Page 145 of The Belle of Belgrave Square

“Can it not wait?” Jasper asked.

“I don’t believe so.”

Jasper set down his quill pen with a sigh. He stood from his desk, casting Julia an apologetic glance as he walked to the door. “I won’t be a moment.”

Mr. Beecham withdrew, taking Jasper with him. The door clicked shut behind them.

There was still much about the workings of the estate Julia didn’t know. All the little crises that happened on a daily basis. At any given instant, something was always demanding Jasper’s attention.

What was it now?

It couldn’t be the children. They were still playing outside. And it couldn’t be the roof, not now the rain had stopped.

Likely it was something to do with money.

Julia didn’t like to think of it. Not when her own fortune was tied up in London with no means of her getting hold of it at present.

Jasper never reproached her with the fact, but she knew it was the impetus for him revising his latest novel. He was determined it would outsell his previous book.

She hadn’t read any of his changes yet. She didn’t even know what suggestions of hers—if any—he’d decided to implement. He wouldn’t permit her to look at it until it was finished.

Julia nevertheless had every confidence in her husband’s work. She only hoped critics like Mr. Bilgewater wouldn’t savage it in the press before the public had a chance to judge it for themselves.

When Jasper wasn’t back in another five minutes, she got up from her chair and strolled to the bookshelf that held the entirety of his novels. She trailed her finger along the spines, wondering, not for the first time, how a man who had written something as breathlessly exciting as The Fire Opal could have written books like The Garden of Valor and Reunion at Waterloo.

On their railway journey from London, she’d pointed it out to Jasper, the fact that Marshland’s novels had changed.

“Perhaps he’s grown up,” he’d said.

She supposed it was possible. Still . . . it was difficult to reconcile.

Not only that.

Sometimes she found it hard to believe that the same man who had abandoned his children and who had been so cruel to the soldiers serving under him could have secretly been writing novels. Novels rife with romance, heroism, and adventure, where love won the day and good ultimately triumphed over evil.

But bad men often wrote good books, didn’t they? Only look at Mr. Dickens, who had treated his wife so abominably that she’d been obliged to leave him. And yet his books were beloved by many.

Perhaps Jasper’s books were the same. At his wickedest, he’d written stories filled with goodness. Stories she still loved, despite knowing the worst of his past.

She was just withdrawing one of them to look at it when the library door opened. She smiled, returning the novel to its shelf. “At last. I thought Mr. Beecham would never be through with you.” She turned to find Jasper standing in the doorway. His scarred countenance was as unreadable as it had often been in London. Her smile faded. “What’s wrong? Has something happened?”

He shut the door behind him. “Plimstock’s been to the post office in Hardholme. He brought back a letter from my solicitor.”

Her pulse jumped. “Mr. Piggott’s written? Does he have news of my money?”

“He does. But it isn’t—” Jasper broke off. He ran a hand over his hair. “It’s not good, I’m afraid.”

She might have guessed that from his lack of expression. It didn’t make it any more comfortable to hear it uttered aloud. “What did he say?”

Jasper didn’t mince words. “The bank has put a hold on your funds while your father investigates the legality of our marriage.”

Julia stared at him. She couldn’t have heard him correctly. It didn’t make any sense. “What does that mean? Of course we’re married. You gave Mr. Piggott our marriage lines, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“Then what seems to be the difficulty?”

Jasper didn’t answer for a long moment.