Page 7 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
"Forgive me, Mother," William said, looking genuinely contrite. "I've been irresponsible."
A masterpiece of understatement,Gemma thought.
“Pray, what does it amount to?” Helena asked, her voice steadier than Gemma had expected.
William hesitated, then said, "A significant sum. But I shall make it right, I give you my word."
Helena studied her son's face for a long moment. "Your father would be very disappointed," she said at last, her quiet words landing with more force than a shout. "He taught you better than this."
William flinched. “I am completely aware, Mama.”
"Well." Helena squared her shoulders with dignity. "We shall simply have to economize further. Perhaps we can let go of another footman, and I'm certain my quarterly allowance can be reduced."
"That won't be necessary," Gemma interjected quickly, unable to bear the thought of further sacrifices from her mother. "I have a few ideas for addressing the situation."
None of which involve telling you that your son is being blackmailed by one of London's most powerful merchants, or that our family name could be ruined beyond repair if we cannot find a way out of this mess.
"We'll manage, Mama," William added with forced brightness. "You mustn't worry yourself."
Helena looked unconvinced but nodded slowly. "Very well. But William, I must insist that you comport yourself with greater restraint in the future. We cannot afford—in any sense—a repetition of such behavior."
"Yes, Mother," William said meekly.
"Now, I suggest you change out of those clothes before Mrs. Winters sees you and has an apoplexy," Helena continued, her maternal authority reasserting itself. "And Gemma, dear, you really shouldn't be concerning yourself with such matters. These ledgers are William's responsibility now."
If only that were true in practice rather than merely in principle,Gemma thought, but she merely smiled. "Of course, Mama. I was merely helping temporarily."
With a final worried look at her children, Helena withdrew, closing the door softly behind her.
"She suspects there's more," William said as soon as their mother's footsteps had faded. "She's not as fragile as you tend to believe, Gem."
"Perhaps not. But she has suffered enough." Gemma began carefully arranging the ledgers into a neat stack. "We need to devise a strategy, William. One that extricates you from Mr. Thorne's influence without destroying our family in the process."
"I have given the matter considerable thought, however, no solution offers itself." William confessed. "Unless we suddenly discover a hidden fortune in the attic, I see no way forward."
Gemma fell silent for a moment, considering possibilities, none of them pleasant. "We need more information. About Mr. Thorne, about his interest in Hawthorne Trading Company, about Lord Brokeshire's involvement."
"And how do you propose we obtain such intelligence? I can hardly ask Thorne directly, and Brokeshire moves in circles far removed from ours."
A memory surfaced—Lord Brokeshire's intense gaze during their dance, his unexpected perceptiveness.We all have our masks, Miss Sinclair. Some are simply more entertaining than others.
"Perhaps not as far removed as you might believe," Gemma murmured.
***
The early morning mist had completely dissipated by the time Lord Brokeshire guided his magnificent black stalliononto Rotten Row. Hyde Park was beginning to fill with the fashionable set, enjoying their morning promenade or showing off their horsemanship to admiring spectators.
Jameson controlled his mount with negligent ease, one hand loose on the reins as he navigated between slower riders. His posture was relaxed, and his expression was one of mild amusement, as if the very concept of morning exercise held a particular amusement for himself. A flash of white teeth, a rakish tilt to his hat, a nod which was a trifle too daring to a group of young ladies who tittered behind their gloves as he passed—all elements of the performance he had perfected over the years.
Lord Brokeshire: infamous rake, dedicated hedonist, the despair of matchmaking mamas throughout London.
If only they knew how tiresome it all becomes,he thought, maintaining his lazy smile as he acknowledged a bow from Lord Pennington.The same meaningless courtesies, the same scandalized whispers, the same expectations of outrageous behavior.
His true thoughts, as usual, were far from the frivolous concerns of the ton. Behind the facade of careless charm, his mind worked methodically through the information he had gathered at last night's ball. Christopher's intelligence about Thorne's recent activities was troubling—the merchant had been systematically targeting investors in Hawthorne Trading Company, using methods that skirted the edges of legality.
And now his apparent interest in William Sinclair,Jameson mused, automatically adjusting his seat as his horse sidestepped a puddle.A young viscount with a reputation for gambling and loose talk—precisely the sort of weak link Thorne excels at exploiting.
Which had led Jameson to Miss Gemma Sinclair, the viscount's sister. He had approached her with clear purpose:to assess how much she knew of her brother's activities and whether she might be unwittingly involved in Thorne's schemes.
