“I daresay he’s worth it, as much for his skill as for his silence. The man’s a veritable vault of secrets, though you wouldn’t know it by looking at him.”

“He has offices in town?”

“In Fleet Street.” Ridgeway paused. “It’s nothing serious, I trust?”

“Not serious. Tedious.” Yet another obstacle to Jasper marrying and returning to Yorkshire. One more of conscience than of actual impediment. His mind would be easier if it could be settled. “As tedious as all the rest of this business.”

“I have news that might cheer you,” Ridgeway said. “Miss Throckmorton will be at Lady Holland’s dinner this evening.”

Jasper gave him a blank look.

“Daphne Throckmorton,” Ridgeway prompted. “The Northumberland toffee heiress?”

Jasper rubbed the side of his face. He had a vague memory of Ridgeway mentioning the girl in passing. “She owns a manufactory, doesn’t she?”

“Absolutely not.” Ridgeway appeared insulted by the suggestion. “I wouldn’t have suggested her if she was in trade.”

“She’s a toffee heiress.”

“Naturally, her people were in trade—nothing to be done about that, I fear. But according to my sources, on her father’s death, the toffee business went to a distant cousin. Miss Throckmorton herself was left with only a monetary inheritance. Forty thousand pounds, to be precise.”

Forty thousand pounds.

It was ten thousand less than Miss Wychwood was worth. Still, it was no paltry sum.

Jasper stood to retrieve his coat. “Your sources being the fellows at your club.”

Ridgeway didn’t deny it. “There are already wagers in the betting book over which penniless younger son will swallow his scruples and marry the girl. The odds are in Aldershott’s favor. He hasn’t a bean to his name. But my money’s on you, Blunt. You can easily win Miss Throckmorton and her fortune if you put a little effort into it. Ladies love a war hero.” He cast a narrow glance at Jasper’s letter to Beecham. “Though I wouldn’t mention your by-blows to her just yet. Cits tend to take a provincial view of such matters.”

“No doubt,” Jasper said dryly. As if he was likely to mention the children to a lady—any lady. It simply wasn’t done. And yet . . .

Only a few hours ago, in Bloxham’s Books of all places, he’d spoken of Charlie to Miss Wychwood. And she was as well-bred a young lady as they came. Daughter to a baronet, for God’s sake. He’d expected her expression to shutter against him. For her tone to take on the sharp bite of disapproval.

Neither had happened.

Quite the reverse.

Jasper recalled her reaction with perfect clarity. The vision of her face—her blue eyes widening and her lips half parting in surprise—was emblazoned on his brain. “Your son enjoys adventure novels?” she’d asked.

Not your by-blow or your bastard or any of the other unflattering epithets used to describe children born on the wrong side of the blanket. But your son.

Jasper couldn’t remember when anyone had ever described Charlie thus.

“Forty thousand pounds,” Ridgeway said. “You did hear me, didn’t you?”