Page 29 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
Chapter 7
The air was brisk that morning as Jameson Brookfield stepped out of his carriage and approached the stately brick façade of the Hawthorne Trading Company. It stood in the heart of Bishopsgate, dignified and unassuming, much like the man who had built it. The street bustled with purposeful energy, gentlemen in well-fitted coats of navy and forest green, cravats pressed into perfect folds, their walking sticks clicking smartly on the cobbled street as they spoke in low, clipped tones about freight prices, overseas goods, and the state of the Baltic Exchange. There were no idlers here. Only men of affairs.
Jameson paused momentarily before ascending the short flight of stone steps, adjusting his gloves with practiced precision. The morning fog had begun to lift, revealing a pale blue sky that promised fair weather. He had not slept well.
The house had felt unusually empty despite the addition of its newest occupant—or perhaps because of her. His wife of barely three weeks, Gemma, remained an enigma that disturbed his carefully ordered existence.
A clerk hurried past him, a leather portfolio clutched tightly to his chest, offering a hasty bow of recognition. Jameson acknowledged him with the barest inclination of his head before continuing up the steps.
Inside the polished halls of Hawthorne Trading, the scent of pipe smoke and parchment clung to the wood-panelled walls. Jameson was greeted by the quiet nods of clerks who recognised him immediately, and then by Edward Hawthorne himself, standing near the large bay window that overlooked the street below. Several other gentlemen—investors and advisors ofvarious seniority—were already gathered, voices low but laced with agitation.
"Jameson," Edward said, inclining his head. "We were about to begin."
Jameson nodded and took his place beside the long oak table. The atmosphere was taut. Mr. Lennox, a portly man with a ruddy complexion, cleared his throat.
"There's no denying it now. Sinclair and Thorne were seen last night at White's. They had three investors from Harwood & Co. in their confidence."
"And they made no attempt to be discreet," added Mr. Fairchild, a thin, scholarly man whose family had been in shipping for four generations. "It was a deliberate display, meant to be noticed."
"Thorne never wastes his time unless he smells weakness," another murmured. This from Henry Blackwood, whose sharp features seemed carved from granite. "And Sinclair is worse—he strikes with precision where it will wound most deeply."
Jameson folded his arms, his expression unreadable. "I can confirm it. William Sinclair was there. I observed him in conversation with them myself. He and Thorne appeared... familiar."
The room grew still.
"And yet you speak of him with such remarkable detachment," Lennox said, his tone honeyed but his eyes cold as flint. "One might almost forget the... delicate circumstances. Considering the new family connection."
A ripple of discomfort passed through the room. All knew of Jameson's recent matrimony to Gemma Sinclair, William's younger half-sister.
"My matrimonial union," Jameson said crisply, "is no more relevant here than the style of my boots. William and I are not allies."
"But relations by matrimony, nonetheless," Lennox persisted with a thin smile. "One must wonder if your position might be compromised."
"You forget yourself, Lennox," Edward intervened, his voice quiet but commanding. "Lord Brokeshire's integrity has never been in question here."
Lennox inclined his head in reluctant deference, though the doubt lingered in his eyes. "Of course. I meant no offense."
Edward studied Jameson for a beat, then shifted the discussion. "Their objective is clear. If they erode confidence in our holdings, or suggest we are in any financial instability, they will fracture our alliances and press for a takeover."
"They've already approached the Pembroke consortium," offered Blackwood. "My sources inform me they presented quite a compelling case regarding our supposed vulnerability in the West Indies market."
"A fabrication," Jameson said flatly. "Our Barbados operations have never been stronger."
"Facts matter little when rumors fly," Fairchild sighed, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to dab at his brow. "Perception becomes reality in these matters."
"Then we must control the perception," Jameson replied. His mind was already working, cataloging assets and alliances, strengths that could be leveraged against Sinclair's machinations. "The shipment from Calcutta arrives next week. The spice cargo alone will yield thirty percent above market projections."
"If it arrives," Lennox muttered. "The monsoon season—"
"Has been accounted for," Jameson cut him off. "Captain Reynolds altered course three weeks ago. I had word from Lisbon yesterday."
Edward smiled thinly. "Excellent foresight."
The conversation swirled with figures, projections, risks. Each man presented his domain of expertise and responsibility, charting a course through the troubled waters ahead. But Jameson felt the press of something heavier—not numbers, not strategy, but a weight somewhere in his chest. The burden of two identities now: husband and businessman. It was as if his every step forward in one role destabilised the other.
"Gentlemen," Edward concluded after two hours of intense discussion, "I believe we have established our course. Maintain confidence with our investors. Demonstrate our strength through steady performance. Present a united front." He glanced meaningfully at Jameson. "In all things."
The meeting came to a close with the promise of tightened operations and discreet counter-measures. As the men filtered out with rustling coats and murmured farewells, Edward lingered.
