He could manage well enough for himself.

Entering the room, he kept to the back wall. Papered in pale green watered silk, it was adorned with evenly spaced gas wall sconces. Some gentlemen stood in the gaps. Some young ladies, too. Wallflowers, by the look of them. They dropped their eyes as Jasper moved past them, whispering to one another as soon as they thought him out of earshot.

“That awful scar!” one of them breathed.

“Have you ever seen anything so horrible?” her comrade breathed back in a dramatic undertone.

“And that’s not the worst of it. I heard . . .”

Jasper kept walking until the whispers faded away. He knew full well what he looked like. And he knew even better what people said about him. About how ruthless the notorious Captain Blunt had been in the Crimea.

God knew it was true enough.

Had Miss Wychwood heard such rumors? She was certain to have heard something.

He hadn’t seen her yet. He wasn’t confident she would be here. During the last month, she’d been expected at several events he’d attended, only to beg off at the last moment because of illness or indisposition.

His gaze drifted over the crowd. There were benefits to being tall. When standing, he could easily see over the rows of seated ladies and gentlemen. If Miss Wychwood was here, she wouldn’t be sandwiched in the middle of the audience. And she wouldn’t be exposed in the front row. She didn’t like crowds. And she didn’t like drawing attention to herself.

No. If she was here, she’d be nearest the exit. That much better to make her escape.

And that’s exactly where he found her.

She was seated in a chair in the third row from the front. On her left were the open doors of the drawing room, flanked by two liveried footmen, and on her right was the newly widowed Earl of Gresham. A heavily bewhiskered gentleman well past his fiftieth year, the earl had the look of a stout country squire. He was leaning over her, whispering something in her ear.

Her head turned as she listened, revealing her beautiful face in profile—the lustrous ebony hair, a dark arching brow, and the strong line of her straight nose and elegantly sculpted cheek and jaw.

Jasper’s pulse quickened the instant he laid eyes on her.

She wore a dark blue dress that exposed her pale throat and softly rounded shoulders. Some elaborate silk confection with fringe and ribbon bows. It shimmered in the gaslight, the color of the sea at midnight. The same shade as her eyes.

It was wholly unsuitable.

Much like Miss Wychwood herself.

The more he knew of her, the less he could envision her living at Goldfinch Hall. Even less could he imagine her acting the part of mother to Charlie, Alfred, and Daisy.

As if any lady of quality would ever consent to such a thing.

He would have to find another wealthy woman to marry. Someone who was less gently bred. Less sheltered and refined.