“Daisy’s riding Musket. There’s only so far they can go.”

It was true enough. Even when in company with Quintus and Cossack, the old gelding rarely exceeded a lethargic trot.

“She’ll need a pony of her own soon,” Julia said. “Perhaps a little mare to help build her confidence?”

“Her confidence is building,” Jasper replied. “Thanks to you.”

Julia beamed. She was proud of her success with the children. Charlie, Alfred, and Daisy hadn’t only accepted her, they’d come to care for her, too. Almost as much as she cared for them.

She wished they could share in Jasper’s good news, but the children knew nothing of their father’s secret profession. All they knew was that life, of late, had been exceptionally good. The five of them were a family. A happy family.

The addition of a few more servants hadn’t hurt. Thanks to Julia’s inheritance, they’d managed to employ a small household staff. They’d also hired workers to start on the tenants’ cottages and to repair the leaking roof of the Hall.

It was only the beginning.

Releasing her from his embrace, Jasper plucked the copy of the Weekly Heliosphere from her fingers. “No need to read this now.”

She snatched it back from him. “And why not?”

“It’s the sales that matter, not the critical acclaim.”

She moved out of his grasp, taking the journal with her. “I won’t share it with you if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

His mouth quirked. “I survived the fall of Sebastopol. I think I can handle a scathing review.” He paused, adding, “It’s not me I’m concerned about.”

Julia wasn’t listening. She was too busy flipping through the pages. “Tripe and treacle indeed,” she muttered. “The man deserves a firm clout on the head. And if he’s said a single unjust word about Reunion at Waterloo, I’ve a mind to— Ah. Here it is.” A puzzled frown creased her brow. “But . . . it’s not a review at all.”

“No? What is it?”

“It seems to be a farewell.” She read the short passage to him:

To my esteemed readers: I bid you adieu and good fortune on your literary travels. Alas, I can no longer vouchsafe my services as your guide. The siren song of connubial bliss compels me to give up my weekly column and turn my attention to pursuits matrimonial. As Goethe once wrote—

Julia broke off. “The ridiculous man. Quoting Goethe of all people.” She tossed the journal onto a nearby table in disgust.

Jasper picked it up, briefly skimming the page. Laughter shone in his eyes. “The Sorrows of Young Werther? Perhaps Bilgewater was more of a romantic than he let on. Pity he’s retiring.”

“Good riddance to him, I say,” Julia retorted. “Though, I confess, I was rather looking forward to your latest novel proving his opinions wrong.”

“I don’t care what he thinks,” Jasper said. “I don’t care what anyone thinks.” His arm slid around her waist, drawing her near. “No one except you.”