The Belle of Belgrave Square (Belles of London #2)(15)

Jasper supposed the estate had its charm. It was a large, sprawling property, with a certain fading grandeur to it. The kind of place that appealed to one’s gothic sensibilities. But such dubious attractions were no replacement for a roof that didn’t leak and floorboards that weren’t rotting beneath one’s feet. A few months ago, Beecham had nearly fallen to his death.

The ancient retainer was the only full-time servant Jasper employed. A remnant from the past. He’d been caretaker of Goldfinch Hall for over a decade, remaining there long after the death of Erasmus Blunt, the reclusive great-uncle who had left the estate to Jasper in his will.

Would that old Erasmus had left some money for its maintenance.

In hospital after the fall of Sebastopol, Jasper had imagined Goldfinch Hall as a refuge. A place where he could find peace and quiet, far away from the miseries of war. Instead, it had proved to be an albatross around his neck.

If not for the children, he’d have walked away from it without a backward glance.

That was out of the question now. And not only because he was bound by his promise to Dolly, but because he was bound by the bonds of affection.

Charlie and Alfred could be difficult, it was true. He’d come into their lives too late. They still hadn’t forgiven him for abandoning them. But Daisy was different. She’d been less than a year old when he’d returned from the Crimea. Nearly seven now, she couldn’t remember her mother. Jasper was the only parent she’d ever known.

It should have made things easier between them.

It didn’t.

Daisy was an odd child. Painfully shy at times, but with a streak of feral independence. Not for her the sewing room or the sampler. She preferred climbing trees, swimming in the lake, and napping in the hayloft of the barn.

He’d had no luck in persuading her to behave with more decorum. What she needed was the civilizing influence of a female. A lady who would take her in hand.

Bastard boys had a hard enough road ahead of them, but for a girl, the taint of illegitimacy would color her entire life. The least Jasper could do was to assure she had the wherewithal to live that life with dignity—good manners, a decent education, and a ready supply of money.

A wealthy wife would go a long way toward providing those things. A wife who wasn’t Miss Julia Wychwood.

Which reminded him. “I need to see a solicitor while I’m in town.”

Ridgeway’s brows lifted with interest. “I thought you had a man in York.”

“Piggott is my late uncle’s solicitor, not mine.” Jasper had only met the fellow on one occasion. Mr. Piggott had administered Erasmus Blunt’s will. He was an aged attorney, prone to discussing the private affairs of his other clients. “I need someone of my own. Someone who can exercise a bit of discretion.”

“I see.”

Jasper sincerely hoped not.

“Any particular area of expertise?” Ridgeway asked.

“Criminal,” Jasper said.

Ridgeway’s face was impassive, betraying no sign of surprise. “You might try my neighbor, Mr. Finchley. I can’t promise he’s taking on new cases or even that he dabbles in criminal matters any longer. But he was once rather renowned. He counted the most powerful gentlemen in the city among his clients.”

“He sounds expensive.”

“I daresay he’s worth it, as much for his skill as for his silence. The man’s a veritable vault of secrets, though you wouldn’t know it by looking at him.”

“He has offices in town?”

“In Fleet Street.” Ridgeway paused. “It’s nothing serious, I trust?”

“Not serious. Tedious.” Yet another obstacle to Jasper marrying and returning to Yorkshire. One more of conscience than of actual impediment. His mind would be easier if it could be settled. “As tedious as all the rest of this business.”

“I have news that might cheer you,” Ridgeway said. “Miss Throckmorton will be at Lady Holland’s dinner this evening.”

Jasper gave him a blank look.

“Daphne Throckmorton,” Ridgeway prompted. “The Northumberland toffee heiress?”

Jasper rubbed the side of his face. He had a vague memory of Ridgeway mentioning the girl in passing. “She owns a manufactory, doesn’t she?”

“Absolutely not.” Ridgeway appeared insulted by the suggestion. “I wouldn’t have suggested her if she was in trade.”

“She’s a toffee heiress.”

“Naturally, her people were in trade—nothing to be done about that, I fear. But according to my sources, on her father’s death, the toffee business went to a distant cousin. Miss Throckmorton herself was left with only a monetary inheritance. Forty thousand pounds, to be precise.”

Forty thousand pounds.

It was ten thousand less than Miss Wychwood was worth. Still, it was no paltry sum.

Jasper stood to retrieve his coat. “Your sources being the fellows at your club.”

Ridgeway didn’t deny it. “There are already wagers in the betting book over which penniless younger son will swallow his scruples and marry the girl. The odds are in Aldershott’s favor. He hasn’t a bean to his name. But my money’s on you, Blunt. You can easily win Miss Throckmorton and her fortune if you put a little effort into it. Ladies love a war hero.” He cast a narrow glance at Jasper’s letter to Beecham. “Though I wouldn’t mention your by-blows to her just yet. Cits tend to take a provincial view of such matters.”