Jasper fixed the solicitor with an icy glare. “Your approval makes little difference. My affairs and those of Miss Wychwood are no concern of yours.”
Finchley only smiled. “I concern myself with the plight of all people in impossible situations. A habit of my profession.”
“Miss Wychwood isn’t your client. You’d be of no use to her. What she needs is a husband. Someone to look after her—to protect her. She hasn’t anyone else to do the job.”
Understanding registered on Finchley’s face. “You care for her.”
Jasper felt a rare twinge of vulnerability. It wasn’t safe to want something as much as he wanted Julia Wychwood. It threatened to make him incautious. To strip him of his carefully wrought armor, leaving him entirely exposed. “I count myself her friend,” he said.
“And she feels the same about you, I gather.” Finchley frowned. “I know something of her family situation. An unfortunate one, to be sure, but . . . are you certain this isn’t making things worse?”
“She’s not safe in Belgrave Square any longer.”
“And you can make her safe?”
“I can,” Jasper said. “I will.” He’d never been so certain of anything in his life.
Finchley’s expression turned thoughtful. “You’re right, it is none of my business. However, if you’d like my advice—”
Jasper uttered a humorless huff of laughter. “I doubt I could afford it. Ridgeway tells me you count the most powerful men in London among your clients.”
“Perhaps once,” Finchley said. “I’ve recently changed the focus of my practice.”
Jasper owned to a flicker of curiosity. “A crisis of conscience?”
Finchley’s mouth hitched. “Something like that. Why? Are you in need of a solicitor?”
“I have a solicitor. A fellow in York who deals with estate matters.” Jasper chose his next words with care. “He’s not well versed in questions of criminal law.”
“I see,” Finchley said. There was an extended pause. “Do you require advice on a criminal matter?”
Jasper stood abruptly. He walked to the cold fireplace, setting his booted foot on the edge of the empty grate. He was silent for a long moment as he struggled with how best to convey the crux of his dilemma.
Finchley didn’t press him.
Jasper sensed that the man knew a thing or two about waiting. He also sensed he could trust him.
A strange feeling.
Trust wasn’t something Jasper gave easily. But Ridgeway had said Finchley was a vault of secrets. A man who kept his clients’ confidences.
“That depends,” Jasper said at last. “I have a question. A hypothetical. But my asking it rests on how loyal you are to your clients.”
“Once they are my clients, my loyalty is absolute,” Finchley answered. “So is my confidence.”
Jasper turned. “Does that confidence extend to—”
“Everything, Captain Blunt. Providing the criminal conduct is the past.” Finchley studied his face. “We are speaking of criminal conduct, are we not?”
Jasper thought of the children. Of Dolly’s face all those years ago as she’d stood on the steps of the Hall with Daisy on her hip. “I suppose some might call it that,” he said. “Others might call it justice.”
Finchley’s gaze lit with genuine interest behind the lenses of his spectacles. “A fascinating distinction. One I’ve had cause to ponder myself on more than one occasion.” He nodded slowly, coming to a decision. “Very well. Consider me retained.”
Seventeen
In the aftermath of Mrs. Finchley’s visit, Julia was hard-pressed not to close her eyes and go to sleep. She hadn’t any strength left at all. The smallest tasks defeated her. But it wouldn’t do to linger in her nightgown. Not in Lord Ridgeway’s house of all places.
She was out of bed the moment Mrs. Finchley took her leave.
Mary helped her to wash and dress, muttering all the while about the scandal and the shame of the situation.
As if Julia didn’t know her reputation was hanging in the balance.
Were she not so tired, she might have been in danger of working herself up into a state.
As it was, by the time Jasper returned, she was able to greet him with relative calm. Clothed in a soft day dress of violet-dyed wool, her hair brushed and rolled into a silken net at her nape, she was propped up against the same pillows as when he’d left her.
His brows lowered. “You’re even paler than you were before,” he said. “I trust Mrs. Finchley didn’t vex you overmuch?”
“Not at all.” Julia had found the solicitor’s auburn-haired wife to be rather nice—though the lady had asked quite a few pointed questions. Understandable, Julia supposed, given the circumstances. “Have she and her husband gone?”
“They have, thank God.” Jasper’s gaze drifted over her, his expression at once both protective and possessive. “You’re dressed.”
Heat coiled in her belly. Goodness. The way he looked at her.
“I rather thought I should be,” she said. “I’m afraid the effort’s quite worn me out.”
“So I see.”
Her heartbeat quickened as he approached the bed. He looked so dark and forbidding. So impervious to all sentimentality. And yet . . .
This was the same man who had kissed her so passionately in the Claverings’ garden. The same man who had scooped her up in his arms and carried her away from Belgrave Square like a knight in shining armor.
He glanced at the edge of the bed. “May I?”
Her pulse accelerated. “Yes, of course.”
The mattress dipped under his weight as he sat beside her. “Tell me. Are you certain this is still what you want?”
Julia was conscious of her maid hovering nearby. It didn’t stop her from answering honestly. “It is.”
He leaned into her, as if drawn by some hidden magnet. His voice deepened. “And am I still what you want?”
She stared up at him. Neither of them had made any declarations to each other. No professions of love or even affection. But yesterday morning, he’d told her that she’d been his first choice among all the other heiresses on the marriage mart.
A dubious honor. He was a fortune hunter, after all. Still, it must have cost him to admit it, knowing she was poised to elude him.
The least she could do was acknowledge her own feelings.