The Belle of Belgrave Square (Belles of London #2)(47)

“Sir Eustace and Lady Wychwood aren’t likely to invite you in.”

“I don’t expect they will,” Jasper acknowledged grimly. “But if history is any indication, the pair of them will be confined to their beds. It’s their servants I’ll have to deal with. Given the rate of turnover in their ranks, I can’t imagine any of them are very loyal. A decent bribe should gain me admittance to any room in the house.”

Ridgeway’s eyes shone with appreciation. “And to think you once objected to being ruthless where women were concerned.”

Jasper thrust his hands into his pockets, pacing as the coachman finished hitching up the horses. Perhaps he was being ruthless. If so, it was in a good cause.

He’d seen men die of blood loss in the Crimea. Strong men, laid low from battle wounds or fever, bled by some well-meaning quack who achieved nothing more than draining the last remnants of life from them.

Miss Wychwood was no soldier. She wasn’t strong. Not as strong as a man. If Cordingley had administered two courses of bloodletting . . .

Jasper’s chest tightened painfully. He’d only just found her. A woman who spoke to his soul. To his secret self. Not to the monstrous man everyone believed him to be, but to the man he truly was. It was one thing to give her up for the children’s sake. But for her to be ill, or worse—

The prospect sent a stab of helpless anguish through him. It burned like acid, eating away at his ironclad self-restraint.

He couldn’t think of losing her.

“Have you a decent bribe?” Ridgeway asked.

“On my person? No. I’ll have to—”

“Here.” Ridgeway withdrew his purse and extracted a handful of banknotes. He passed them to Jasper. “That sum should be sufficient. Especially when coupled with your menacing presence.”

Jasper folded the notes into an inner pocket of his coat, frowning. “I don’t know why you insist on bestirring yourself on my account.”

“For my brother’s sake,” Ridgeway said. “Clearly.”

Jasper well remembered Ridgeway’s brother. Rupert Grainger had been a lanky young fellow with a broad smile and a contagious laugh—characteristics that had faded the longer they’d remained in the Crimea. He’d died in the skirmish at the fall of Sebastopol. An easy death in comparison to the hell he’d been living through as a soldier serving under the merciless Captain Blunt.

“I was no friend to your brother,” Jasper said.

Ridgeway looked at him steadily. “His letters said otherwise.”

Jasper went still as the significance of Ridgeway’s words sank into his brain.

Good God. Was it possible? Had the viscount somehow ascertained the truth?

A month ago, the mere suggestion would have shaken Jasper’s world to its foundation. He would have been alarmed or, perhaps, even afraid.

Not today.

In truth, all he felt was a vague sense of relief.

“How long have you known?” he asked.

“I don’t know anything,” Ridgeway said. “But I suspected almost from the beginning.”

“And still you befriended me. Why—”

“I told you. For my brother’s sake. And for my own, I suppose. It amuses me to see how you navigate this quagmire you’ve got yourself into.” Ridgeway brushed a speck of dust from his sleeve. “I wonder, has it all been worth it?”

“It might be,” Jasper said. “If I can have her.”

“Then take her, by all means,” Ridgeway replied. “No one’s stopping you. Who would dare? You’re the infamous bloody Hero of the Crimea.”





Fifteen





The dimly lit interior of the Wychwoods’ house in Belgrave Square was as cloyingly overwarm as on Jasper’s previous visit. Long shadows fell across the entrance hall, stretching out to darken the curving oak staircase that led to the floors above. It was only two o’clock in the afternoon, but one would never know it. Not with the windows covered and the gaslight turned down.

Again, Jasper had the impression of entering a dwelling where a person had died. The sensation did nothing to allay the sharp thrum of anxiety that had accompanied him all the way back to Mayfair.

He followed the Wychwoods’ yellow-liveried footman up the steps. The same footman who had opened the door to him last time—a knowing fellow of passing middle age.

A fellow who was now several pounds richer.

Jasper had anticipated that a bribe would work to his benefit. He hadn’t realized just how effective it would be. Two ten-pound notes later and the footman was telling him everything except where the silver was stored.

“Dr. Cordingley’s never bled any of the family twice in one visit,” he said. “Not since I’ve been here. And Lady Wychwood and Sir Eustace are too ill to sit vigil. They’ve both withdrawn to their beds in opposite wings of the house. It’s fallen on Miss Wychwood’s maid, Mary, to see to things.”

“Is her maid with her now?” Jasper asked.

“She is.” The footman led him down a carpeted hallway. “She’s to summon the doctor back if Miss Wychwood takes a turn for the worse. She won’t like it one bit, me bringing you up here.”

Jasper didn’t give a damn what the maid liked or disliked. Nevertheless, as the footman knocked on the large wood-paneled door of Miss Wychwood’s bedchamber, Jasper stood back, silent.