“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 They’ve both withdrawn to their beds in opposite wings of the house.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.”
Mary briefly stood in his way. Like the footman, she was a servant of middle age. A sensible servant. She didn’t seem inclined to scream the house down. “You’ll ruin her,” she warned. “If anyone should hear of this—”
“Then best make certain they don’t.” Jasper walked around her.
The bedchamber wasn’t as dark as the rest of the house. Sunlight glimmered through the gaps in the curtains, and a fire crackled in the grate of an ornate marble fireplace. Silk-covered walls shimmered in the light cast from the flames. The same light that illuminated the interior of the bed.
On reaching it, Jasper stopped short.
Inside the heavy draperies of the four-poster, tucked beneath a quilt, Julia Wychwood lay sleeping, half-propped against a plump pile of pillows. Her unbound hair spilled around her shoulders in a wild tangle of ebony waves.
A lump formed in his throat.
He’d never seen her with her hair down. Had never dared imagine it. Such a sight was reserved for a lady’s husband.
Or her lover.
He was keenly aware he was neither.
Knowing that—accepting it—made his presence all the more unseemly.
He shouldn’t be here, looking upon her in this vulnerable state. Not when she couldn’t consent to it. Not when her eyes where closed, her black lashes fanning over her pale cheeks.
And she was deathly pale; her beautiful face drained and still, almost waxen in repose. The white of her prim cotton nightgown was vibrant in comparison.
“Is she—” His words failed him.
“She’s resting,” Mary said in a stern undertone. “Best leave her be. If Sir Eustace or Lady Wychwood were to—”
Jasper silenced the maid with a look. The footman had said Sir Eustace and his wife were in separate wings of the house. Neither would know Jasper was here. Not so long as the servants kept their heads.
“Come away, Mary,” the footman said. “Let the man have a moment.”
Mary gave the footman a look that would have withered an orchard. She joined him by the closed door, one eye still on her mistress as the two of them engaged in a whispered argument. Their words drifted to Jasper’s ears in broken scraps.
“—by bringing him here?” the maid was demanding.
“—no romance in your soul?” the footman returned.
“—not romance. Madness. Only a fool—”
Jasper ignored them. A spoon-back chair was drawn up beside Miss Wychwood’s bed. He sat down on it, scanning her face.
She showed no signs of physical distress. Nothing save the pallor of her skin and the faint sheen of perspiration on her brow, dampening the fine wisps of hair at the edge of her hairline.
It wasn’t enough to reassure him.