The Belle of Belgrave Square (Belles of London #2)(90)

Julia crossed to the sideboard and retrieved a plate for herself. It was Mr. Beecham’s habit to set out the hot food in silver chafing dishes. There was no specific time the household was expected to breakfast, but if one waited too long, one was inevitably left with cold eggs and congealed porridge.

As a result, Julia had been acclimating herself to rising before half past eight, merely so she might enjoy the benefit of a hot meal. It was a vastly different experience than she’d had at Belgrave Square, where breakfast had been brought to her in bed each morning on a tray.

“I believe he is,” she said as she filled her plate. “He starts his work very early, doesn’t he?”

Indeed, she’d not seen her new husband even once in the morning since they’d arrived. He was always gone from their bed—and their room—when she awoke. In more vulnerable moments, she sometimes suspected he didn’t wish to prolong his time in her company.

“Work,” Charlie echoed with a snort. “If you can call it that.”

“What else?” Julia carried her plate to the table.

“He’s a forger,” Charlie said.

A forger?

Julia froze in the act of pulling out her chair. “Why on earth would you say that?”

“Because it’s true.” Charlie continued eating. “What else is he doing in the tower all day with the door locked? It must be something against the law.”

“It’s the truth,” Alfred agreed. “Everyone says so.”

Julia sat down. “Who?” she demanded.

“The boys at school,” Charlie said.

“And some of the people in the village,” Alfred added.

Julia felt a hot surge of anger at the villagers’ ignorance. She made an effort to contain her temper. “Your father isn’t a forger. And you shouldn’t listen to slanderous things other people say. Particularly when what they’re saying is about your own family.”

The boys clammed up, resuming their meal, but not before exchanging knowing looks with each other.



* * *





?Later that morning, trudging along at Daisy’s side through the overgrown garden that lay at the back of the house, Julia reflected on the conversation with a distinct sense of unease.

A forger indeed.

If that were true, Jasper wouldn’t have needed to marry an heiress. His criminal skills would have sufficed to repair his fortunes.

Besides, he’d told her when she proposed to him that he wasn’t involved in anything nefarious. He’d said that his secret occupation hurt no one.

That didn’t mean she’d ceased wondering about it.

He was in the tower every morning, often until well past noon. What in heaven was he doing that required such solitude? Such secrecy?

Perhaps he was a spy in the service of Queen Victoria.

Or perhaps his tower study housed laboratory equipment and he was engaged in important scientific research.

Julia had thought of every possibility, up to and including the likelihood that he may be locking himself away each morning simply to read uninterrupted. If that was the case, she could hardly fault him. She’d been known to go to extremes for a little uninterrupted reading time herself.

“It’s there behind those trees,” Daisy said, skipping ahead. “Do you see the angel’s wings?”

Julia raised a hand to shadow her eyes. The sun was shining as brightly today as it had on the previous three days. The ideal weather for a visit to Goldfinch Hall’s informal graveyard.

Or so Daisy had claimed when Julia had gone to fetch her from her room after breakfast.

Julia had had little choice but to acquiesce to the excursion. In truth, she was in no mood to pay homage to the final resting place of Dolly Carvel. She didn’t think she ever would be. But Dolly had been more than Jasper’s longtime mistress. She was also the children’s mother, and, therefore, a very important person, alive or dead.

“Yes,” Julia said. “I see.”

At the bottom of the garden, where the land was flat, Dolly’s grave lay beneath the trunk of an alder tree. The branches provided a natural shelter over the marble angel with its outstretched wings.

“He’s watching over her.” Daisy’s voice was quiet with reverence. “Isn’t that nice?”

“It is.” Julia followed Daisy to the grave. The ground was still soggy in places from the heavy rains that had come on Saturday and Sunday. Julia was conscious of the grass staining the box-pleated hem of her silk poplin skirts as she passed through it.

She’d complained about her laundry woes in the letter she’d written to Anne. It had been a long letter—more than four pages front and back—though not an overly intimate one. Julia had refrained from mentioning anything about her burgeoning feelings for Jasper. And she hadn’t written a word about the Bluebeard-like restrictions he’d imposed on her movements in the house.

Anne wouldn’t understand. She’d never liked Jasper to begin with. And she’d have no patience with the agreement Julia had made with him.

What is he hiding? Anne would ask. What’s so horrible he must keep it secret from you?

Julia consoled herself that Anne didn’t know anything about husbands. In five days of marriage, Julia had learned precious little herself. Still, she was leagues ahead of her unmarried friends.