Page 153 of The Belle of Belgrave Square

His breath stopped.

But she didn’t accuse him of anything.

“I must change into my riding habit,” she said abruptly. “I’m taking Cossack out for a gallop on the moors.”

He scowled. “Now?”

“Yes now. You’re free to come if you like.” With that, she turned and strode back into the house.

The North York Moors were bleak and barren. As bleak as Julia was currently feeling inside. She gave Cossack a gentle nudge with her heel. He lengthened his stride, galloping over the treeless landscape toward the low heather-covered hills in the distance.

She already felt braver—stronger—just being on Cossack’s back. It was why she’d insisted on taking him out. If she and Jasper must have this conversation at all, better it was had while she was at her strongest.

He cantered behind her on Quintus. He was holding the stallion back, letting Cossack take the lead. Letting her take the lead.

And not only on horseback.

It was a stratagem, no doubt.

Jasper would say nothing—confess to nothing—until he knew exactly what it was he was being accused of.

They finally slowed to a walk as they approached the hills. It was colder here, wind whipping through the scattered trees and over the large piles of sandstone that littered the uneven ground.

Jasper rode up alongside her on Quintus, still silent.

She forced herself to meet his eyes. Her heart ached with the pain of his dishonesty. “The vicar’s son—the one you flogged when he tried to give bread to a dying man—the one who loved reading and writing novels. Was his name James Marshland?”

Jasper recoiled from her words as if she’d struck him.

It was answer enough, but Julia wouldn’t be satisfied until he admitted it in his own words. “Was it?” she asked again.

His face went pale, the raised ridge of his scar standing out in stark relief. “Yes,” he said hoarsely. “How—?”

“Anne brought a clipping from an old newspaper. She meant to show me how heroic you were during the war. It said you were the sole survivor of a brutal attack, where you dispatched a patrol of enemy soldiers and rescued vital intelligence. It also said that the first to die during the attack was your lieutenant, a vicar’s son named J. Marshland.” Her fingers tightened on Cossack’s reins. “It’s not your pen name, is it?”

“No. It isn’t.” Quintus stamped restlessly beneath him, tossing his head with impatience. Jasper made no move to quiet him. His attention was riveted to Julia’s face.

She was amazed at the steadiness of her own voice. “James Marshland truly did write all those books, didn’t he?”

“He did.”

“The Fire Opal and all the others I loved so much. All of them, right up until he died. Then you took over.”

Jasper’s gaze sharpened. Something flickered at the back of his frost-gray eyes, as if he understood a crucial fact he hadn’t before. It altered his demeanor. The color gradually returned to his face as he brought Quintus under sharp control.

“It’s why the style has changed,” she said. “You stole his name after the war. For money, I suppose.”

“Is that what you believe?”

“I can come to no other conclusion.”

Jasper was silent for a moment, as if calculating his response. “Would it be a crime?”

Julia’s lips curled in disgust. That he even had to ask! “To take advantage of a man who died serving under you? A man you treated abominably?”

“He was treated abominably,” Jasper said.

“By you,” Julia snapped back. “You’re the one who mistreated him. You said you regretted the past. That you were making amends for it. But you haven’t changed at all, have you? If you had, you’d never have stolen his work.”