Page 19 of The Belle of Belgrave Square

Her foremost feeling was one of curiosity. “Your son enjoys adventure novels?”

“He does.”

She waited for him to elaborate. When he didn’t, her curiosity outweighed her discretion. “How old is he?”

For the first time since she’d met him, Captain Blunt seemed uncomfortable. “He’s, er, twelve.”

“Your purchases, miss.” The clerk pushed Julia’s wrapped books across the counter to her. “Will there be anything else today?”

“Thank you, no. That will be all.” She collected her package, conscious of Captain Blunt’s regard. She gave him a look of apology. “Forgive my curiosity.”

“Forgive my indelicacy,” he replied.

Something about the gravity of his manner warmed her to her soul.

She knew she was reading too much into it. That she was allowing this strange attraction for him to overpower her reason. He wasn’t kind. He wasn’t handsome.

He certainly wasn’t a hero.

Anne would never forgive her for entertaining such thoughts. She’d say that, faced with the canvas of the captain’s complete lack of emotion, Julia was painting him with the broad brush of her own sentimentality. That she was imagining him into someone he was not.

But Anne wasn’t here. And really, what harm was a secret attraction? So long as Julia never spoke of it. Never acted on it.

“You’re forgiven.” Hugging her books to her bosom, she moved to leave. “Good day, sir.”

He bowed to her. “Good day, Miss Wychwood.”

Julia exited the shop with her maid, keenly aware that Captain Blunt was still at the counter, looking after her. It was only as the shop door swung shut behind her that she heard him address the clerk.

“Get me Bloxham,” he commanded gruffly. “At once.”

Five

Jasper folded the bank draft for fifty pounds in with his letter to Mr. Beecham before sealing the envelope. He was writing out the direction when a rap sounded at the door.

“Come,” he said.

Ridgeway strolled in, already dressed for their evening engagement. “Attending to your correspondence?”

“Estate matters.”

“At this hour? How dreary.”

“Indeed.” Jasper sat back in his chair. He was still in his shirtsleeves, his black evening coat draped over a chair near the bed.

It hadn’t been easy getting the money for the roof repairs. He didn’t dare send it directly to Charlie. The boy was too sullen and secretive for his own good. God only knew what he’d do with the money. There was as much chance he’d use it to spirit his two siblings away as there was that he’d pay someone to patch the hall’s roof.

From the moment Jasper had appeared at the grim workhouse in York where Dolly had surrendered her two sons, Charlie had viewed him with suspicion.

The condition of Goldfinch Hall had done nothing to alter his opinion.

Jasper supposed the estate had its charm. It was a large, sprawling property, with a certain fading grandeur to it. The kind of place that appealed to one’s gothic sensibilities. But such dubious attractions were no replacement for a roof that didn’t leak and floorboards that weren’t rotting beneath one’s feet. A few months ago, Beecham had nearly fallen to his death.

The ancient retainer was the only full-time servant Jasper employed. A remnant from the past. He’d been caretaker of Goldfinch Hall for over a decade, remaining there long after the death of Erasmus Blunt, the reclusive great-uncle who had left the estate to Jasper in his will.

Would that old Erasmus had left some money for its maintenance.

In hospital after the fall of Sebastopol, Jasper had imagined Goldfinch Hall as a refuge. A place where he could find peace and quiet, far away from the miseries of war. Instead, it had proved to be an albatross around his neck.