Page 58 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
And yet, Gemma could not seem to attend the stage.
Her gaze, though she willed it otherwise, kept sliding sideways—to the rigid line of Jameson’s jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands—usually so still—rested uneasily on his lap.
The intermission brought with it a fresh wave of chatter and motion, the grand salon swiftly filling with the ton’s most finely adorned. Footmen glided about with trays of champagne and lemon ices, while a quartet played unobtrusively in one corner. Gemma stood with Jameson near a marble pillar, her gloved hands clasped tightly before her, doing her utmost not to betray the storm of unease churning within her.
Jameson, for his part, wore the mask of elegant detachment to perfection. One would hardly guess that not an hour prior, his gaze had narrowed at the sight of Thorne seated across the opera house like some dark magistrate presiding over court.
“Ah, at last—civilised company,” came Christopher’s genial voice as he approached, Abigail on his arm and glowing from the performance.
“Was that not a splendid second aria?” Abigail asked, her cheeks still flushed with delight. “She soared like a lark, I daresay.”
“Indeed,” Christopher added, raising his glass. “Even Jameson here might admit she held the room captive. And that’s saying something, given how little can holdhisattention.”
Jameson offered a faint smile, but Gemma did not miss the way his posture altered—subtle, but present. Shoulders ever so slightly taut. Chin a degree higher. And the look he exchanged with Christopher—brief, deliberate—told her all she needed to know: something was being withheld. Again.
She opened her mouth to speak, but her thoughts shattered as her gaze swept the salon and landed on a figure near the entryway, it was William. Her breath caught, heart lurching painfully in her chest. Her brother stood frozen just beyond the doorway, looking pale beneath the candlelight, his cravat askew and his brow damp with perspiration. But it was not William’s dishevelment that turned her blood cold. It was the gentleman beside him.
Tall, sharp-eyed, with a predator’s composure poorly concealed beneath the sheen of polite society—Mr. Edwards.
Even before William stumbled toward them, Gemma felt Jameson shift beside her, the warmth of his arm brushing hers as he leaned forward, suddenly alert.
“Gemma,” William said, his voice pitched too low and trembling with forced cheer. “I had not anticipated that I would see you here—though I suppose I should have guessed. Lovely performance, isn’t it?”
Gemma frowned. “William, are you—?”
“Oh, forgive me,” William rushed on, interrupting. “Allow me to introduce my—ah—business acquaintance. Mr. Edwards.”
Mr. Edwards inclined his head, the barest parody of civility. His eyes, dark and watchful, slid over each of them as if cataloguing them for some future reckoning.
“A pleasure,” Gemma murmured automatically, though everything within her recoiled. The nameEdwardssent alarm bells ringing in her mind. She had heard Jameson mention it once, in hushed tones. A name associated with ruin and whispered threats.
“My sister, Lady Brokeshire,” William said hastily. “And Lord Brokeshire, of course.” He cast a nervous glance at Jameson, whose expression had chilled to something like marble.
Gemma watched her brother closely. His words stumbled, his movements were jittery, and his eyes never settled in one place for more than a second. Whatever pretense he wore, it was thin and fraying fast.
“Well,” William cleared his throat, tugging on his gloves with unnecessary vigour, “we mustn't keep you from the champagne and cultured gossip. Come, Edwards.”
“Surely you’ll stay a moment longer—” Gemma began, reaching for him.
But William was already retreating, nearly dragging his companion behind him. “Another time, Gem,” he called over his shoulder with a strained smile. “Truly. Another time.”
They disappeared into the crowd like smoke dissipating in wind.
Gemma stood motionless for a heartbeat. Then she turned, seeking Jameson's face.
His jaw was set, his gaze fixed on the place where William had vanished. “Mr. Edwards,” he said softly, with a venomous precision that made her shiver, “is not merely a businessacquaintance. He is Thorne’s bloodhound. And your brother,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “is in deeper than I feared.”
The room around them resumed its glittering murmur, as though nothing at all had shifted. But to Gemma, the very floor felt tilted as they returned to their box in silence.
As the curtains rose and the first notes of the next act drifted through the theatre, Gemma sat stiffly, her gaze trained upon the stage but absorbing none of it. Her thoughts refused to be calmed, tangling themselves into a thousand what-ifs and how-much-worse.
Beside her, Jameson remained unnaturally still, though she could feel the tension radiating from him. His hand gripped the armrest with quiet intensity, and though his eyes faced the stage, his thoughts were elsewhere—no doubt following William through every shadowy corridor of the opera house.
Gemma exhaled slowly, there was so much she did not know but one thing had become perfectly clear.
Whatever secrets her husband harboured, they were now tightly entwined with her family’s fate. That terrified her far more than any aria could soothe
The rhythmic clatter of the carriage wheels upon the cobblestones echoed like a slow, steady heartbeat through the enclosed space. London passed by in a blur beyond the glass panes—gas lamps flickering, shadows dancing—but within the Brokeshire carriage, a silence far weightier than darkness reigned.
