Page 71 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
Gemma pressed her hands to her temples, forcing herself to think clearly through the rising panic. She had promisedJameson she would alert him if anything seemed amiss, but she hadn't anticipated something so immediate, so blatant. William, taken in broad daylight from her own home. It spoke of a boldness, a certainty of success that chilled her to the bone.
Moments later, she was still in the foyer, too stunned to move, when the bell rang again. The butler appeared, his face a careful mask of professional neutrality, and opened the door to reveal Abigail and Christopher Harrington.
Abigail swept in with Christopher behind her, her pretty face animated as she laughed about some goat that had eaten the picnic basket last week.
"You simply must hear this, Gemma," Abigail was saying, unwinding a delicate lace shawl from her shoulders. "Christopher took me to the most charming country inn, and there was this goat—"
But the moment they saw her face, everything changed. Abigail's laughter died, replaced by immediate concern.
"Gemma?" Abigail whispered, crossing quickly to her side. "Good heavens, you're white as a ghost. What's happened?"
"They've taken him," she said hoarsely, her voice sounding strange even to her own ears. "William, he's gone. Two men. A carriage."
Christopher paled, his normally jovial expression hardening into something grim. "Confound it. This is grave."
Gemma turned at the sound of the door opening again, hope surging briefly—had William somehow escaped?
But it was Jameson, he'd returned unexpectedly, clutching a folder, his hat still in hand as though he had rushed back without bothering to properly conclude his business. He stilled the moment he saw her, taking in her pallor, her disheveled appearance, the gathering of friends in the foyer.
Their eyes met. The room fell utterly silent.
“What happened?” he rushed to her. He seemed to worry that something had happened to her, but it was far worse. For Gemma could stand her own demise, but nothing fatal happening to her brother.
"They've taken him," Gemma repeated, voice cracking.
Jameson drew a breath, his expression shifting from confusion to understanding to a cold fury that transformed his handsome features. Then he looked at Christopher. A long, loaded pause passed between them, some unspoken communication that excluded the women entirely.
And then, Jameson turned to the women.
"There is something you both need to know," he said, his voice low and resolute. "It's time."
He crossed to the table in the entrance hall, laying the folder down with a thud that seemed to echo in the silence.
He addressed Abigail. “My wife has known this for a while now, and I fear I dallied too long in revealing the whole truth to her. As you are well aware, Christopher and I are shareholders in Hawthorne Trading Company. Major ones. And Thorne has been trying to dismantle it from the inside using debts. Threats. People."
"People such as my brother," Gemma told.
Jameson nodded grimly. "Yes. William Sinclair was his latest leverage."
Abigail clutched Christopher's arm, her eyes wide with disbelief. "You've known all this—and didn't inform me?"
Christopher looked pained, placing his hand over hers in a gesture of reassurance. "I wanted to. But the risk—"
"The risk was too great," Jameson cut in, his voice tight with controlled anger. "Thorne has eyes and ears everywhere. If word had gotten out, if he'd suspected we knew of his plans..."
"Thorneis hosting a soirée in three days," Jameson continued, pacing the length of the foyer. "One of his usualdisplays of power. We believe he'll use it to advance his schemes and possibly, he'll have William there. Hidden in plain sight."
Gemma's hands clenched at her sides, the momentary relief of understanding giving way to fresh determination. "Then we must go."
Jameson met her gaze, his expression a complex mixture of admiration and concern. "It's dangerous."
"So is doing nothing."
His eyes lingered on hers for a long moment, searching for something—hesitation, perhaps, or fear. He found only resolve.
Then he nodded. "Very well."
"Wait," Abigail interjected, looking between them with growing alarm. "You can't simply walk into what may well be a trap. If Thorneis as dangerous as you say—"
