“What happened?” he asked. “And pray don’t insult me by saying nothing is wrong. You’re clearly upset.”

She smoothed the skirts of her gown, still avoiding his gaze. “I am upset. I’ve already told you so.”

“This isn’t about your fortune. Lady Anne must have said something—”

“Yes. Quite.” Julia looked at him at last. Her sapphire eyes were accusing, her countenance as hard as a piece of Sèvres porcelain about to crack.

His breath stopped.

But she didn’t accuse him of anything.

“I must change into my riding habit,” she said abruptly. “I’m taking Cossack out for a gallop on the moors.”

He scowled. “Now?”

“Yes now. You’re free to come if you like.” With that, she turned and strode back into the house.

The North York Moors were bleak and barren. As bleak as Julia was currently feeling inside. She gave Cossack a gentle nudge with her heel. He lengthened his stride, galloping over the treeless landscape toward the low heather-covered hills in the distance.

She already felt braver—stronger—just being on Cossack’s back. It was why she’d insisted on taking him out. If she and Jasper must have this conversation at all, better it was had while she was at her strongest.

He cantered behind her on Quintus. He was holding the stallion back, letting Cossack take the lead. Letting her take the lead.

And not only on horseback.

It was a stratagem, no doubt.

Jasper would say nothing—confess to nothing—until he knew exactly what it was he was being accused of.

They finally slowed to a walk as they approached the hills. It was colder here, wind whipping through the scattered trees and over the large piles of sandstone that littered the uneven ground.

Jasper rode up alongside her on Quintus, still silent.

She forced herself to meet his eyes. Her heart ached with the pain of his dishonesty. “The vicar’s son—the one you flogged when he tried to give bread to a dying man—the one who loved reading and writing novels. Was his name James Marshland?”

Jasper recoiled from her words as if she’d struck him.

It was answer enough, but Julia wouldn’t be satisfied until he admitted it in his own words. “Was it?” she asked again.

His face went pale, the raised ridge of his scar standing out in stark relief. “Yes,” he said hoarsely. “How—?”

“Anne brought a clipping from an old newspaper. She meant to show me how heroic you were during the war. It said you were the sole survivor of a brutal attack, where you dispatched a patrol of enemy soldiers and rescued vital intelligence. It also said that the first to die during the attack was your lieutenant, a vicar’s son named J. Marshland.” Her fingers tightened on Cossack’s reins. “It’s not your pen name, is it?”

“No. It isn’t.” Quintus stamped restlessly beneath him, tossing his head with impatience. Jasper made no move to quiet him. His attention was riveted to Julia’s face.