The answer came easily enough: a monster.
And not the beastly kind from a fairy tale. But the dishonorable kind who committed unspeakable crimes. A man who was cruel and heartless and incapable of mercy.
If what Viscountess Heatherton said was true.
And there was the rub.
Lady Heatherton had claimed the intelligence had come from her husband, but Julia knew how rumors could grow out of all proportion. She had only to consider how exaggerated reports had been about the number of the captain’s illegitimate children.
What if the rumors of his cruelty were no different? Nothing more than ugly stories built around a smidgeon of truth?
She wondered what that smidgeon would turn out to be in the tales of Captain Blunt’s conduct. Would it be something justifiable? Something she could understand? That she could forgive?
There was only one way to find out. She would have to ask him herself.
The mere idea of it was enough to make her stomach perform a nauseating flip-flop.
Entering her bedroom, she dropped her newly purchased stack of novels onto the bed. There were five altogether. Nearly one third of J. Marshland’s entire catalog.
“I still don’t see why you had to get so many of them,” Mary grumbled as she assisted Julia out of her velvet-trimmed carriage gown. The street had been dusty and dirty, soiling the hem. It would have to be sponged and pressed.
“Because,” Julia explained, stepping out of her heavy skirts, “Captain Blunt is familiar with Marshland’s works. The more I read of them, the more we’ll have to talk about.”
That had been the idea anyway.
Though once she learned the truth about his actions in the Crimea, heaven only knew whether she’d want to speak to him ever again.
“You’ve read Mrs. Marshland before,” Mary said.
“Yes, but not all her novels.” Julia’s brow creased. “Or his.” She went to the basin and washed her hands and face, drying them on a flannel towel. “Captain Blunt insists Marshland is a man.”
Mary snorted. “Does he, now?” She retrieved a fresh afternoon dress from the wardrobe; a soft, striped wool grenadine with an Imperatrice collar of white piqué. She helped Julia into the skirts before tugging the loosely cuffed sleeves of the bodice over her arms. “Seems to me he’s playing with you, miss. Everyone knows gentlemen don’t read novels. Not great big Crimean soldiers, anyway.”
“He may well be,” Julia allowed. “Even so, he has read Marshland’s novels—and other novels, too. He couldn’t talk about them the way he does if he hadn’t read them.”
“Huh.” Mary fastened the small metal hooks that closed the front of Julia’s bodice. “He don’t seem the type.”
“No, indeed. He looks too fierce, doesn’t he? And perhaps he is.”
Julia was far from certain of him anymore. The only thing she knew was that he’d been kind to her. That he’d left her alone when she’d asked. And that he’d come to her aid when she needed him. He hadn’t taken liberties or attempted to insinuate himself. He’d been gentle with her. Almost protective.
Of course, it could all be a trick. An elaborate trap laid by a master, meant to ensnare both her and her fortune.
She didn’t want to believe it.
A rap sounded at the bedroom door. Mary answered it, opening the door only an inch. “What d’you want?”
The voice of the first footman, Jenkins Four, emerged through the crack. “A message for Miss Wychwood.”
“If it’s a gentleman caller, you tell him she’ll be down in five minutes,” Mary replied tartly. “It won’t hurt him none to wait.”
“Not a caller,” Jenkins Four said. “It’s Sir Eustace. He asks her to come to him directly.”
“What is it, Jenkins?” Julia walked to the door, finishing the topmost two hooks on her bodice as she went. “My father hasn’t taken a turn for the worse?”
“I couldn’t say, miss, but the doctor’s just been.” Jenkins Four stepped back as Julia exited her room. He hurried alongside her down the thickly carpeted hall. “And Sir Eustace has sent a telegraph to her ladyship.”
A jolt of alarm hastened Julia’s step. “He telegraphed my mother?”
“Yes, miss. He sent the message off with George over an hour ago.”
Her father’s bedchamber was in the opposite wing. By the time Julia reached it, she was out of breath. She knocked softly before entering. “Papa?”
The room was dark and overwarm, the air heavy with the pungent fragrance of liniment and mustard plaster.
She found her father not in bed, but seated in front of a blazing fire, his pallid face illuminated by the flames. He was swaddled in blankets from his chin to his slippers. A glass of yellowish liquid sat, half-full, on the little round wooden table beside him. Julia recognized it as one of his tonics. A patent medicine that contained a greater portion of opiates than it did of any healthful ingredients.
“Back at last,” he said thinly. “I trust you enjoyed your shopping.”
She felt a twinge of guilt. No doubt he meant her to. “What’s this I hear about Dr. Cordingley stopping in?”
“Not Cordingley. Dr. Hurt.”
“Dr. Hurt?” Julia had never heard of the man before. “That’s not a very promising name for a physician.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s Gresham’s man. An excellent fellow. The earl recommended him to me himself.”
“How obliging of him.” Julia pressed a hand to her father’s waxen brow.
He jerked away from her. “No fussing. I’ve already been seen to. Hurt says I’m to keep to my room for the remainder of the week. He’ll be back this evening to look in on me.”
“What seems to be the trouble?” She perched on the edge of the chair opposite him. The upholstery was heated from the fire, warming her all the way through her petticoats and crinoline. “Is it your heart, Papa?”
“Would that it would stop beating and put an end to my suffering,” he grumbled.
She instinctively leaned toward him. “You mustn’t say that.”
He shrank from her, his expression petulant. “Don’t pretend concern. If you cared one jot for my health, you’d have been here with me and not gallivanting around the city for your own pleasure.”
“I only went to Charing Cross. You hadn’t any need of me. And I didn’t think—”
“You didn’t think,” he repeated. “There’s a surprise.”