Page 63 of The Belle of Belgrave Square

“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 They’ve both withdrawn to their beds in opposite wings of the house.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.

The door opened a crack. “What is it now?”

“A gentleman’s come to see Miss Wychwood.”

“Does she look like she’s receiving?” the maid answered back tartly. She moved to close the door.

Jasper caught it before it shut. At the sight of him, the maid’s eyes goggled. “Mary, is it?”

“Yes, sir. Captain Blunt, sir.” She took several steps back into the room as he entered. “You can’t be in here. It’s not proper.”

A grand four-poster bed stood behind her. The blue damask draperies were half-drawn, concealing the bed’s occupant from view.

Jasper’s heart thumped hard. “No doubt. But I am here. I’ll not leave until I see her.”