Page 16 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
William ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, his youthful features tight with strain. At the tender age of three and twenty, he should have been growing into his role as Viscount with confidence and pride. Instead, he seemed nothing more than a frightened young boy attempting to play the part of a gentleman.
"It's nothing, Mama. Business matters that needn't concern you," he said dismissively.
"Don't lie to her," Gemma interjected. "Not when our family's future hangs in the balance."
William's temper flared. "That's rich, coming from you! I'm trying to salvage what remains of our fortune while you're dallying with rakes on moonlit terraces!"
"Enough!" Helena's sharp command silenced them both. "William, sit down. You will explain precisely what business you have with Thorne that involves Lord Brokeshire. And Gemma, you will tell me truthfully what transpired last night."
For the next quarter-hour, the siblings took turns confessing their respective situations. William, shame-faced but defiant, admitted to the extent of his gambling debts and Thorne's growing control over him. Gemma recounted the events at the musicale, from her concern about William's conversation withThorne to her retreat to the terrace and subsequent discovery with Lord Brokeshire.
When they finished, Helena sat in stunned silence, the full weight of their family's precarious position settling over the room like a shroud.
"We are ruined," she whispered at last. "Utterly ruined."
"Not necessarily," William said, his pride reasserting itself. "I am still Viscount Sinclair. The estate may be encumbered, but the title retains value."
Gemma gave a most unladylike snort. "And what do you propose to do with this valuable title? Sell it to Mr. Thorne alongside whatever other information he desires?"
"I am doing what I must to protect this family!" William snapped.
"You are protecting no one but yourself," Gemma retorted.Brat.
***
Meanwhile, across London, Jameson faced his own interrogation. His mother confronted him in his study, her elegant figure silhouetted against the lamplight, her expression a mixture of disappointment and concern.
"Your rakish ways have finally caught up with you," Lady Belinda declared, her voice tight with restrained emotion. "And this time, you've trapped an innocent young lady in the process."
Jameson lounged in his chair with practiced nonchalance, though inwardly he felt a twinge of regret. Not for his encounter with Miss Sinclair—he'd done nothing improper there—but for the distress it would undoubtedly cause her.
"You exaggerate, Mother," he replied, swirling the brandy in his glass. "It was a momentary misunderstanding, nothing more."
"A misunderstanding witnessed by Lady Montford, of all people," his mother countered. "This is different from your usual... indiscretions. Miss Sinclair holds a favored and respected position in society, unlike the other young women whose reputations you've tarnished."
Jameson suppressed a sigh. How he wished he could tell his mother the truth—that his rakish demeanor was merely a façade, born from the pain of Lady Caroline's betrayal and maintained to protect both his heart and his business interests. But he had maintained this charade for too long to abandon it now, even for his mother's good opinion.
"I assure you, Mother, the situation will resolve itself," he said dismissively. "Society has a short memory for such trifling matters."
Lady Belinda's eyes flashed with anger. "Trifling? A young lady's reputation is at stake! Have I raised such a callous son?"
The accusation stung more than Jameson cared to admit. He set down his glass with deliberate care, avoiding his mother's disappointed gaze.
Later that afternoon, the air in the merchant’s office near the docks carried a pungent blend of brine, tobacco, and ink. The tall windows stood open to the bustling quay, where the cries of sailors and the creak of rigging lent a discordant harmony to the serious discussion taking place within.
Jameson Brookfield stood near the hearth, his arms folded across his chest whist an undeniable severity settled upon his face. Seated across from him at the heavy mahogany desk was Edward Hawthorne, his father’s old associate and a man whose salt-and-pepper hair lent him an air of unassailable gravity.
“The matter has gained a momentum entirely disproportionate to the event itself,” Edward said, folding his hands with steepled precision. “A young lady’s reputationcompromised on a terrace at a musicale—hardly a novelty in London, but this? This has spread like fire through dry brush.”
Christopher gave a low whistle. “I heard Lady Beresford referred to it as a ‘calamity of Grecian proportions.’ And you know she only brings in the Greeks when she’s truly scandalised.”
Jameson’s jaw tightened. “It was a conversation. A brief one.”
“Aprivateconversation. Infullview of Lady Winfield’s French windows,” Christopher pointed out with mock solemnity. “You might as well have stood on a table and declared your undying passion.”
Jameson shot him a warning glare.
Edward, ever the pragmatist, ignored the levity. “This affair, if left unchecked, may do more than tarnish Miss Sinclair’s reputation. It risks attaching your name, and ours, to impropriety.”
