The Belle of Belgrave Square (Belles of London #2)(31)

But something wasn’t right.

It was that look in the baronet’s eyes. That shrewd, measuring look, completely at odds with his frail demeanor.

Jasper was at once on his guard.

“Your visit is ill-timed,” Sir Eustace said. “I’ve been too long from my bed today. My constitution can’t abide it. The prospect of death is a constant companion to me.”

“You have my sympathies,” Jasper said.

“Sympathy is poor medicine. But I don’t complain. I’ve long accepted that it’s my lot in life, never knowing which day will be my last.” Sir Eustace emitted a long-suffering sigh. “The doctor’s been summoned. He’ll be here shortly.”

“I’ll endeavor to be brief.” Jasper paused. “Unless . . . If you’d rather I return some other time—”

“There’s no point in delaying. I’m rarely better off than you see me now. And I confess, I’ve been expecting you. There have been reports.” Sir Eustace withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket. “You’ve been spending time with my daughter.”

“I’ve had that privilege, yes. We’re invited to many of the same functions.”

“And that’s all? Come, sir. I may be confined to my bed the majority of the day, but news still reaches me from various quarters; my daughter’s chaperone and others. It seems you’ve singled my daughter out for your attentions.”

Jasper was unaccustomed to being challenged. Given his reputation, most men wouldn’t dare. But there was no mistaking the querulous thread in the older man’s voice.

He knew about Jasper’s pursuit of Miss Wychwood and was plainly unhappy about it.

Jasper couldn’t altogether blame him. Any father who loved his daughter was bound to be protective of her. “Miss Wychwood is a charming young lady. I’ve come to admire her very much.”

“Charming?” Sir Eustace chuckled. “She’s an heiress. I’ve made no secret of it. And you . . . You’re an ex-soldier in straitened circumstances.”

“A fact of which I’ve made no secret,” Jasper said.

“I’ll give you that, Captain. There are others who would attempt to hide their poverty. But you’ve been aboveboard, haven’t you. Is it honesty, I wonder, or some variety of stratagem? A tactic meant to disarm an enemy?”

“Your daughter is not my enemy.”

“But you don’t deny it? A soldier of your character. A man accustomed to winning—to getting what he wants, no matter the cost.”

A whisper of warning prickled at the back of Jasper’s consciousness. The same damnable feeling he used to get when the tide of a battle was turning against him. It was an unmistakable signal he wasn’t going to prevail, no matter how fierce his efforts.

“I’m afraid you’ve been listening to idle gossip.”

“One hears things,” Sir Eustace admitted. He blew his nose into his handkerchief. “You have an estate in Yorkshire, I understand.”

“I do,” Jasper said. “Goldfinch Hall.”

“That’s your only property?”

“It’s a substantial one.”

“In Yorkshire,” Sir Eustace repeated.

“As I said.”

“And that’s what you propose? To marry my daughter and to take her and her fortune away with you to the other side of the country?” Sir Eustace gave another watery chuckle. “I’m precipitate. You haven’t yet offered for her hand. But that’s why you’re here, I gather. To ask my permission to court her. Well, you can’t have it.”

And there it was.

Given Sir Eustace’s manner, Jasper wasn’t entirely surprised by the rejection. He nevertheless stiffened at the callous way in which the baronet had delivered it. “May I ask why I’m to be refused?”

Sir Eustace tucked away his handkerchief. “You aren’t suitable for my daughter.”

“If this has anything to do with my natural children—”

“I haven’t an issue with your bastards. A man must sow his wild oats. Though you’d be advised to put them somewhere else before you wed. No female wishes to share a home with a whore’s leavings.”

Jasper’s voice turned cold. “What is your objection, then?” he asked. “Is it to do with my war record?”

Aside from the children, it was the only truly objectionable thing about him. His evil history. A blackened past no amount of goodness and decency could ever hope to erase. He was destined to spend the rest of his life atoning for it.

The irony didn’t escape him.

“I don’t object to your conduct in the Crimea,” Sir Eustace said. “Had I been an officer—and I would have been one of exceedingly high rank if my health had permitted it—I’d have ruled my men with an iron fist. It’s the only way one can turn common rabble into soldiers, is it not? Floggings and other punishments. Wellington himself once said that a man is no soldier until he’s received fifty lashes.”

Jasper was vaguely aware that his right hand had clenched into a fist. He willed it to relax, opening his fingers one by one to lay flat on his thigh. Nothing could be gained by losing his temper. Certainly not with Miss Wychwood’s father. Like most gentlemen, safe at home during the war, the baronet had no idea what he was talking about.