“In Fleet Street.” Ridgeway paused. “It’s nothing serious, I trust?”
“Not serious. Tedious.” Yet another obstacle to Jasper marrying and returning to Yorkshire. One more of conscience than of actual impediment. His mind would be easier if it could be settled. “As tedious as all the rest of this business.”
“I have news that might cheer you,” Ridgeway said. “Miss Throckmorton will be at Lady Holland’s dinner this evening.”
Jasper gave him a blank look.
“Daphne Throckmorton,” Ridgeway prompted. “The Northumberland toffee heiress?”
Jasper rubbed the side of his face. He had a vague memory of Ridgeway mentioning the girl in passing. “She owns a manufactory, doesn’t she?”
“Absolutely not.” Ridgeway appeared insulted by the suggestion. “I wouldn’t have suggested her if she was in trade.”
“She’s a toffee heiress.”
“Naturally, her people were in trade—nothing to be done about that, I fear. But according to my sources, on her father’s death, the toffee business went to a distant cousin. Miss Throckmorton herself was left with only a monetary inheritance. Forty thousand pounds, to be precise.”
Forty thousand pounds.
It was ten thousand less than Miss Wychwood was worth. Still, it was no paltry sum.
Jasper stood to retrieve his coat. “Your sources being the fellows at your club.”
Ridgeway didn’t deny it. “There are already wagers in the betting book over which penniless younger son will swallow his scruples and marry the girl. The odds are in Aldershott’s favor. He hasn’t a bean to his name. But my money’s on you, Blunt. You can easily win Miss Throckmorton and her fortune if you put a little effort into it. Ladies love a war hero.” He cast a narrow glance at Jasper’s letter to Beecham. “Though I wouldn’t mention your by-blows to her just yet. Cits tend to take a provincial view of such matters.”
“No doubt,” Jasper said dryly. As if he was likely to mention the children to a lady—any lady. It simply wasn’t done. And yet . . .
Only a few hours ago, in Bloxham’s Books of all places, he’d spoken of Charlie to Miss Wychwood. And she was as well-bred a young lady as they came. Daughter to a baronet, for God’s sake. He’d expected her expression to shutter against him. For her tone to take on the sharp bite of disapproval.
Neither had happened.
Quite the reverse.
Jasper recalled her reaction with perfect clarity. The vision of her face—her blue eyes widening and her lips half parting in surprise—was emblazoned on his brain. “Your son enjoys adventure novels?” she’d asked.
Not your by-blow or your bastard or any of the other unflattering epithets used to describe children born on the wrong side of the blanket. But your son.
Jasper couldn’t remember when anyone had ever described Charlie thus.
“Forty thousand pounds,” Ridgeway said. “You did hear me, didn’t you?”
Jasper shrugged on his coat. “I heard you.”
“You asked for an alternative to Miss Wychwood and I’ve found you one. A tad less polished perhaps—”
“Am I likely to care about that?” Jasper asked crossly.
“No need to bite my head off,” Ridgeway said. “All gentlemen care. A wife should be an ornament to one’s masculine pride. But any fellow can make allowances, given the right inducement.”
Jasper felt a flash of irritation. But he couldn’t argue with Ridgeway’s logic. Money was required for the estate. For Charlie, Alfred, and Daisy. It’s why Jasper had come here. Not for sentiment or self-gratification. Certainly not for romance.
It didn’t matter that Miss Wychwood was sweet and beautiful. That her eyes lit up like polished sapphires when she discussed her favorite novels—novels written by J. Marshland of all people.
If there was ever a sign that Jasper should give up on the very idea of her, that had surely been it.
And she wanted him to give up. She’d told him point-blank not to pursue her. To continue to do so would make him no better than a rogue.
Besides, a man didn’t have to be smitten by a young lady in order to court her. Marriage was a business transaction. All that was wanted was a necessary incentive.
And Miss Throckmorton’s forty thousand pounds was nothing if not incentive.
* * *
Julia plucked at the set of pearl-sized buttons on the wrist of one of her evening gloves. She was seated on a jade velvet settee in Lady Holland’s spacious drawing room next to two other young ladies—Miss Throckmorton and Miss Bingham. Side by side, the full skirts of their respective dinner dresses billowed against each other in a rainbow of amethyst silk, Eugenie-blue grosgrain, and apple-green poplin.
Miss Throckmorton and Miss Bingham were angled toward each other, engaged in animated conversation. They were both younger than Julia. Not more than nineteen, if she was to guess, and possessed of all the enthusiasm of being in their first season.
Julia knew them only a little. A consequence of having been guests at so many of the same parties. But they weren’t her friends. She had nothing in common with either girl. For one thing, they were neither of them the least bit ill at ease. Not even Miss Throckmorton, an heiress to a fortune her late father had accumulated in trade. One might think she’d be self-conscious of the fact. Instead, she was brimming with confidence, poised in both her speech and her manner.
“I was finished in Paris,” she said in answer to a question from Miss Bingham. “Papa spared no expense.”
“Paris!” Miss Bingham sighed. “I haven’t been in ages. But my gown was made in Paris.” She fluffed her ruffled skirts. “Mama ordered it specially.”
Julia smoothed her hands over the skirts of her own gown—a dark amethyst silk trimmed with bands of plaited black ribbon. It wasn’t especially flattering to either her complexion or her figure. For that she’d need to employ a new dressmaker. Someone like her friend Evelyn’s beau, Mr. Malik. His designs were stunning to behold. A marvel of cut, fabric, and color, they fit a lady like a custom-made kid glove, making her the envy of all who saw her.
Not the best choice for someone who preferred to be invisible.
Julia wished she could be so now. But there was no opportunity to shrink into the shadows—or to slip away to a private anteroom. Her chaperone, Mrs. Major, had arranged herself near the exit doors, preventing her charge’s escape. Per Papa’s orders, she was keeping an eagle eye on Julia tonight.
It was all quite depressing.