What if the rumors of his cruelty were no different? Nothing more than ugly stories built around a smidgeon of truth?

She wondered what that smidgeon would turn out to be in the tales of Captain Blunt’s conduct. Would it be something justifiable? Something she could understand? That she could forgive?

There was only one way to find out. She would have to ask him herself.

The mere idea of it was enough to make her stomach perform a nauseating flip-flop.

Entering her bedroom, she dropped her newly purchased stack of novels onto the bed. There were five altogether. Nearly one third of J. Marshland’s entire catalog.

“I still don’t see why you had to get so many of them,” Mary grumbled as she assisted Julia out of her velvet-trimmed carriage gown. The street had been dusty and dirty, soiling the hem. It would have to be sponged and pressed.

“Because,” Julia explained, stepping out of her heavy skirts, “Captain Blunt is familiar with Marshland’s works. The more I read of them, the more we’ll have to talk about.”

That had been the idea anyway.

Though once she learned the truth about his actions in the Crimea, heaven only knew whether she’d want to speak to him ever again.

“You’ve read Mrs. Marshland before,” Mary said.

“Yes, but not all her novels.” Julia’s brow creased. “Or his.” She went to the basin and washed her hands and face, drying them on a flannel towel. “Captain Blunt insists Marshland is a man.”

Mary snorted. “Does he, now?” She retrieved a fresh afternoon dress from the wardrobe; a soft, striped wool grenadine with an Imperatrice collar of white piqué. She helped Julia into the skirts before tugging the loosely cuffed sleeves of the bodice over her arms. “Seems to me he’s playing with you, miss. Everyone knows gentlemen don’t read novels. Not great big Crimean soldiers, anyway.”

“He may well be,” Julia allowed. “Even so, he has read Marshland’s novels—and other novels, too. He couldn’t talk about them the way he does if he hadn’t read them.”

“Huh.” Mary fastened the small metal hooks that closed the front of Julia’s bodice. “He don’t seem the type.”

“No, indeed. He looks too fierce, doesn’t he? And perhaps he is.”

Julia was far from certain of him anymore. The only thing she knew was that he’d been kind to her. That he’d left her alone when she’d asked. And that he’d come to her aid when she needed him. He hadn’t taken liberties or attempted to insinuate himself. He’d been gentle with her. Almost protective.

Of course, it could all be a trick. An elaborate trap laid by a master, meant to ensnare both her and her fortune.

She didn’t want to believe it.

A rap sounded at the bedroom door. Mary answered it, opening the door only an inch. “What d’you want?”

The voice of the first footman, Jenkins Four, emerged through the crack. “A message for Miss Wychwood.”

“If it’s a gentleman caller, you tell him she’ll be down in five minutes,” Mary replied tartly. “It won’t hurt him none to wait.”