Page 30 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
"Walk with me a moment," he said quietly.
Jameson followed him into the smaller study adjoining the main office. Edward closed the door.
"You are quite out of sorts," he perceived, coming directly to the point.
Jameson sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "The business weighs heavily, Edward. You said it yourself, we must stay vigilant."
Edward moved to a small cabinet of polished mahogany and withdrew a crystal decanter. He poured himself a modest finger of sherry. "And yet, I suspect it is not solely business that draws such shadows beneath your eyes."
The study was a sanctuary of sorts with walls lined with leather-bound volumes, a globe standing in one corner, maps of trade routes carefully framed. It smelled of beeswax and old paper, of decisions made and fortunes won and lost.
Jameson gave a dry laugh. "You speak with the gravity of a Vicar."
"You know I speak plainly, you believe you are detached from your wife but you are not."
"She is my wife that is all. The arrangement is mutually beneficial. She receives the protection of a husband and security from scandal while I get the satisfaction of knowing I can easily gather information concerning Thorne’s new pet, the Viscount Sinclair"
Edward took a slow sip. "She has changed something in you."
"Nonsense," Jameson said, turning toward the window. The street below continued its dance of commerce and civilization, unaware of the inner turmoil of one man.
"You've known me twenty years, Jameson. Since we were boys at Cambridge. I know when something disturbs your equilibrium."
Jameson scowled. "She reads Milton in silence and ignores me at breakfast. She does not even attempt to curry my favor. I do not care for her."
"And yet you noticed."
The observation struck with uncomfortable precision. Indeed, he had noticed everything about Gemma Sinclair—now Brookfield—in their brief time sharing a household. The way she held her teacup with three fingers instead of two. How she hummed softly, almost imperceptibly, when engaged in needlework. The slight furrow that appeared between her brows when reading something particularly absorbing.
"She is not like Caroline," Jameson said finally. "That is all."
"Precisely why you are afraid of her."
That stung more than Jameson liked to admit. He said nothing more, only offered a clipped farewell before quitting the room.
Outside, the day had fully blossomed, as the weak spring sun burnt away the morning mist. Jameson's carriage waited while his driver stood to attention. He climbed in, directing the man to his club on St. James Street.
As the carriage wheels clattered over cobblestones, Jameson closed his eyes. Edward's words echoed uncomfortably. Was he afraid of Gemma? The notion was absurd.
There was something in her large hazel eyes that suggested depths he couldn't fathom. An observant intelligence that made him wonder what thoughts stirred behind that serene expression. Occasionally, when she thought herself unobserved, he caught a look of such fierce determination on her delicate features that it startled him.
Jameson had taken her as his wife for reasons of the most pragmatic sort, the first was placing himself at an advantageous point in order to gain as much insight as possible into William Sinclair.
The second, truth be told, was his desire to preserve her reputation. As far as he was concerned, he was held in the lowest possible esteem and it was virtually beyond any repair.
The carriage slowed as it reached the gentlemen's club. Jameson straightened his cravat and arranged his features into their customary mask of cool composure. Whatever domestic complications existed, they would not intrude here, in the realm of business and politics where he moved with such natural authority.
But Edward's words followed him nonetheless.
***
The following afternoon, Gemma found herself seated in the bright and floral drawing room of the Winfield residence. The tea setting was exquisitely arranged as all the cakes and tea set were positioned as beautifully as a painter’s pallet.
Abigail sat comfortably looking radiant with her flushed cheeks from her recent ride in Hyde Park.
"Lord Hartley is quite the horseman," she said with a conspiratorial smile. "And dreadfully proper, but in the most charming way."
Gemma laughed softly, pleased by her friend's delight. "That sounds promising."
