“What do you require it for?” she asked.

“For my estate. Goldfinch Hall.”

She smiled. “Is that what it’s called?”

“It’s named after the goldfinches that gather there every winter. There are hundreds of them, with red crowns and bright yellow wings—a colorful display. It’s quite striking to see them.” He looked at her. “Are you fond of birds?”

“I love all animals,” she said. “All.”

He wasn’t surprised. “You have pets?”

She resumed staring straight ahead as they rode. “Only Cossack. My parents won’t allow any others. They can’t abide them.”

Jasper waited for her to elaborate, but she said nothing more. He had the sense she was refraining from voicing some private grievance. A criticism of her famously eccentric mother and father, perhaps.

He wondered about her life with them. She, an only child. A daughter, shackled to their invalidism—be it real or imagined—there in that imposing white-stuccoed house in Belgrave Square. It can’t have been a happy life for her as a little girl.

It couldn’t be a very happy life for her now.

“I’ve had to learn more than I’d like about birds during my time at the Hall,” he offered by way of conversation. “Did you know that a flock of goldfinches is called a charm?”

She flicked him an uncertain glance. “Is that true?”

“I swear it.”

“A charm.” Her lush mouth curved with pleasure. “Oh, but I like that.”

“Better than a murder of crows.”

“Much better,” she agreed. “Though I haven’t anything against crows. They’re very intelligent birds, you know. I once read a novel where the heroine had a talking crow as a pet. When she died, it was he who revealed the identity of the villain who had poisoned her. He even testified in court.”

“An unlikely occurrence.”

“Novels needn’t be realistic to be entertaining. Some of the most thrilling I’ve read are filled with outlandish twists and turns. Secret babies, lost heirs, falsified deaths, and hidden identities.”

Not quite so outlandish, Jasper thought grimly. Not if one had seen the things he’d seen. Done the things he’d done. Indeed, elements of his past made popular fiction seem rather tame in comparison.

But a young lady of Miss Wychwood’s breeding wouldn’t know about that. To her, it was the stuff of entertainment.

“Like Lady Audley’s Secret,” he said.

“Exactly like that.” She gave a gentle tug on her gelding’s reins, preventing him from nipping at Quintus’s neck. “The way you describe Goldfinch Hall makes it sound like something from a novel. I know you said it wasn’t a castle in a French fairy tale, but—”

“It isn’t. There’s nothing romantic about the state of it. When I returned from the Crimea, I found it in an appalling condition.” He grimaced to recall it. “My uncle—God rest his soul—was a recluse, not entirely in his right mind. He’d let the fields run fallow and allowed the house to crumble down around his ears. It’s a miracle it still stands.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” she said. “You must have been disappointed to find it so.”