Page 11 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
"...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'spitiful 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 providean 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."
