The Belle of Belgrave Square (Belles of London #2)(110)

“No, there isn’t,” Jasper acknowledged. “But if the alternative is allowing his inquiry agents to rake up the past—”

A knock sounded on the library window, arresting his speech. Charlie was standing outside the glass, with Alfred and Daisy hovering behind him.

Jasper strode to the window and unlatched it. “What is it?”

“There’s someone coming up the drive,” Charlie said. “A great big coach-and-four.”

Julia stood, pressing a hand to her midriff as she came to join them. It was the only sign of how unsettled she was by their previous conversation. “Is it someone from the village? The vicar or—”

“It’s not the vicar,” Alfred said. “He drives a green gig.”

“And he never comes to call,” Charlie added.

Daisy wasn’t taking any chances. At the first mention of the village’s dour clergyman, she was off and running toward the trees at the bottom of the garden.

Alfred hesitated but a moment before haring off after her.

“Good God,” Jasper muttered. “One would think we’d never had proper callers.”

“You’ll remain, won’t you, Charlie?” Julia asked. “Mr. Beecham might bring in tea.”

Charlie snorted. “I’m not going to take tea with some stranger. I don’t care who they are.” With that, he ran off to join his siblings.

Jasper looked to Julia. “It appears we’re on our own.” He offered her his arm.

She took it silently, and a trifle stiffly.

As he walked with her out into the hall to greet their unexpected guests, he felt a sharp stab of remorse. Keeping his secrets—and keeping her in the long run—meant hurting her in the short term. He didn’t like it one bit, but it was better than the alternative.

“Pray don’t be unhappy with me,” he said to her in a low voice.

“I’m not unhappy,” she said. “I’m angry.”

Jasper gave her an alert look. Angry?

But she was. He saw it in her eyes. He’d not only injured her feelings, he’d done the impossible. He’d riled her temper.

If he wasn’t the one on the receiving end of her ire, he’d have marveled at it. Julia in a temper was a thing to behold.

He had no time to reply to her. Beecham was already ahead of them, throwing open the front door of the Hall.

A hired coach-and-four rolled up at the bottom of the moss-covered stone steps. The door opened the instant it stopped, and a lady in a black velvet traveling gown alighted unassisted. She tilted her head up to look at them, her aristocratic features framed by a black mourning bonnet and hair the color of spun gold.

Julia’s hand slid from Jasper’s arm. “Anne!”





Thirty-Three





Julia met Anne halfway down the steps, enfolding her friend in a fierce embrace. “You’ve come! But how—”

“Forgive me,” Anne murmured, squeezing her tightly a moment before releasing her. “There was no other way.”

Julia at once discerned the crime for which her best friend begged forgiveness.

Anne hadn’t come alone.

A tall, handsome gentleman in a plaid suit followed her out of the coach—Mr. Hartford of all people! More surprising still was the black crepe–clad lady he handed down from the carriage.

It was Anne’s mother, the Countess of Arundell.

Julia sank into a curtsy. “Lady Arundell.”

Widow of the Earl of Arundell, the Countess was a formidable dark-haired lady with a slight double chin and a magnificent bosom. A leader of fashionable London society, and well-known devotee of spiritualism, she was famous for her various eccentricities, among which was a propensity to wear mourning clothes, and to insist that her unmarried daughter do the same.

“Miss Wychwood. Or should I say Mrs. Blunt?” Her ladyship’s gaze swept over Julia dismissively before moving to the house behind her. “So, this is Goldfinch Hall. An ill-suited name for a place of such reputed power. When the tragedy struck, I believe it was known locally as Edgemoor House.”

Rising from her brief curtsy, Julia flashed a bewildered glance at Anne.

Anne gave a stiff shake of her head. Later, it seemed to say.

Mr. Hartford greeted Julia with a bow. Though his features were soberly disposed, his eyes flickered with their usual expression of private mirth, as if he found the whole situation devilishly amusing. “Mrs. Blunt. Captain. Felicitations on your marriage.”

Jasper had come down the steps to stand at Julia’s back. “Hartford. Ladies.” His voice was as glacial as his countenance. “To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?”

Lady Arundell leveled her gaze at him, appalled by his ignorance. “Mr. Drinkwater’s bimonthly column. Don’t say you haven’t read it yet?”

“Mr. Drinkwater?” Julia echoed, feeling completely at sea.

“Mr. Drinkwater writes for the Spiritualist Herald,” Anne explained. “He’s lately received intelligence that the veil will be at its thinnest this week between the spirit realm and sites of spiritual significance in the northern counties. His most recent column makes specific reference to Edgemoor House.”

Julia glanced at Jasper. His face was a studied blank. “Goldfinch Hall was once Edgemoor House?”