Page 73 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
"People he intends to use," Jameson clarified. "Often, they don't even realize they're being manipulated until it's too late."
Gemma thought of William, of how easily he might have been flattered by attention from someone as influential as Thorne Crawley. "And you believe William will be there? But surely, after abducting him so openly..."
"Thorne operates in plain sight," Jameson replied, his expression darkening. "His greatest protection is the veneer of respectability. No one would dare accuse a peer of the realm of such schemes without absolute proof."
"And we don't have proof," Christopher added. "Not as yet."
Abigail's brow furrowed in thought. "Could we not simply go to the authorities with what we know?"
"With what?" Jameson asked, a bitter edge to his voice. "Suspicions? Patterns noticed only in retrospect? We have no concrete evidence tying Thorne to any of these incidents. And his influence extends deep into the magistracy."
"Then what are we to do at this soirée?" Gemma asked, her hands twisting in her lap. "We can hardly march up to him and demand my brother's release."
"No," Jameson agreed, his eyes meeting hers with surprising warmth. "But we can gather intelligence. Observe who Thornespeaks with, what messages might be passed. And we can let him see that we are unintimidated."
"A bold strategy," Christopher murmured, not entirely approvingly.
"But potentially effective," Jameson countered. "Thorne expects me to retreat, to protect my interests by withdrawing from society. By appearing at his soirée—calm, collected, with my wife on my arm—I signal that his tactics have failed."
"And what of William?" Gemma pressed, unwilling to lose sight of her primary concern.
"If he's there, we'll find a way to extract him," Jameson assured her, his voice softening. "And if not, we'll use the opportunity to learn where he might be held."
Abigail rose from her seat, moving to stand beside Christopher. "Well, if we're to attend this wretched gathering, we shall need new gowns," she declared with forced brightness. "Something memorable. If we're to be part of this... this battle of wills, we must look the part."
Gemma almost smiled at her friend's practical approach to the crisis. Leave it to Abigail to consider the wardrobe implications of confronting a dangerous adversary.
"Well," Abigail said briskly, clearly sensing the tension in the exchange, "this has all been most illuminating, but if we're to attend this soirée with any hope of success, we need a more concrete plan than simply appearing and observing."
Christopher moved to her side, taking her hand in his. "Abigail's right. We need to coordinate our approach. Who speaks to whom, what information we're seeking, how we communicate if one of us discovers something of value."
"And we need contingencies," Jameson added, his strategic mind clearly engaged. "If William is there, if he isn't. If Thorne confronts us directly or avoids us entirely."
As they began to outline strategies, Gemma found her attention drifting. The morning had brought so many revelations, so many shifts in her understanding of her marriage, her husband, the very ground on which she stood. William's abduction was a blow, certainly—a source of genuine fear for his safety. And yet, mixed with that fear was something else, something she Gemma’s eyes lingered on Jameson.
He stood beside the window with Christopher, the light casting clean lines across his face—sharp cheekbones, furrowed brow, a stillness in his posture that belied the storm he was preparing to meet. Last night, she had glimpsed the man behind the carefully constructed facade, the one who kissed her with trembling restraint. Today, she saw something altogether different: the strategist. Cold-eyed. Measured. Dangerous in the most necessary sense.
His voice, low and urgent, mingled with Christopher’s as they passed notes back and forth, folded with quick efficiency.
“…we can’t wait until the account books arrive from Dover,” Jameson was saying. “Thorne will have moved by then.”
“I’m more concerned with the guest list,” Christopher muttered. “Half the men at that soirée are either bribed or blinkered.”
Before Jameson could answer, the drawing room door opened with a creak.
Lady Belinda Brookfield entered, resplendent in her mauve silk morning gown, though her usually stern expression softened into something close to concern at the sight of her son’s grim face.
She took in the hush, the closeness of the men’s posture, the faint trace of tension that hung thick as lavender smoke. Her eyes narrowed.
“Am I interrupting something confidential,” she asked crisply, “or merely catastrophic?”
Jameson glanced at Christopher, then back at his mother. He hesitated—just for a breath.
“The latter,” he said. “And you may as well be informed. It involves the family. And the business.”
Belinda blinked once, a flicker of true unease passing over her features before she recovered. “I assume this has something to do with William.”
“Yes,” Gemma said quietly. She stepped forward from where she had been sitting in the window seat. “And it is time we told my mother as well.”
Jameson’s brow furrowed. “Gemma…”
“She deserves to know,” Gemma said, firmer now. “She is his mother. And she is not fragile. If you can trust me with this, then you can trust her.”
He regarded her for a long moment, then nodded.
“You’ll tell her?”
Gemma nodded, her throat tight. “Yes. Abigail will come with me.”
