She pressed her heel into Cossack’s side and she fled.

Jasper was tempted to ride after her, no matter that she’d just dismissed him.

But no.

He held Quintus to a standstill as Miss Wychwood rode away. She kept to a walk for several strides before kicking her horse into a lofty, ground-covering canter. Her seat was impeccable, her gloved hands light on her reins. She had a reputation for being a good rider. And she must be one to handle a horse so obviously too big for her.

Good God. She couldn’t be more than five feet and three inches in height. A petite lady, with a gentle way about her. Had she no one to choose her a more suitable mount?

Jasper suspected not.

Her parents were well-known invalids, prone to all manner of fancies. Their elegant town house in Belgrave Square played host to an endless stream of doctors, chemists, and an ever-changing roster of servants.

Even Miss Wychwood’s groom was of a recent vintage—a different fellow from the one who had accompanied her three days ago. He cantered a length behind her, the pair of them disappearing into the distance.

Jasper’s frown deepened.

He’d learned many things about Miss Wychwood in the past several weeks, enough to know that marrying her and whisking her away to Yorkshire was going to be anything but simple.

Damn Viscount Ridgeway for suggesting it.

Exiting the park, Jasper returned to Ridgeway’s house in Half Moon Street. It was a fashionable address, if not an ostentatious one, tucked between the house of a rich old widow on one side and that of a well-to-do solicitor on the other. After settling Quintus in the stable with his groom, Jasper made his way up the front steps to the door.

Ridgeway’s grizzled butler, Skipforth, admitted him into the black-and-white-tiled hall. “His lordship has requested your presence in his chamber,” he said as he took Jasper’s hat and gloves. “He’s breakfasting there.”

Of course he was.

Ridgeway rarely emerged from his room before ten, and then only on sufferance.

Jasper felt a flare of irritation. Not for the first time, he regretted accepting Ridgeway’s invitation to stay.

“Shall I take you to him, sir?” Skipforth asked.

“No need.” Jasper bounded up the curving staircase to the third floor. He rapped once on Ridgeway’s door before entering.

The heavy draperies were drawn back from the windows. Sunlight streamed through the glass, revealing an expansive bedchamber decorated in shades of rich crimson and gold. On the far side of it, opposite his unmade four-poster bed and the silver tea tray containing the remains of his breakfast, sat Nathan Grainger, Viscount Ridgeway.

He was sprawled in a wooden chair in front of his inlaid mahogany dressing table, eyes closed as his valet trimmed his side-whiskers.

“That you, Blunt?” He squinted open one eye. “Back so soon?”

“As you see. Skipforth said you had need of me?”

“So I do. And excellent timing, too. Fennel’s just finished shearing me.” Ridgeway dismissed his valet with a wave of his hand.