Page 62 of The Belle of Belgrave Square

Jasper scarcely heard him make his excuses. He was already stalking off across the park.

Ridgeway trotted to catch up with him. “Damn it, Blunt.”

“Don’t try to stop me,” Jasper said.

“Stop you from what? What do you plan on doing? If she’s as ill as they say—”

“She isn’t. And if she is, it’s because they’ve made her so. They don’t understand—”

“Yes, and I suppose you do. You who have known her all of two months. Even less if you discount the occasions on which she was terrified of the sight of you, fleeing like a frightened rabbit every time you crossed her path.”

“It isn’t like that anymore. She—” Jasper broke off with a scowl. “Why the devil am I explaining myself to you?”

“Because I’m the only friend you’ve got.” Ridgeway kept pace with him as he strode over the grass, through the gates, and to the line of carriages in the street. “Has it not occurred to you that perhaps her parents know best?”

Jasper flashed him a sardonic glance.

“No. Of course they don’t.” Ridgeway sighed again. His carriage was but a few yards away. The coachman had already unhooked the horses and was walking them along the grass. “Hitch them back up, Rufus. Captain Blunt’s returning to Mayfair.”

“It isn’t necessary.” Jasper wasn’t averse to taking a hansom or an omnibus. One means of transportation was as good as the other. So long as he got there as quickly as possible. “I’ll find another way back.”

“Yes, because that’s the definition of heroic, arriving at a lady’s home in a hired cab.”

Jasper grudgingly waited for Ridgeway’s coachman to ready the carriage. “This isn’t heroism. This is selfishness. It’s for my own peace of mind.” It was partially true. He couldn’t rest until he knew she’d be all right.

“Whatever it is . . . it’s not in your best interest. Nor in the interest of those bastards of yours. You do know that?”

Jasper knew it. By God, how he knew it. “I only want to see her. To assure myself things aren’t as bad as Miss Throckmorton said.”

“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.