Her Wicked Ways (47 page)

Jasper touched his finger to her upturned cheek. “He was right. You are an angel.”

Her eyes widened slightly, but she didn’t jerk away. She stared up at him a long moment, then retreated from his touch. “My lord, I thank you again for your help this evening. Good night.”

No, not yet. Please
. Though he ached to haul her up against him, burned to strip that cloak away and see the treasures hidden underneath, he forced himself to stand still, lest he frighten her off. “Let me make an appointment with you. I’ll pay whatever you ask.”

She stared up at him another long moment, seemed to consider his offer. Then she blinked. “No. Please go.”

He frowned. This night was apparently destined for the privy. But he still wasn’t willing to let her go without trying to stake his claim. He withdrew his calling card from an interior pocket of his coat and handed it to her. “Send a note if you change your mind.”

Her fingers curled around the card. She held it aloft for a moment. “I won’t,” she said.

She must already have a protector, many actresses did. He’d kept one himself for a time. He took in the coarse wool of her cloak, glanced at the hovel she called home, and recalled the sorry condition of her boots. The rage he’d overcome toward the man who’d attacked her reformed and directed itself to the prick who kept her in such squalor. She was a diamond among the coal. She deserved far better.

“Keep the card. If your circumstances change,” he gave her a pointed stare, silently urging her to make that change, “please call upon me.”

Far more disappointed than he’d been a quarter hour earlier, Jasper pivoted and strode from the court. He turned onto the Haymarket. March fell into step just behind him, but didn’t say a word.

His coach stood across the thoroughfare, at the mouth of another court. Jasper hurried across the Haymarket, still busy despite the clock nearing or perhaps already passing midnight. He paused when he reached his vehicle. March moved in front of him and let down the step.

Raucous shouts drew Jasper to turn toward the small court, which was maybe thrice as big as an alley. Lanterns illuminated a circle of people, at the center of which two men fought. The rough sounds of violence drew him forward. He gestured for March to stay with the coach.

Jasper sparred several times a week at Jackson’s, a necessary exercise that both calmed and focused him. Tonight, the sounds of fighting—of fists striking flesh, of exertion—moved through him like the finest symphony, a balm for his frayed temper.

He moved closer, to the outermost ring of the circle. Two burly men fought in the center. One’s nose was dripping blood and the other sported a swelling eye. The spectators were entirely working class folk. Except one. A gentleman stood at one end, his arms crossed, his face fixed on the fight. He looked vaguely familiar. After a few moments he raised his hand. “Enough,” he called. “Come back next time.”

The combatants stopped, their chests heaving. Both nodded, but hung their heads a bit, as if that wasn’t the decision they wanted.

“Who’s next? I’ll watch one more bout,” the gentleman said.

A young, spry looking fellow with a hooked nose stepped forward. “Enders, my lord.”

“Ah yes, Enders. I hoped you’d come back. Who will take him on?” He surveyed the crowd and when his eyes fell on Jasper, his lips curved into a smile. But then he moved on, dismissing him. Jasper’s ire surged. For the second time tonight, he’d been discounted. Rejected.

He pushed through the crowd and stepped into the circle, trained his gaze on the gentleman who’d passed him over. “Me.”

OLIVIA West watched the fair haired gentleman stride from the court. She could still feel his touch, making her already heated flesh warmer than she wanted it to be.

She looked down at the card in her hand.

Earl of Saxton

An earl had come to her rescue? And a rather dangerously attractive one at that.

Tilly, one of the prostitutes from Portia’s Garden and the closest thing Olivia would allow to a friend, sidled up beside her and looked at the card. “What’ve you got there?”

Olivia tucked it into the pocket of her cloak. “Nothing.”

Tilly arched a brow at her, but didn’t press the issue. “I saw you with a gent. Who’s he?”

“No one.” Olivia could guess what Tilly might say next. She’d been pestering Olivia the past two months she’d resided in Coventry Court to take up occupation as a lightskirt.

Tilly whistled between her teeth. “Gor, Livvie, you couldn’t do better than him. Did he make you an offer?”

“That doesn’t signify. I am not in your trade.” Olivia turned toward her boarding house, an unfortunate establishment, but the best she could afford if she wanted her own room. And she wanted her own room. She’d spent the previous nine months since her mother’s death lodging with other women, having her things ruined or stolen, suffering intrusions at all hours, and finding herself in close quarters with unsavory men.

“You could be,” Tilly said, surely about to launch into her favorite topic of conversation: the benefits of prostitution.

“No, thank you.” Olivia’s mother had gleefully sold her body for money, baubles, meager affection, but more often than not, misery.

“Oh, but surely you’d change your mind for one such as him!” Tilly cajoled.

An image of Lord Saxton crowded her mind. Individually, his features were unyieldingly stark—a prominent brow, wide nose, square jaw. Together, however, they formed a visage that bespoke power, dominance, and beauty. His lips had formed a half-pout, half-purse that, with the intensity of his pale blue stare, gave him an air of ruthlessness. He was, without question, the most striking man she’d ever seen. And he’d smelled of pine instead of rotting London. Yes, Olivia supposed he might be able to lure a desperate woman to sell him her body, but not her.

“I would not change my mind for the prince regent,” Olivia said.

Tilly shook her head. “You’re touched in the head. Can’t imagine why you’d rather work your fingers to the bone sewing clothes what won’t ever belong to you. Or treading the boards at the Haymarket, or have you warmed up to filling in for Mae?”

“As it happens, Mae is returning to her role tomorrow night, so my temporary run as an actress is at an end.” As was her run as one of the company seamstresses. Mr. Colman, the theatre manager, had sacked her just that evening. He’d hired a new costumer and her services were no longer required. But these were personal troubles she never shared with anyone.

Tilly plucked at her bodice to reveal a bit more flesh. “Well, that must make you happy then.”

It was true Olivia didn’t care to act, but any extra money earned could be put toward opening her own dress shop. “It’s just as well. I’m afraid I wasn’t any good at it.”

“Pah, you’re always too hard on yourself, Livvie. You know you could make twice or three times as much as any of us.” She gestured toward Portia’s Garden.

Olivia arched a brow. “I thought we were discussing acting.”

Tilly patted her upswept hair. “Tell me more about that gent. I saw him give you something.” She cocked her head to the side and regarded Olivia with a suspicious gaze. “You’d tell me if you’d made an assignation with him, wouldn’t you? I’d be happy to give you a bit of tutoring before you shag him.”

“There’s nothing going on. He gave me his card, but I’ve no intention of contacting him.”

Tilly’s lips curled up into a wide smile. “But you pocketed it just the same. Let me know when you change your mind, dearie. I’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

“Oh, Tilly, you’re incessant. Good night.” She turned and entered the boarding house.

The windowless entry, lit by a single guttering candle in a sconce on the wall, was empty. The stairwell was blister-hot as Olivia climbed toward the topmost floor. She stopped short as she approached the second landing.

Mrs. Reddy, her landlady, leaned against the wall, a cup clutched in her left hand. “’Bout time you showed up, Livvie.”

Olivia forced a smile, albeit not a very friendly one. It had been an awfully long day and Mrs. Reddy was a handful at the best of times. This didn’t look to be one of them. “Good evening to you, too.”

Mrs. Reddy pursed her thin lips, eyeing Olivia’s cloak as if it were lined with coin. “I need yer rent.”

Olivia refused to be bullied, especially when her feet were throbbing and she was sweating through her gown. “I paid you for the week only three days ago.”

Mrs. Reddy’s tone escalated to a childish whine. “But I need a spot of blunt now.”

Sympathy was not something Olivia would extend to the gin-addled woman. Not when she would just use the money for drink. It reminded Olivia far too much of her mother’s penchant for spending nearly everything she earned on clothes and worthless jewels. “I don’t have it. I’ll pay when it’s due.”

Mrs. Reddy wobbled forward, coming dangerously close to the top of the stairs. Afraid the woman might tumble over, Olivia moved up to the landing. She was relieved when Mrs. Reddy turned and stepped away from the edge.

“Livvie, I know you have some.”

A very little, but it was her hard-earned savings, scrimped from a tight budget that allowed no room for extravagance or error. Money she needed for her future. “I have none to spare.”

Mrs. Reddy advanced on her, wheezing gin-saturated breath. “I already have another tenant lined up. Go get the money or I’ll toss you out.”

She had no idea if the landlady had another tenant, but she couldn’t risk that chance. Shooting Mrs. Reddy a disgruntled stare, she turned and started up the stairs.

“And it just went up another shilling!” she called after her.

Olivia paused and turned. “Again? You only raised the rent week before last.” Any higher and she’d have to move. Olivia dreaded the idea of looking for new lodgings. She could barely afford the tiny attic room at Mrs. Reddy’s. She’d be hard-pressed to find another in this part of town, and she refused to move east where rent was cheaper but the neighborhoods were much coarser.

Mrs. Reddy jabbed her cup forward, sloshing liquid onto the floor. “Rent’s payable when I say so and how much I say so.”

Olivia turned and gritted her teeth against correcting the woman’s speech. Fourteen years in a vicarage had ensured an excellent education, even if it was wasted in a career as a part-time seamstress.

Hopefully she would be able to turn tomorrow’s dress delivery at Mrs. Johnson’s shop into a permanent assignment as a seamstress. Olivia had gone above and beyond what Mrs. Johnson had asked by embroidering the sleeves—a risky move, but one Olivia prayed would prove successful.

When she finally reached her room, Olivia unlocked her door and immediately bolted herself inside. Unbearably hot, she pulled off her cloak and tossed it on the bed. Lord Saxton’s card drifted to the floor. Olivia bent and picked it up. Even the paper felt rich.

If she accepted his offer, she could stop worrying about her next meal and concentrate on the dress shop. She might even be able to find better lodgings.

No. She couldn’t consider it. She couldn’t relinquish her dignity and her virtue the way her mother had.

She set the card on top of the dresser next to her bed, next to the small box painted with roses and vines that had belonged to her mother. Olivia opened the painted box and contemplated her woeful savings. She extracted the rent money and closed her fist around the precious coins. With heavy steps, she turned to deliver the funds to Mrs. Reddy, her mind frantically working as to how she would replace the loss. She simply had to find more sewing and embroidery work. She
had to
.

About the Author

Darcy Burke wrote her first book at age 11, a happily ever after about a swan addicted to magic and the female swan who loved him, with exceedingly poor illustrations. An RWA Golden Heart® Finalist, Her Wicked Ways is Darcy’s debut novel.

A native Oregonian, Darcy lives on the edge of wine country with her devoted husband, their two great kids, and three cats. In her “spare” time Darcy is a serial volunteer enrolled in a 12-step program where one learns to say “no,” but she keeps having to start over. She’s also a fair-weather runner, and her happy places are Disneyland and Labor Day weekend at the Gorge. Visit Darcy online at
www.darcy-burke.com
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