Page 13 of The Widow's Scandalous Gentleman
“Lady Greaves—please.” His voice stopped her. “There is something else you deserve to know.”
She faced him again, expression guarded.
“My family’s interest in this property extends beyond mere curiosity about artistic establishments,” he confessed with obvious difficulty. “They’ve been exploring acquisitions in this part of Brighton—places they believe hold potential for long-term investment. Seacliff Retreat was included among them.”
There was a pause. A long one.
“Acquisitions,” she repeated, the word flat and cool. “Are you telling me that your family has considered purchasing this house—this home? That they might displace my residents and repurpose what we’ve built into… what, exactly? A seaside investment venture?”
He looked away for a moment, jaw tight. “The possibility was raised, yes. But I need you to understand—my initial reports were meant to inform a portfolio, not… to threaten your work. I see now how cavalier that sounds. And I regret it.”
Her eyes narrowed—not with fury, but with the kind of wariness born of experience. “How convenient that your change of heart comes after several days of hospitality. Of trust.”
“You mistake me,” he said quickly. “My perspective changed because I’ve seen what happens here. Because I’ve met the people behind the names andfigures. And because I admire what you’ve accomplished—more than I know how to say.”
Thalia let out a slow breath and set the folded letter on the table. “Then perhaps you’ll understand how difficult it is to believe in your sincerity when those same people—my residents—were being catalogued for profitability. When their vulnerabilities, which they shared in confidence, now sit recorded in black and white as liabilities or assets.”
He flinched at that, and she saw that he didn’t try to deny it.
“You wrote of Miss Fairweather’s hearing loss,” she continued, voice quiet but unsparing. “Of how it might affect her prospects and future dependence. Of Mr Whiston’s ambitions in terms of whether his pursuits would attract or repel patronage. These are not abstractions to me, Lord Jasper. These are people. Friends. And this house is not some distressed property to be repurposed for genteel convenience or turned to profit.”
He swallowed. “No. It is not.”
She regarded him for a long moment. “I built this place to be the opposite of that kind of intrusion. And what you’ve done—what you were sent here to do—goes against the very reason it exists.”
A silence followed. The kind that carried weight rather than relief.
Lord Jasper did not attempt to interrupt, but she could see the strain in his face—the tightness at the corners of his mouth, the slight wince at her every word. His usual composure was gone, replaced by something far more vulnerable.
“I shall not pretend your reports are inaccurate,” she said, her voice gaining edge. “They’re impressively thorough. But I confess I’m more disturbed by the tone than the content. You speak of these lives in terms of market appeal and practical utility, as though they were commodities to be weighed and measured. And you did so while taking supper at my table, smiling at my guests, feigning interest—when in truth, you were gathering information.”
He exhaled. “It was never my intention for it to become that. Not in the end.”
“But it was how it began,” she said, sharply. “You arrived under the guise of polite curiosity—of interest in the arts. And whether you intended injury or not, you allowed us to believe in something that was never quite true.”
“I never intended to deceive you.” His voice was low but earnest. “The reports began before I understood what you’ve built here—what it means to those who live within it. I see now that I was sent with one purpose, and I’ve come to hold a very different one. But that change… it came too late, I know.”
“You might have said something,” she said. “Rather than continuing to take notes while letting us believe we had your respect.”
Jasper hesitated, then nodded. “You’re right. I should have. I was… torn. Between obligations I never questioned until now, and convictions that only formed after meeting you. And your residents.”
“And in the meantime,” Thalia said, her voice quieter again, “you left us exposed. Not to harm, perhaps—but to evaluation. And that is a form of harm, too, when it comes without consent.”
He stood still, head bowed slightly, accepting the words without resistance. “If I could take back the beginning of this arrangement, I would. I’ve seen enough to know your work should never be reduced to a balance sheet. And I will tell my family so, in terms they’ll understand.”
Thalia gave a small nod, but her expression remained guarded. “That, Lord Jasper, is your concern. What remains mine is whether I can continue to extend hospitality to someone who arrived under false pretences—even if they were not malicious.”
The statement hung in the air—not a dismissal, not quite, but something close.
“I understand,” he said.
Before Thalia could summon another word, the sound of approaching footsteps interrupted the charged silence—an intrusion whose timing could hardly have been more ill-suited to the tenor of their conversation.
Marcus Berrington appeared in the doorway of the morning room, wearing the sort of self-satisfied expression that suggested he had been looking for his sister with deliberate purpose and had not expected to find her deep in private discussion with the very gentleman whose presence had already unsettled his neatly arranged plans
“Sister,” Marcus announced, clearly pleased to have located her, “I trust you’ve given proper thought to our discussion yesterday. Mr Templeton has written with considerable enthusiasm—he hopes to proceed with a formal courtship at the earliest opportunity.”
His gaze flicked between Thalia and Lord Jasper, lingering with curiosity as he registered the charged stillness in the room. Yet, as ever, his instincts failed to grasp the deeper tension, his perception dulled by a lifetime of viewing conflict only through the lens of social inconvenience.
