the performer. “She possesses both wit and genuine warmth—qualities in desperately short supply among the most desirable and sought-after potential brides of the ton.”
“Good heavens,” Jameson said with mock horror. “You sound positively besotted. Shall I begin composing a felicitous speech for your wedding breakfast?”
“Don’t be absurd,” Christopher muttered, though a telltale flush crept up his neck. “I merely appreciate quality when I encounter it, a trait you would do well to emulate.”
Jameson fell silent, his gaze drifting once more to Gemma. He noted her eyes fixed upon him, as their eyes met across the crowded room. For a moment, neither looked away. Something intense passed between them, curiosity, perhaps, or recognition of a kindred spirit. Then Gemma abruptly averted her gaze, with a becoming blush staining her cheeks.
Jameson felt an unexpected flutter in his chest, one he hadn’t experienced since—no. He would not think of Caroline now. He had learned his lesson about the dangers of allowing oneself to be captivated by a pretty face and intelligent eyes. Business was his mistress now, the only relationship that couldn’t betray him.
Still, he couldn’t deny that there was something about Miss Gemma Sinclair that called to him. A strength beneath her proper exterior, a sense that she, too, wore a mask for the benefit of society.
The music swelled, filling the room with its intricate melodies. From the corner of his eye, Jameson noticed Thorne’s arrival. The merchant’s calculating gaze lingered for a moment on William before turning elsewhere. Jameson tensed, recognizing the predatory look in Thorne’s eyes.
After what Thorne had orchestrated to ruin the Pembroke Shipping Company last season, Jameson knew his interest in William spelled trouble for both the Sinclairs and Hawthorne Trading Company. The need to protect both was suddenly, inexplicably intertwined in his mind. Perhaps with more urgency than normal.
***
As the evening’s performances concluded, Abigail approached Gemma, her eyes shining with excitement. She pulled her friend aside, eager to share the latest development in her burgeoning romance with Christopher Hartley.
“Pray tell! Can such a thing be true?” Abigail whispered, practically vibrating with joy. “Lord Hartley has invited me to perform at his sister’s soirée next week. A private audience, Gemma! And he was so attentive during my piece tonight, did you notice?”
Gemma smiled, genuinely happy for her friend despite the worry gnawing at her own heart. “Indeed, he could scarcely tear his eyes from you. I believe half the room noticed his admiration.”
“Do you truly think so?” Abigail asked, her usual confidence momentarily faltering. “Mama says I’m being fanciful, that a viscount’s son would never seriously consider a merchant’s daughter, regardless of our fortune.”
“Your mother underestimates both your charms and Lord Hartley’s good sense,” Gemma assured her. “I’ve observed how he seeks your company at every gathering, how his eyes follow you. These are not the actions of a man merely being polite.”
Abigail squeezed Gemma’s hand gratefully. “You always know precisely what to say. Oh, how I wish you could find someone who appreciates your worth as well! You deserve happiness more than anyone I know.”
As Abigail spoke, Gemma felt a pang of envy, quickly followed by guilt. With her family’s precarious situation, she knew she couldn’t afford the luxury of romantic entanglements. That was reality. She should rid herself of these hopeless longings and desires. Love was neither imperative nor mandatory. She knew it was a luxury beyond her means.
Since her father’s demise, it became increasingly evident that she had no option but to abandon all youthful fancies and sentimental inclinations. The pursuit of affection was neither prudent nor essential for a young lady of diminished prospects. Indeed, love was a commodity far beyond her means.
“My happiness lies in seeing my family secure,” she said, more sharply than intended. Softening her tone, she added, “And in witnessing the joy of dear friends like yourself, of course.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Christopher himself. He greeted both ladies warmly, his gaze lingering on Abigail. Gemma noted the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled at her friend, the slight softening of his aristocratic features.
“Miss Winfield, Miss Sinclair,” he said with a bow. “Your performance was exquisite, Miss Winfield. I confess I was transported entirely. Mozart himself would have been envious of your admirable performance.”
Abigail ducked her head modestly, though her pleased smile betrayed her delight at the compliment. “You are too kind, Lord Hartley.”
“Not at all. I merely speak the truth,” he replied. “I’ve come to extend an invitation. A small group of us are retreating to the terrace for some fresh air between performances. Would you ladies do us the honor of joining us?”
Abigail accepted eagerly, while Gemma politely declined, explaining that it was necessary for her to keep an eye on William. As Abigail and Christopher made their way to the terrace, Gemma noticed the tender way Christopher offered Abigail his arm and the warm soft, smiles they exchanged. She felt another pang of longing which she, quickly suppressed.
“They make a handsome couple, do they not?” a deep voice observed from beside her.
Gemma startled, turned to find Jameson Brookfield standing closer than propriety strictly allowed. His green eyes glinted with intelligence and something she couldn’t quite name.
“Lord Hartley and Miss Winfield?” she replied, striving for a casual tone despite her sudden awareness of his proximity. “Yes, I believe they are well-suited.”
“Hartley has excellent taste,” Jameson said. “Miss Winfield appears to be that rare combination of beauty and substance. Rather like yourself, Miss Sinclair.”
Gemma’s pulse quickened at the compliment, delivered with just enough sincerity to slip past her defenses. “You hardly know me well enough to assess my character, My Lord.”
“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.