The Belle of Belgrave Square (Belles of London #2)(108)

On their railway journey from London, she’d pointed it out to Jasper, the fact that Marshland’s novels had changed.

“Perhaps he’s grown up,” he’d said.

She supposed it was possible. Still . . . it was difficult to reconcile.

Not only that.

Sometimes she found it hard to believe that the same man who had abandoned his children and who had been so cruel to the soldiers serving under him could have secretly been writing novels. Novels rife with romance, heroism, and adventure, where love won the day and good ultimately triumphed over evil.

But bad men often wrote good books, didn’t they? Only look at Mr. Dickens, who had treated his wife so abominably that she’d been obliged to leave him. And yet his books were beloved by many.

Perhaps Jasper’s books were the same. At his wickedest, he’d written stories filled with goodness. Stories she still loved, despite knowing the worst of his past.

She was just withdrawing one of them to look at it when the library door opened. She smiled, returning the novel to its shelf. “At last. I thought Mr. Beecham would never be through with you.” She turned to find Jasper standing in the doorway. His scarred countenance was as unreadable as it had often been in London. Her smile faded. “What’s wrong? Has something happened?”

He shut the door behind him. “Plimstock’s been to the post office in Hardholme. He brought back a letter from my solicitor.”

Her pulse jumped. “Mr. Piggott’s written? Does he have news of my money?”

“He does. But it isn’t—” Jasper broke off. He ran a hand over his hair. “It’s not good, I’m afraid.”

She might have guessed that from his lack of expression. It didn’t make it any more comfortable to hear it uttered aloud. “What did he say?”

Jasper didn’t mince words. “The bank has put a hold on your funds while your father investigates the legality of our marriage.”

Julia stared at him. She couldn’t have heard him correctly. It didn’t make any sense. “What does that mean? Of course we’re married. You gave Mr. Piggott our marriage lines, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“Then what seems to be the difficulty?”

Jasper didn’t answer for a long moment.

A moment during which Julia’s already strained nerves began to fray even further. She moved away from the bookcase, resting her hand on the back of a nearby chair to steady herself. “You’re making me very anxious.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to.” He crossed the library to her, only to stop short—too far away to touch her. “Perhaps you should sit down.”

She didn’t hesitate to obey him. Her knees felt like jelly. “What else did Mr. Piggott say? If my father refuses to accept the validity of our marriage—”

“He isn’t refusing.” Jasper came to stand in front of the cold fireplace. He turned to face her. His jaw was rigid with tension. “Not outright.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He’ll accept it. He’s even agreed to convey your fifty thousand pounds to me without delay. On one condition.”

Her mouth was so dry she could scarcely formulate a reply. “Which is?”

“You must return to London. You must resume living with your parents in their house in Belgrave Square. If you refuse, he’s vowed to delve into my past, to expose me as a villain and a reprobate. To make various arguments about fraud or deceit on my part—and lack of capacity on yours. In other words, he plans to slander us both, and tie up your fortune in perpetuity. Worse than that, he intends for us to expend an additional fortune in fighting his charges in the courts. A fortune he knows I do not have.”

Julia’s stomach was shaking out of control. For a moment, she feared she would be sick. “I see.”

A muscle ticked in Jasper’s cheek. “Yes, I believe you do.”

Her parents wanted her back. Back in that house and in that room. Back at their beck and call. Not because they loved her or valued her, but because Papa was too spoiled and querulous to accept her defection with good grace. She felt a fool to have ever thought he might.

“My father hasn’t any right to interfere with my money,” she said.

“Your money is in your father’s bank.”

“He doesn’t own the bank.”

“He’s one of their largest depositors. They have reason to oblige him. And it isn’t as if he’s making these accusations in a vacuum. He’s employed a respected firm of solicitors to do it for him—Birchall, Crawley, and Micklethwait. Piggott says they’ve a reputation for tying matters up in the courts for years. By the time a case is resolved, the money in dispute has been entirely expended in fees.”

“Like in Mr. Dickens’s Bleak House,” she said faintly. “Jarndyce and Jarndyce.”

“Something like that.” Jasper’s gray eyes had gone the color of hoarfrost. Julia had no idea what he was thinking. Every last vestige of warmth was gone.

She clasped her hands in her lap to stop their trembling. “What do you propose we do?”

“I would have thought it obvious.”

It wasn’t, not to her. “You’re not suggesting I return home?”

Jasper’s gaze locked with hers. And he no longer looked cold and remote. He looked furious. “This is your home.”