Page 8 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
He hadn't expected her to be quite so... memorable.
Jameson's mouth quirked in a genuine smile as he recalled her dry observations, so at odds with the vapid flattery he typically encountered. Most young ladies treated him as either a thrilling danger or a redemption project. Miss Sinclair had done neither. She had simply seen through him—at least partially—with those perceptive hazel eyes.
"You're quite observant for someone whose primary occupation appears to be shocking the ton with increasingly outlandish behavior."
Her words echoed in his mind, unexpectedly discomfiting. No, she couldn't possibly have seen through the carefully constructed persona he had spent years perfecting. The very suggestion was absurd.
"Brookfield! By God, it is you. Out and about at this ungodly hour?"
The booming voice interrupted Jameson's thoughts. He turned to see Sir Henry Blackwood trotting toward him on a sturdy bay gelding. The baronet was one of Christopher's connections—a jovial, red-faced gentleman who seemed perpetually to be on the brink of an alarming seizure.
"Blackwood." Jameson inclined his head, his drawl deliberately languid. "I find the morning air occasionally beneficial for clearing the excesses of the previous evening."
"Hah! I can imagine," Sir Henry chuckled, clearly delighted to be speaking with the notorious Baron. "Heard you caused quite a stir at the Ashburys' ball last night—dancing with that Sinclair girl. Planning to add another broken heart to your collection?"
Jameson's smile remained fixed, though something cold slithered through him at the casual cruelty of the question. "MissSinclair seemed in need of rescue from a particularly tedious conversation. A momentary impulse of chivalry, nothing more."
"Chivalry! From Lord Brokeshire?" Sir Henry laughed heartily. "The ton will be devastated to learn you've developed a conscience."
"A temporary affliction, I assure you," Jameson replied smoothly. "Already fading in the face of more interesting pursuits."
"Well, if you're looking for distraction, I heard something that might pique your interest." Sir Henry leaned closer, lowering his voice despite there being no one nearby to overhear. "Thorne was at Fanworth's club again last night, closeted with young Sinclair for hours. The boy left looking like death warmed over, while Thorne appeared positively triumphant."
Jameson kept his expression mildly interested, though his mind immediately sharpened. "Fascinating. I wasn't aware Thorne frequented gaming establishments."
"Oh, he doesn't play. Just... observes. Makes one damned uncomfortable, if you ask me. Like being watched by a hawk while you're holding your cards." Sir Henry shuddered. “ Thorne's designs on the youth, I fear, promise to come to no good.”
"Perhaps merely business," Jameson suggested idly. "Thorne has his hand in every venture.”
"Business with a viscount who's known more for his losses at the gaming table than his head for figures? Hardly likely." Sir Henry snorted. "No, there's something rum about it. Still, not our concern, eh? The Sinclairs have been on the decline since the old viscount passed. Sad business, but there it is."
"Indeed," Jameson murmured noncommittally.
Sir Henry, having exhausted his stock of gossip, soon took his leave with a cheery wave. Jameson continued his ride, his outward demeanor unchanged while his thoughts raced.
William Sinclair spending hours with Thorne immediately after Jameson had danced with Miss Sinclair could not be coincidence. Had his attention to the lady somehow accelerated Thorne's timeline? The very possibility sent a strange pang of guilt through him.
He recalled Miss Sinclair's composed expression during their dance, the flashes of wit and intelligence beneath her social mask. Had she any inkling of her brother's predicament? The strength he'd sensed in her suggested she was not a woman who would crumble easily under pressure, but the burden William appeared to be carrying would test anyone's resilience.
None of this is my concern,Jameson reminded himself sternly.My priority is protecting Hawthorne Trading Company and Mr. Hawthorne himself. The Sinclairs' domestic troubles are irrelevant.
And yet, the memory of Miss Sinclair's direct gaze lingered uncomfortably in his mind. There had been something in that brief connection—a spark of recognition between two people accustomed to hiding behind social facades—that he couldn't quite dismiss.
Don't be absurd,he thought harshly.You learned your lesson with Caroline. Trust leads only to betrayal.
He had carefully constructed his rakish reputation precisely to avoid genuine entanglements. Better to be feared or desired than trusted. Trust made one vulnerable, and vulnerability was a luxury Jameson could ill afford, especially now with Thorne circling like a shark scenting blood.
No, whatever troubles plagued the Sinclair family, they were not his responsibility. Miss Gemma Sinclair, with her perceptiveeyes and sharp tongue, would have to navigate her family's difficulties without his intervention.
Jameson urged his horse to a canter, as if he could outrun his own unwelcome thoughts. The wind in his face and the powerful animal beneath him provided a momentary distraction from the nagging sense that, despite his best intentions, the orbit of his life had somehow become entangled with that of the Sinclairs.
And in his experience, such entanglements rarely ended well for anyone involved.
***
In a distinguished corner of the city, where the gas lamps glowed softly against the dusky sky and the streets were lined with carriages bearing crests of consequence, Mr. Thorne reclined in the luxurious solitude of his study. The room was a gentleman’s sanctuary, lined with shelves of well-bound volumes, scented faintly of pipe tobacco and old paper, and lit by the steady glow of the fire which hissed softly in the grate. The hour was late, the household quiet, save for the occasional creak of settling timber or the rustle of the wind beyond the windowpanes.
Thorne sat at ease in a chair of green leather, a fine claret resting in one hand, and a satisfied curl upon his lips. It was not the smile of a man merely pleased, it was the expression of one who sees the world laid bare before him and finds it pliable to his will.
