Page 17 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
“I hardly have much to leave when it comes to impropriety,” he said.
“The problem is that you have never engaged mistresses from nobility which is a very important distinction, Brookefield. Let alone the sister of one of Thorne’s new pawns. Investors are watching. If Thorne intends to exploit this, we are giving him a golden opportunity.”
At the mention of Thorne, Jameson’s eyes darkened. “He is behind this,” he said quietly. “The timing is too convenient. He thrives on quiet ruin—on whispers and insinuation. Mark me, he’s pulling threads somewhere.”
“Which is why we must act before he does,” Edward said firmly. “And blunt the edge of this gossip before it becomes a blade.”
Christopher pushed away from the windowsill, his languid posture giving way to something altogether more deliberate. Hisgaze settled on Jameson with the quiet satisfaction of a man about to drop a rather unwelcome truth.
“There is, of course, a remedy to all this unpleasantness,” he said with studied casualness.
Jameson narrowed his eyes. “Good God. I recognise that tone. I want no part of it.”
Christopher ignored him. “Matrimony is the only solution.”
Jameson blinked. “ToMiss Sinclair?”
“To Miss Sinclair,” Christopher confirmed. “Think of it as a timely, respectable alliance. It would silence the wagging tongues, shield her honour, and render any further slander both tasteless and ineffective.”
“It would certainly draw you into closer acquaintance with her brother.” Edward added, watching Jameson with a calculating gleam. “William is young, impressionable, and currently dancing far too near Thorne’s fires. A brother-in-law is rather more difficult to ignore.”
Jameson rubbed a hand across his jaw. “You speak as though I have no say in the matter.”
“Oh, youhavea say,” Christopher said cheerfully. “You’re just surrounded by men who will do their utmost to convince you that the logical choice is also the inevitable one.”
“Inevitable?” Jameson echoed. “You make it sound like a weather pattern.”
“Much the same, really,” Christopher replied. “Impossible to avoid, mildly inconvenient, and best weathered with a decent coat, or in this case, a matrimonial contract.”
Jameson threw him a look of withering disapproval. “You are a terrible friend.”
“And yet, here I am, advising you to wed a lovely, clever lady before Thorne uses this situation to drive a wedge through your business and your good name. I dare say I’m the best friend you’ve got.”
Edward gave a rare smile. “And, if I may speak plainly, Miss Sinclair would not be the worst possible match.”
Jameson fell silent, staring out toward the distant masts bobbing gently in the harbour. Such a sudden and bold conceit should by rights have been dismissed entirely. Yet, it remained fixed in the mind—stubbornly unsettling.
Miss Sinclair, with her arch glances and barbed wit, her barely restrained exasperation with society’s hypocrisies, and her calm dignity in the face of whispered ruin...
He let out a breath. “You’re both out of your minds.”
“Possibly,” Christopher said. "But our timing, I assure you, is quite capital."
Edward regarded Jameson with fatherly concern. "Consider carefully, my boy," he advised. "Remember what happened with Lady Caroline. Guard your heart in whatever you decide."
The mention of Caroline sent a familiar pang through Jameson's chest. He had sworn never to make himself vulnerable again, never to trust another with his heart. Yet there had been something in Miss Sinclair's eyes—intelligence, strength, and a hint of vulnerability that had stirred feelings he thought long dead.
***
The next day, further argument in the Sinclair household was forestalled by the sudden appearance of Simmons. The butler moved with his usual quiet efficiency, yet there was a faint tension in his posture, one Gemma had learned to read over the years. He paused just inside the drawing room door, his face a careful mask of professionalism, though his eyes flickered briefly toward her.
“My Lady,” he said, bowing low to Helena. “Forgive the intrusion, but... Lord Brokeshire has arrived. He requests an immediate audience with Lord Sinclair.”
A sudden hush descended upon the drawing-room. Gemma's breath hitched as her fingers, which had barely worked upon the embroidery, now lay quite motionless. Lord Brokeshire? Here?
William visibly blanched, the colour draining from his already pale features. “Brookfield?” he echoed, half-rising from his chair, as though unsure whether to flee or stand his ground.
Helena stared at Simmons, as though he had spoken in some foreign tongue. “Lord Brokeshire is here?” she repeated, her voice thin with disbelief. “Now? At this hour?”
