Page 83 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
But her heart, her heart pounded within her breast with such violence that she feared it might shatter her ribs.
Jameson was gone, he had been abducted, and she had allowed him to slip through her fingers like water. The streets of London passed in a blur of shadow and gaslight. Street lamps flickered against the night sky.
Curious onlookers gathered at street corners, pointing toward the ominous orange glow rising above the tree line from the direction of Thorne Hall.
Within the relative safety of the carriage, Gemma's trembling slowly subsided.
Not because her fear had diminished, but because it had transformed—crystallized into something harder, sharper, more dangerous. It was pure rage and absolute resolve.
By the time their carriage clattered to a halt before the elegant facade of the Sinclair townhouse, Gemma had already begun to formulate what must follow.
Helena Sinclair, Christopher's mother and matriarch of the family, awaited them in the entrance hall, her face pale with dread beneath her hastily donned nightcap. "What calamity has befallen you all? Where is Lord Brokeshire?"
"Mama," William said, his voice raw from smoke and remorse. "There is no time for gentle explanations. You must listen carefully."
He took her veined hand in his soot-blackened one. And began to reveal the terrible truth.
