Page 9 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
Young William Sinclair, he mused, had proven even more useful than anticipated. Vain, impressionable, and eager to secure a name for himself amongst gentlemen of influence, he had walked straight into Thorne's snare with all the heedlessness of a lamb presented for slaughter. How easily the boy had parted with tidings not meant for another soul. Idlegossip over port, veiled confessions masquerading as bravado—each revelation a stroke upon the canvas of Thorne’s design.
Fools ought not to play at commerce,he thought idly,when they have neither the temperament nor the wit for war.
Already, Thorne had gained insight into the financial underpinnings of Hawthorne Trading Company, knowledge of wavering investors, murmurs of discontent among the ranks, and hints of internal discord. These were not mere trifles. No, these were the cracks in the foundation, the flaws he would exploit with care until the whole venerable edifice crumbled beneath its own weight.
He took a slow draught of his wine, letting the warmth bloom across his tongue as his mind turned to further designs.
Miss Gemma Sinclair was a charming creature, by all accounts. She was known to be spirited, intelligent, with that peculiar air of quiet dignity which gentlemen so often mistake for simplicity. Thorne had not yet had the pleasure of prolonged acquaintance, but he had observed enough to know that she might prove even more valuable than her brother. There was influence there, she held sway over William, no doubt. Perhaps over others as well. She might serve as the key to tightening his grip.
Could one sow discord in her affections? Entangle her in scandal? Or simply use her as a lever to bend William further to my cause?His thoughts flickered through possibilities with the same delight a huntsman might feel when surveying the tracks of promising quarry.
Still, care must be taken. Gemma was no fool. The wrong move might rouse suspicion. But oh, the satisfaction of using the Sinclair name to undermine both their pride and their allegiance to that sanctimonious cur, Hawthorne...
Thorne allowed himself a soft chuckle.
Let them call me ruthless. Let them call me cold. They may call me what they please, so long as they call me victorious.
He leaned forward, placing the empty glass upon the side table, the fire reflecting in his keen eyes. This was not vengeance born of temper. This was strategy. Precision. Justice, perhaps of a particular kind.
The game had begun, and Albert Thorne played to win.
And if a few pawns must be sacrificed along the way, well, that was the nature of such pursuits, was it not?
