The Belle of Belgrave Square (Belles of London #2)(113)

“It’s my second wedding gift to you,” Anne said when they broke apart. “And this is the third.” Opening the black velvet reticule that hung at her wrist, she extracted a folded piece of paper. “I confess, I went in search of it with the intention of exposing Captain Blunt as a villain. Now I know you have feelings for the man, I’m relieved I didn’t succeed.”

Julia eyed the paper with apprehension. “What is it?”

“It’s an old clipping from an 1855 edition of the London Courant. The most thorough report I could find on what actually happened all those years ago in the Crimea.” Anne smiled at Julia’s hesitance. “You needn’t look so anxious. The report says he was a hero. Here, take it. Read it for yourself.”

A HERO OF THE CRIMEA


Success has at length crowned the endeavors of France and England in the Crimea; the mighty fortress of Sebastopol is in the possession of the allied armies. The victory has come with a fearful cost. While gallant hearts were toiling outside of its walls, there were brave defenders inside, who staked everything upon the issue. Among them, Capt. J. Blunt of the 10th Royal Hussars will surely be remembered as one of the conflict’s greatest heroes. Along with a scouting party of four of his valiant men, Capt. Blunt came under fire from an enemy sharpshooter during the fall of the city. Lieut. J. Marshland, son of the late Rev. Marshland, Vicar of Cadenham, was killed instantly. Blunt’s remaining men, Lieut. R. Grainger, brother of Viscount Ridgeway, and Lieutenants T. Akers, son of Mr. L. Akers of Wimbledon, and W. Vaughn, son of Mr. M. Vaughn of Newcastle, succumbed to a hail of bullets. Severely injured himself, Capt. Blunt disabled the sharpshooter, and when an enemy patrol descended and might have made away with valuable intelligence secreted on Lt. Marshland’s body, Capt. Blunt single-handedly dispatched the enemy at great cost to his own life. Blunt is recuperating from grievous wounds at Scutari Hospital. He is being considered for a special medal of bravery to be awarded by Queen Victoria.



The blood drained from Julia’s face as she read. By the time she’d finished, she felt clammy and faint, much like she had after a visit from Dr. Cordingley and his scarificator.

“There, you see,” Anne said triumphantly. “Your husband was a hero. I misjudged the man; I freely admit it.”

“Yes, I see,” Julie answered.

But it wasn’t all she’d seen.

A name had leapt out at her from the newspaper article: Lieutenant J. Marshland.

Jasper had lied to her. J. Marshland wasn’t his pen name. J. Marshland wasn’t anyone’s pen name. He’d been one of Jasper’s men. A soldier serving under him. The son of a country vicar.

“He was a dreamer. He loved novels—reading them and writing them.”

Jasper’s words in the Claverings’ garden echoed back to her.

No wonder the style of James Marshland’s books had changed after the war. It was because James Marshland was no longer writing them.





Thirty-Four





Jasper stood back as Lady Arundell investigated the dark interior of the stable. He was well aware of Goldfinch Hall’s haunted reputation. Rumors had plagued the estate long before he’d arrived and would no doubt linger long after he was gone.

It was nonsense, of course.

There were no ghosts at the Hall. No spirits cursed to wander the earth. Only rot and decay—the lingering effects of all-too-human neglect.

“I feel it here quite strongly,” Lady Arundell declared, coming to a halt in front of the empty loose boxes. “There’s a cold shaft coming through. A presence.”

“The floor has rotted away,” Jasper said. “So has the roof. What you’re feeling is the damp.”

“Do you mean to repair it?” Hartford asked. “I assume you will now you’ve married.”

Jasper shot him an irritated look. Whatever the man’s motivations for being here, he was making a damned nuisance of himself. “Eventually, yes.” He stepped forward. “My lady? If you will? The structure isn’t safe.”

Lady Arundell reluctantly withdrew with them back out to the empty stable yard. “Have you considered holding a séance? I’m not acquainted with any practitioners in this part of the country, but I daresay you could get a party together with some of the locals.”

“I wouldn’t advise it,” Hartford said. “The people in that drab little village don’t look particularly enlightened. According to history, it was they who strung up the house’s original inhabitants.”

“It was a political execution.” Jasper escorted them back to the house. “One of many during the Civil War.”

“I’m not interested in the history of Roundheads and Cavaliers,” Lady Arundell retorted. “I’m concerned with spiritual matters. And this house is a reputed hotbed of spiritual activity.”

“I have lived here six years, ma’am,” Jasper said, “and never encountered a ghost.”

Hartford grinned. “You’ve probably scared them away. You’re not a very welcoming presence.”

Jasper didn’t dispute the fact. He had no interest in welcoming anyone here. Not spirits. Not human beings. He wanted to be left alone with his family.

A family that was presently nowhere to be seen.