Page 71 of The Belle of Belgrave Square

“It’s not my business. And you know how Sir Eustace feels about gossip.”

“Surely, it isn’t gossip to tell me I had a caller.” Julia leaned back against the pillows, perplexed. “Why did he come?”

Mary shrugged. “To see your father. Same as the other gentlemen who’ve called.”

A cold trickle of awareness spiked in Julia’s veins. For an instant she couldn’t breathe. “There have been others?”

“Now you’re upset. I told you—”

“Mary—”

“Yes, there were others. Not many. A few over the years, that’s all. Not anything to mention.”

As they spoke, the front doorbell rang below, echoing through the house. A creaking tread sounded on the stairs as a servant responded to the summons. Shortly afterward, men’s voices drifted up from the hall.

Julia didn’t heed any of it. Her gaze never left Mary’s face. “Who?”

Mary glanced at the chamber door before admitting, “An old squire from Cork, a spotty lad with a gaming habit, and two other rascals, all light of pocket and looking to acquire your fortune.”

Four gentlemen altogether? Four who had come asking permission to court her?

Or had they proposed?

“Papa never told me,” Julia said quietly.

“Why should he if he refused them? It would only vex you.”

“I had a right to know. All this time . . . I thought no one wanted me. And all the while you knew—”

“They didn’t want you,” Mary said. “They wanted your fortune. Your father was protecting you.”

Julia’s stomach twisted into a knot. Was that why Jasper had agreed to elope with her? Because he’d already asked for her hand and Papa had refused?

She had no time to ponder the possibility.

There was a rap at the door. Mary leapt to answer it, clearly grateful for the interruption.

It was Jasper. But he wasn’t alone. When Mary stepped back to allow him entry, he walked into the bedroom in company with a complete stranger. A woman, in fact. The same auburn-haired lady Julia had seen in the street.

She was respectable in appearance, dressed simply but elegantly in a fashionable carriage dress.

“Miss Wychwood,” Jasper said, “this is Mrs. Finchley. She and her husband live next door. Mrs. Finchley? Miss Wychwood. As you can see, she’s not being held against her will.”

“Miss Wychwood.” Mrs. Finchley seemed to take in the whole of Julia’s situation at a glance. “I apologize for the intrusion. You can imagine what I thought.”

Julia drew her blanket up more firmly about her waist. She wished she’d dressed, or at least taken the time to comb and plait her hair.

But there was no judgment in Mrs. Finchley’s blue-green gaze, only concern.

It helped put Julia at her ease. “I did wonder if you might suspect something untoward. It was the very plot of a novel I once read. The villain was a dastardly French fellow who rolled a young heiress up in a carpet.”

Mrs. Finchley approached the bed. “Is that the one where he spirited her across the Channel?”

Julia brightened. “Yes! Though, I suppose it’s a common plot. In novels, heiresses are always being abducted by villains.”

“Mrs. Finchley wishes to reassure herself I’m not one of them,” Jasper said. “If you don’t object to her presence, I’ll leave the pair of you to talk while I discuss matters with her husband.”

“Certainly.” Julia gave Mrs. Finchley a tentative smile. “Do sit down.”