Page 81 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
For the first time, true alarm registered in Thorne's eyes—swift and sharp before being masked by practiced indifference. "This is preposterous. You cannot simply invade a gentleman's private chambers on mere suspicion."
"Not mere suspicion," Gemma said, her voice steady despite her racing heart. "We have testimony. From those you've ruined. From those you've threatened. From those who kept their silence out of fear rather than loyalty."
Thorne's gaze snapped to her, cold with contempt. "And who would value the word of a meddlesome woman above that of a respected businessman?"
"Any man of sense and discernment," Jameson replied, his tone dangerous. "My wife possesses more honor in her little finger than you have demonstrated in a lifetime of deception."
A stillness descended upon the room that was taut as a bowstring drawn to its limit. For several heartbeats, the only sound was the soft hiss of candle flames and the labored breathing of William, who still struggled to compose himself.
Then everything happened at once.
Jameson moved first, with a cry that rent the silence like a saber through silk, he lunged forward, propelled by righteous fury. "Unhand my wife!" he roared, his voice reverberating like thunder against the stone walls.
Gemma gasped as one of Thorne's guards—who had been edging steadily nearer—seized her arm in a vicious grip, attempting to wrench her away from Jameson's protection. Before the brute could secure his hold, Christopher abandoned all pretense of gentlemanly restraint and hurled himself at the man with stunning violence. The two collided in a chaos of fists and fury, toppling to the floor in a tangle of limbs.
The second guard, seizing advantage of the distraction, captured Gemma from behind. She twisted in his grasp, every lesson in deportment forgotten as she drove her elbow with savage precision into his ribs. He grunted in pain and staggered backward, but not before Gemma's elaborate coiffure came entirely undone, sending pins scattering across the carpet, and her gloved hand scraped roughly against the rough stone wall.
Thorne himself, proving the depth of his cowardice, retreated but a single step. His movement was not born of panic but calculation—cold, measured precision. Then, with the composure of a man who perpetually kept something more lethal in his pocket than merely his silver tongue, he extracted a gleaming pistol from beneath his coat.
The weapon caught the candlelight in one terrible, glinting flash that seared itself into Gemma's memory.
The shot exploded through the confined space like summer lightning.
Gemma's entire being froze in horror.
Jameson stumbled backward, disbelief etched upon his features.
A crimson stain bloomed across the pristine ivory silk of his waistcoat, obscenely vivid against the stark black of his evening attire. His knees buckled beneath him. He collapsed heavily to one knee, his hand pressed against the spreading wetness.
"Jameson!" Gemma's scream tore from her throat—raw, desperate, and primal in its anguish.
The momentary stillness that followed the shot shattered like crystal dashed against marble.
From the ballroom beyond their sanctuary, voices rose in alarm. Glass shattered as someone dropped a champagne flute. A footman's silver tray clattered to the floor. The elegant strains of the orchestra died mid-measure, leaving a void soon filled by crescendoing panic.
Then came the stampede of fashionable society confronted with genuine danger.
Screams echoed through the corridors and the thunder of running feet reverberated through the floorboards. Thorne, his eyes cold as midwinter frost, barked orders with crisp authority. "Get them out—now! All of them!"
His remaining men complied without hesitation. Rough hands seized Gemma, Christopher, William, and the grievously wounded Jameson. They were propelled with brutal efficiency through a concealed panel that opened to reveal a hidden passageway behind the ornate wall—a narrow corridor lined with unadorned servants' brickwork, choked with the acrid scent of lamp smoke.
"Use the servants' route!" Thorne commanded, his voice betraying the first tremors of genuine alarm. "Avoid the ballroom at all costs—no witnesses!"
But his meticulously constructed scheme was already unraveling like poorly woven cloth.
William, still coughing from the lingering powder smoke, half-dragged by a guard whose attention had begun to waver, caught sight of a heavy silver candelabrum perched precariously on a sideboard. A reckless determination seized him—a desperate need to atone for his earlier weakness.
To prove himself worthy of redemption, he wrenched free of his captor's grip with sudden, unexpected strength.
"No!" Gemma cried, comprehension dawning too late.
With one swift, decisive motion, William sent the candelabrum crashing to the floor. The flames caught instantly, greedily devouring the rich carpet beneath.
The heavy velvet drapes—imported at ruinous expense and trimmed with gold thread—ignited with a terrifying rush of heat and brilliance. The fire spread with unnatural speed, as if some malevolent spirit had awaited precisely this moment of chaos. Within heartbeats, the very walls themselves appeared to writhe with hungry flame.
Thick black smoke billowed upward, obscuring vision and stealing breath. It engulfed the narrow hallway, transforming familiar figures into monstrous shadows, muffling screams and shouts to distant echoes.
"Idiot!" Thorne snarled, coughing violently as he shielded his streaming eyes. "Leave the others! Brokeshire is the only prize worth claiming!"
