“Whatever it is . . . it’s not in your best interest. Nor in the interest of those bastards of yours. You do know that?”

Jasper knew it. By God, how he knew it. “I only want to see her. To assure myself things aren’t as bad as Miss Throckmorton said.”

“Sir Eustace and Lady Wychwood aren’t likely to invite you in.”

“I don’t expect they will,” Jasper acknowledged grimly. “But if history is any indication, the pair of them will be confined to their beds. It’s their servants I’ll have to deal with. Given the rate of turnover in their ranks, I can’t imagine any of them are very loyal. A decent bribe should gain me admittance to any room in the house.”

Ridgeway’s eyes shone with appreciation. “And to think you once objected to being ruthless where women were concerned.”

Jasper thrust his hands into his pockets, pacing as the coachman finished hitching up the horses. Perhaps he was being ruthless. If so, it was in a good cause.

He’d seen men die of blood loss in the Crimea. Strong men, laid low from battle wounds or fever, bled by some well-meaning quack who achieved nothing more than draining the last remnants of life from them.

Miss Wychwood was no soldier. She wasn’t strong. Not as strong as a man. If Cordingley had administered two courses of bloodletting . . .

Jasper’s chest tightened painfully. He’d only just found her. A woman who spoke to his soul. To his secret self. Not to the monstrous man everyone believed him to be, but to the man he truly was. It was one thing to give her up for the children’s sake. But for her to be ill, or worse—

The prospect sent a stab of helpless anguish through him. It burned like acid, eating away at his ironclad self-restraint.

He couldn’t think of losing her.

“Have you a decent bribe?” Ridgeway asked.

“On my person? No. I’ll have to—”

“Here.” Ridgeway withdrew his purse and extracted a handful of banknotes. He passed them to Jasper. “That sum should be sufficient. Especially when coupled with your menacing presence.”

Jasper folded the notes into an inner pocket of his coat, frowning. “I don’t know why you insist on bestirring yourself on my account.”

“For my brother’s sake,” Ridgeway said. “Clearly.”

Jasper well remembered Ridgeway’s brother. Rupert Grainger had been a lanky young fellow with a broad smile and a contagious laugh—characteristics that had faded the longer they’d remained in the Crimea. He’d died in the skirmish at the fall of Sebastopol. An easy death in comparison to the hell he’d been living through as a soldier serving under the merciless Captain Blunt.

“I was no friend to your brother,” Jasper said.

Ridgeway looked at him steadily. “His letters said otherwise.”

Jasper went still as the significance of Ridgeway’s words sank into his brain.

Good God. Was it possible? Had the viscount somehow ascertained the truth?

A month ago, the mere suggestion would have shaken Jasper’s world to its foundation. He would have been alarmed or, perhaps, even afraid.