A forger indeed.

If that were true, Jasper wouldn’t have needed to marry an heiress. His criminal skills would have sufficed to repair his fortunes.

Besides, he’d told her when she proposed to him that he wasn’t involved in anything nefarious. He’d said that his secret occupation hurt no one.

That didn’t mean she’d ceased wondering about it.

He was in the tower every morning, often until well past noon. What in heaven was he doing that required such solitude? Such secrecy?

Perhaps he was a spy in the service of Queen Victoria.

Or perhaps his tower study housed laboratory equipment and he was engaged in important scientific research.

Julia had thought of every possibility, up to and including the likelihood that he may be locking himself away each morning simply to read uninterrupted. If that was the case, she could hardly fault him. She’d been known to go to extremes for a little uninterrupted reading time herself.

“It’s there behind those trees,” Daisy said, skipping ahead. “Do you see the angel’s wings?”

Julia raised a hand to shadow her eyes. The sun was shining as brightly today as it had on the previous three days. The ideal weather for a visit to Goldfinch Hall’s informal graveyard.

Or so Daisy had claimed when Julia had gone to fetch her from her room after breakfast.

Julia had had little choice but to acquiesce to the excursion. In truth, she was in no mood to pay homage to the final resting place of Dolly Carvel. She didn’t think she ever would be. But Dolly had been more than Jasper’s longtime mistress. She was also the children’s mother, and, therefore, a very important person, alive or dead.

“Yes,” Julia said. “I see.”

At the bottom of the garden, where the land was flat, Dolly’s grave lay beneath the trunk of an alder tree. The branches provided a natural shelter over the marble angel with its outstretched wings.

“He’s watching over her.” Daisy’s voice was quiet with reverence. “Isn’t that nice?”

“It is.” Julia followed Daisy to the grave. The ground was still soggy in places from the heavy rains that had come on Saturday and Sunday. Julia was conscious of the grass staining the box-pleated hem of her silk poplin skirts as she passed through it.

She’d complained about her laundry woes in the letter she’d written to Anne. It had been a long letter—more than four pages front and back—though not an overly intimate one. Julia had refrained from mentioning anything about her burgeoning feelings for Jasper. And she hadn’t written a word about the Bluebeard-like restrictions he’d imposed on her movements in the house.

Anne wouldn’t understand. She’d never liked Jasper to begin with. And she’d have no patience with the agreement Julia had made with him.

What is he hiding? Anne would ask. What’s so horrible he must keep it secret from you?

Julia consoled herself that Anne didn’t know anything about husbands. In five days of marriage, Julia had learned precious little herself. Still, she was leagues ahead of her unmarried friends.