She started away, pace set to evade scrutiny. Confusion accompanied her to her father’s house. Had Mclintock truly purchased the girls only to return them home? Had Lord Lefthook known the man’s intention? Was that why he’d so readily gone after the other young women?
Should she keep seeking the two young women, or were they already saved? Madelina didn’t know who they were and had no means of corroborating Miss White’s story.
Her only hope of sorting truth from lies would be to spy on Mclintock. Madelina wanted to know everything she could about the man. Everything.
Chapter Six
Jasper jogged up the front steps of his mother’s townhouse, a place full of happy memories of his childhood and parents, but today that happiness didn’t envelope him. Today, he’d set himself the task of finally asking his mother for information about Madam Dequenne, a recourse he’d long avoided. He didn’t relish tormenting her with painful memories best left in the past.
As always, the door swung open before he reached it. The duke had employed only the best staff and, to Jasper’s keen relief, many stayed on after his father’s death. The staff, at least, esteemed and accepted his mother.
“Good day, Jacobs,” Jasper offered as he entered. He stripped off gloves and hat. “Is my mother home?”
“Miss Right is in the yellow parlor, sir.”
“Thank you.” Jasper handed over his outerwear. He lowered his voice, though the yellow parlor stood on the far side of the home. “Has she had many callers this week?”
“Only Missus Smith and Missus Carter.”
Jasper frowned. “Thank you.” He headed down the silk-clad hall.
Two visitors, when once there had been twenty. When the duke was alive….
Jasper halted that line of thought. Upon his father’s death, everyone suddenly recalled that the duke had never married Jaspar’s mother.
Before his death, thetonhad been enamored with the romance of the tale. A young woman abducted. A future duke her savior, constrained by society and his family never to wed her. Yet, the duke had defied them all, residing with her, giving Jasper the name he could never give Jasper’s mother.
In the glow of the Duke of Aspen’s love and the shelter of his influence, all but the stodgiest had been happy to overlook the fact that Jasper’s mother had been stolen from her family’s care and locked in a brothel. Cheerfully, they’d glossed over the fact that Jasper’s grandfather had purchased her as a birthday present for his son.
Now, it mattered not that Jasper’s mother had never been with another. That she’d loved his father fully and faithfully through all his years and that the duke had never made a secret of her. With Jasper’s father gone and the ducal title passed to Matthew, so too had fled the tolerance of theton. The blade of betrayal sank deep when it became apparent how few true friends Jasper had. He would have spared his mother that pain.
He mustered a smile as he entered the yellow parlor, his favorite, as well. Sunlight streamed between lacy white curtains, further brightening the buttery wall cladding, elegantly offset by white trim and wainscoting. His mother, straight backed and lovely, hardly showing her years, perched on the edge of a lemon-colored sofa. Though out of deep mourning and possessed of a warm visage constantly at odds with her sever attire, his mother insisted on wearing black. She never let a day pass without memory of the duke.
Nor did Jasper wish her to, for so many of those memories were happy. Instead, he wished he didn’t know how thetonwhispered that, as his mother could not truly be called a widow, she had no right to black. Her gowns were another feather in their cap of ill content.
Certainly, he would pass on none of their words to his mother, who’d met his gaze the moment he stepped through the door. Obviously, her vigilant staff had already informed her of his presence.
“Mother.” He crossed the room to place a kiss on her cheek.
“Dearest, it’s so lovely to see you. I’ve sent for tea.”
Jasper took the chair beside her. “Thank you.”
“Your timing is impeccable. Only this morning, Cook made a batch of those apple tarts of which you’re so fond.”
“Did she? Perhaps I smelled them all the way across London and that’s why I’ve come.”
“If so, I shall order them made every day.” His mother smiled.
Though he knew she didn’t mean to criticize, a pang of guilt assailed him. He hadn’t been home enough of late. “I’m sorry, Mother. I’ve neglected you.”
“Nonsense. I know you’re dedicated to your work. Your father was the same way. Heaps of ledgers, letters, and accounts everywhere. Always working.”
Her observation was the opening he needed. Still, Jasper had to force the words out. “Actually, my work is why I’ve come.”
Two maids bustled into the room with trays. Not tea yet, but an array of plates and napkins, silverware and trivets. They began setting them out on the low table before the sofa.
“Your work brings you here?” his mother dutifully asked.
