Gemma nearly choked on her tea. "Reformed? Devoted? I assure you, our arrangement is quite... conventional."
If only you knew how conventional, she thought ruefully. Jameson had maintained a polite distance, occupying separatechambers and treating her with the detached courtesy one might show a respected acquaintance rather than a wife.
"Come now," Abigail persisted. "The man hasn't been seen at a gaming hell or in questionable company since your wedding. Lord Christopher says he spends his evenings at home rather than carousing until dawn. If that isn't devotion for a man of Brookfield's reputation, I cannot imagine what would qualify."
Gemma frowned slightly. This was news indeed. She had assumed Jameson's absences from their home in the evenings indicated a continuation of his bachelor habits. Perhaps he really did leave only to discuss business.
"Speaking of Lord Hartley," she said, deliberately changing the subject, "I understand you've been enjoying his company of late."
The effect of her words was immediate and gratifying. Abigail's face brightened like a sunrise, her eyes sparkling with undisguised pleasure.
"Oh, Gemma, he is the most wonderful man." She set down her teacup lest her enthusiasm cause a mishap. "Last Tuesday, he escorted me to the British Museum, can you imagine? Not Hyde Park or Vauxhall Gardens, but the Museum! He said he'd noticed my interest in classical sculpture during Lady Harrington's musicale and thought I might enjoy the new exhibition."
"How very thoughtful," Gemma observed.
"You cannot imagine the depth of his knowledge! We spent hours discussing the Elgin Marbles. He has the most fascinating theories about their historical context. And not once did he suggest the subject too academic for feminine comprehension, as most gentlemen would."
As Abigail continued her animated description of their outing, Gemma listened with a mixture of happiness and wistfulness. How simple their courtship seemed, mutualinterests openly discussed, preferences considered, enjoyment unfeigned. So unlike her own situation, trapped in a matrimony of convenience.
"We stood before this magnificent Greek vase," Abigail was saying, "depicting Orpheus and Eurydice, and Christopher..." She paused, coloring slightly. "Lord Christopher, I mean—"
"I believe you're well past such formality in private conversation," Gemma teased.
"Perhaps," Abigail conceded with a shy smile. "Be that as it may, he recited Byron from memory as we gazed upon it, the passage about love conquering the grave. Gemma, I nearly swooned on the spot! Can you imagine? Me, swooning like some silly debutante!"
"The unimaginable has occurred indeed," Gemma laughed. "You, who once declared yourself impervious to romantic nonsense."
"I maintain it isn't nonsense when it's genuine," Abigail protested, then hesitated. "Gemma... may I confide something of a delicate nature?"
"Of course."
Abigail leaned closer, lowering her voice despite the empty room. "I believe he means to offer for me. He spoke with Papa last week—no formal request yet, but he inquired about certain financial matters that strongly suggest matrimonial intent."
"Oh, Abby! That's wonderful news." Gemma clasped her friend's hands warmly, pushing aside the unwelcome pang of envy that flared in her chest. How different from her own hasty, scandal-avoiding matrimony.
"But enough about my romantic adventures," Abigail said, settling back. "Tell me of this Hartington ball everyone speaks of. Your first appearance as Lady Brokeshire! You must be both excited and terrified."
Gemma sighed. "More terrified than excited, I confess. Lady Belinda has expressed most particular opinions regarding my attire for the evening. Apparently, my usual gowns are insufficient for my new station."
"Your mother-in-law has taken you in hand, has she? How delightful for you," Abigail remarked with just enough sarcasm to make Gemma smile.
"She means well," Gemma defended, though without much conviction. "And Mama is equally determined that I should make a splendid impression. Between them, I've endured more fittings this week than during my entire first Season."
"And Lord Brokeshire? What says he of this grand debut?"
Gemma frowned slightly. "Very little. When I mentioned the modiste's exorbitant charges for the new gown, he merely signed the draft without comment and returned to his correspondence."
"How vexingly practical," Abigail observed. "Though Lord Hartley mentioned something curious the other day. He said Brookfield has been unusually attentive to business matters of late. Apparently, there's some concern regarding investments in the West Indies."
"Did he elaborate?" Gemma asked, suddenly alert.
"Only that several prominent families have suffered losses. Some merchant named Thorne has been acquiring shipping interests at an alarming rate." Abigail waved her hand dismissively. "Dreadfully dull business matters. I paid little attention to the particulars."
Gemma's heart quickened. Thorne, the same man William had been meeting, the subject that had provoked such intensity from Jameson. This could not be coincidence.
"Gemma? You've gone quite pale. Are you unwell?"
"Merely a momentary headache," she lied, forcing a smile. "Tell me more about this gown Lord Hartley admired. Was it the blue sprigged muslin we bought together last winter?"
As Abigail happily resumed her narrative, Gemma's thoughts raced. The pieces of this puzzle remained frustratingly incomplete, but a picture was beginning to form. One in which her husband played a far more complex role than the rakish businessman she had believed him to be.
If Jameson's interest in her brother stemmed from business concerns rather than mere brotherly protection, what did that imply about their matrimony? Had he pursued the match for reasons beyond the obvious social advantages?
And if so, what game was he playing, and with whom?
The most troubling question of all whispered in the recesses of her mind. If their matrimony was merely another calculated move on Jameson's part, why did the thought bring her not relief, but a curious and unexpected disappointment?