The Belle of Belgrave Square (Belles of London #2)(32)

“No, no,” Sir Eustace went on, wheezing. “It isn’t your military history that makes you ineligible. It’s your choice of residence. As if I would ever permit my daughter to remove to Yorkshire! Her place is in London. She’s needed here by her mother and myself. We’re too ill to spare her. Any gentleman she weds must reside in town.”

Realization sunk in slowly. Jasper was loath to accept it. “And that’s your only requirement?”

Sir Eustace didn’t appear to see anything odd in this. “It is, sir.”

“I would think, given your daughter’s lack of offers, you might be more willing to entertain my suit. After two failed seasons—”

“You’re mistaken. My daughter has had several offers these past years. All by gentlemen who would take her away from here. Naturally, I refused them out of hand. Just as I must refuse you.” Sir Eustace stood. “I’ve already given my permission to Lord Gresham. He’s refurbishing his house in Grosvenor Square and has pledged to reside in town all the year round. It will suit Lady Wychwood and I to a nicety.”

Jasper slowly rose to his feet. He felt a peculiar numbness at his core. It was directly at odds with his burgeoning sense of outrage.

Miss Wychwood hadn’t been a failure on the marriage mart. She might have been married anytime these past two seasons.

Bloody hell.

Did she know her father had been refusing all offers? Did she even suspect? And all because he wanted to keep her here, within a stone’s throw of Belgrave Square.

And for what? To be a sickroom attendant for the remainder of her life? First to her parents, then to some aged husband?

Jasper fought to control his temper. “What about Miss Wychwood? You say that her marrying Gresham will suit you and your wife, but how will it suit her?”

“She’s our daughter. She will do her duty.”

“She’s of age.”

“Indeed. But if she marries without my permission, she inherits nothing from me. Not a pound. Not a farthing.” Sir Eustace tugged the tasseled bellpull to summon the footman. “I daresay a pauper bride isn’t as attractive to you.”

Jasper stood silent, his emotions roiling dangerously beneath the surface. There was nothing he could say. Nothing he could do. The facts were incontrovertible. He needed Miss Wychwood’s fortune. It was necessary for the children. For the survival of their estate. It was the whole reason he’d come to London. The impetus for everything he’d done thus far.

It made no difference if his affections had been engaged in the process. His own feelings didn’t matter. He didn’t matter. All that mattered was the money.

A smug smile shone in Sir Eustace’s eyes. “I thought not.”





Ten





It was nearing one o’clock when Julia returned to Belgrave Square. She hadn’t meant to linger so long at Bloxham’s. And now she had but a few minutes to tidy herself before her receiving hours.

Not that anyone ever called. Not so long as Anne, Stella, and Evelyn were out of town. But today might be the day someone did. Someone in particular.

The prospect of it boosted Julia’s spirits for a fraction of a second only to send them plummeting again as she recalled the terrible revelations Viscountess Heatherton had imparted about Captain Blunt.

Julia had been agonizing over the information all morning. It was why she’d gone shopping, hoping to forget her anxieties, if only for a while, in the purchase of a new novel—or five.

But even as she’d browsed the shelves of Bloxham’s for the second time in as many days, the knowledge of Captain Blunt’s extraordinary cruelty during the war had been there, nagging at her like a sore tooth. She couldn’t leave it alone. Couldn’t stop wondering what sort of man would do such things.

The answer came easily enough: a monster.

And not the beastly kind from a fairy tale. But the dishonorable kind who committed unspeakable crimes. A man who was cruel and heartless and incapable of mercy.

If what Viscountess Heatherton said was true.

And there was the rub.

Lady Heatherton had claimed the intelligence had come from her husband, but Julia knew how rumors could grow out of all proportion. She had only to consider how exaggerated reports had been about the number of the captain’s illegitimate children.

What if the rumors of his cruelty were no different? Nothing more than ugly stories built around a smidgeon of truth?

She wondered what that smidgeon would turn out to be in the tales of Captain Blunt’s conduct. Would it be something justifiable? Something she could understand? That she could forgive?

There was only one way to find out. She would have to ask him herself.

The mere idea of it was enough to make her stomach perform a nauseating flip-flop.

Entering her bedroom, she dropped her newly purchased stack of novels onto the bed. There were five altogether. Nearly one third of J. Marshland’s entire catalog.

“I still don’t see why you had to get so many of them,” Mary grumbled as she assisted Julia out of her velvet-trimmed carriage gown. The street had been dusty and dirty, soiling the hem. It would have to be sponged and pressed.

“Because,” Julia explained, stepping out of her heavy skirts, “Captain Blunt is familiar with Marshland’s works. The more I read of them, the more we’ll have to talk about.”