His Wicked Heart (11 page)

At length, Lady Merriweather relinquished her
grip. She pulled one of Olivia’s handkerchiefs from her reticule.
It was Olivia’s favorite with roses and vines decorating the
edges.

“Can you tell me how you came to make this
design?”

She’d replicated the roses and vines from the
painted box that had belonged to her mother. The box in which
Saxton’s ten pounds currently resided. “I copied it from a memento
in my possession.”

Lady Merriweather pressed her eyes closed for
a moment. When she opened them, there were tears in the corners.
“May I ask how you came to have this memento?”

Olivia didn’t know what to think of this
woman’s interest. “It belonged to my mother. She died last
year.”

Lady Merriweather patted Olivia’s knee. “I’m
so sorry, dear.”

Although she wasn’t comfortable with the
sentiment, Olivia appreciated the woman’s kindness. “We weren’t
close.”

“Oh?” Lady Merriweather asked with a mixture
of curiosity and concern.

Olivia wasn’t used to this attention. She
rather liked what it represented—another person’s genuine
interest—but she also wasn’t terribly keen to reveal too much about
herself. “I was fostered.”

“I see. And your father?”

That revelation had wrought enough pain and
bitterness to last a lifetime. Olivia preferred to lie instead. “He
left.”

Lady Merriweather reacted in the most unusual
way. She took Olivia’s hands again and grinned widely. “Miss West.
I am here to help you. I believe—no, I know—my husband was your
father.”

The room swam before Olivia’s eyes.
How
could that be
? Her hands went slack in Lady Merriweather’s
grip. She’d been raised not knowing the identity of her father
until the day she’d been evicted from the vicarage. Her aunt had
furiously revealed that her uncle had sired Olivia with his
sister-in-law, Olivia’s mother. She couldn’t very well share this
shameful tale with the gracious and estimable Lady Merriweather. To
do so would be to admit her bastardy, her uncle-father’s perfidy,
and her mother’s wickedness. Not only could Olivia not afford to
lose a chance for income, she couldn’t bring herself to reveal
humiliating truths to such an esteemed lady.

Lady Merriweather squeezed Olivia’s hands.
“Miss West? Are you all right?”

Olivia struggled to maintain a clear head.
“Where is he, your husband?”

The shining happiness faded from Lady
Merriweather’s face, replaced with melancholy. “He died. I’m sorry
you didn’t get a chance to know him. I should like to remedy that,
as best I can since he’s no longer with us. I want you to come live
with me.”

The settee seemed to drop, or maybe that was
just Olivia’s stomach. She stared at Lady Merriweather’s pale
blonde hair streaked with white and her face lined with laughter
and sadness. She seemed like a good person, someone Olivia could
admire. What’s more, she believed Olivia was family.

Was there a possibility this could be true?
Fiona had never confirmed her paternity, despite Olivia asking.
Furthermore, Olivia’s uncle had allowed his wife to toss her out
when she was but four and ten. Wouldn’t a father try to protect his
child?

Olivia took a deep breath, cognizant of the
hope blooming in her chest. “How can you be so certain I’m Lord
Merriweather’s daughter?”

Lady Merriweather reached into her reticule
and withdrew the handkerchief with the roses that Olivia had
embroidered. “The design on the handkerchief, dear. You said you
copied it from a painted box. I have an exact replica of that very
design in a portrait he painted. There are other reasons, but we’ll
get to them in time. You need only understand that you
are
Merry’s daughter. Without question.” Lady Merriweather’s blue-blue
eyes regarded her with something that might have been pity, but
Olivia didn’t think it was. No, there was hope in the woman’s
gaze.

Olivia stared at the handkerchief, scarcely
believing this remarkable turn of fortune. “You want me to live
with you?”

“Yes. I’ve a townhouse in Mayfair. Please
understand, I never knew you existed until after Merry died. I
recently found a letter he’d written about you. I’m certain he
would want us to be together. I would be honored if you would give
me the chance to welcome you to our family.”

Her invitation seemed too good to be true.
Olivia simply couldn’t comprehend the level of generosity and
kindness this woman was demonstrating. Presumably Lord
Merriweather—her father—had been unfaithful. Yet here his widow was
welcoming his bastard daughter into her home, her life. This was
the complete opposite of Aunt Mildred’s reaction.

“Why?”

Lady Merriweather lifted one shoulder. “I
have no children of my own. Merry’s daughter is my daughter.”

“You don’t…you don’t care he had a daughter
with someone else?”

There was a twinkle in her eye when she
answered. “I might’ve if he’d done so while we were married, but he
knew your mother long before he met me.”

Olivia relaxed slightly, allowed her
incredulity to melt—just a little—into acceptance. This made a bit
more sense. Lady Merriweather had lost her husband, a man she
clearly loved and missed. Olivia represented a link to that loss.
Still, this was a great deal to comprehend. She really ought to
share the details of her upbringing and questionable paternity, but
the words wouldn’t come, especially when she longed for the
viscountess’s tale to be true.

“My lady, I am overwhelmed.”

“I insist you call me Louisa.” She pursed her
lips. Olivia could almost see the wheels of her mind turning. “We
will need to develop a story of course. You can’t be my husband’s
daughter in Society, but neither do I want you to be my paid
companion. You’re family.”

Society? Good Lord, what could this woman
mean for Olivia to do? The thought of mingling in London society
elicited a wave of nausea. Because of Saxton. But surely she
wouldn’t run into him.

“I’m not certain I’m interested in joining
Society, my lady. I mean, Louisa.”

“You needn’t worry. You obviously possess
excellent breeding, dear.” Louisa squeezed Olivia’s hands. “We’ll
go get your things at once.”

Olivia quashed the panic rising in her
throat. This was an extraordinary opportunity. Not only to change
her dire financial circumstances, but to regain what she’d lost
seven years ago—the chance for a real family. A chance that may
never come her way again. If that wasn’t enough, and really it was,
she had to face the possibility of accepting money from Saxton in
exchange for her virtue and become the one thing she’d sworn never
to be.

In the end, there was no choice at all. She
took a leap of faith in the earnest woman beside her. “Yes, I’ll
come with you.”

THE COMFORT and ease of White’s encased
Jasper like his favorite pair of riding boots. The murmur of
conversation punctuated with sonorous exclamations, the sweet scent
of brandy and the smoky waft of whiskey, the pomp and arrogance of
nearly everyone present—yes, even that was palpable. Jasper
reclined in a chair at a table he currently shared with Angus Black
and the Earl of Penreith who’d immediately hailed him upon entry
and proceeded to bombard him with questions about his absence, both
from White’s and from the usual Society whirl. If his father’s
interrogations were annoying, at least his chums had proven
amusing.

Black refilled his glass with brandy from the
bottle on the table. His brows gathered together, mired in
suspicion. “Where did you disappear to the past several
nights?”

Jasper pushed his empty glass toward Black
for a pour. “I didn’t disappear. I just didn’t go to the events you
attended.”

“Ha.” Penreith smiled in his typical lopsided
fashion. “You weren’t seen at
any
events. Save your mother’s
tea, but if you hadn’t shown up there, I’d have thought you were
dead.”

“Many would prefer that fate.”

Black and Penreith laughed. Jasper smiled at
how easy it was to deflect his nosy friends.

The door opened, and Sevrin entered the
warmly lit interior. He offered his hat and gloves to a footman. A
subtle murmur crested about the room as he made his way inside. He
paused by the betting book, perusing its contents, before
continuing on. No one hailed his arrival or even nodded in
greeting. Jasper drummed his fingers atop the table.

He’d never encountered Sevrin at White’s. At
least, Jasper didn’t remember seeing him here. Jasper suffered a
twinge of shame, thinking that until recently, he’d never given
Sevrin a second thought. He held up his hand in welcome. “Sevrin,”
he called. Heads turned, a few jaws dropped, the murmur grew to a
buzz. Curiously, Jasper found he enjoyed doing the unexpected.
There was something freeing about indulging a bit of
recklessness.

While Sevrin wove toward their table,
Penreith and Black leaned in.

“What the devil are you doing?” Penreith
hissed, although why he tried to keep his voice low, Jasper
couldn’t countenance. As if Sevrin wasn’t wholly aware of his
reputation and the reaction Jasper’s invitation incited.

“Sevrin’s a good sort.” Jasper stood as
Sevrin arrived.

Black and Penreith leaned back in their
chairs.

“Saxton,” Sevrin drawled.

“Sit with us. Have a brandy.” Jasper gestured
to one of two empty chairs at the table.

Sevrin and Jasper sat. A footman deposited
another glass. As the brandy was still closest to Black, Jasper
waited for him to pour. When he didn’t, Jasper snatched the bottle
up and took care of the service himself. He made a point of leaving
the brandy next to Sevrin’s glass.

Sevrin held up his libation. “To
cordiality.”

Jasper answered the toast, raising his
brandy. Penreith downed the contents of his glass without pause.
Black stared resolutely at the wall behind Jasper’s head, refusing
to acknowledge a toast had even been made.

Jasper frowned against the rim of his glass.
His friends were behaving quite rudely. He drank and then replaced
his glass on the table. He wanted to knock their heads
together.

“That a new mount I saw you on the other day
in the park, Black?” Sevrin asked, his joviality surprising in the
face of the other men’s contempt.

“Indeed.”

Normally, Black would have waxed poetic about
his newest horse. Jasper considered kicking him under the table.
Instead, he threw him a scathing look.

“Don’t see you at White’s much, Sevrin,”
Penreith said.

Sevrin shook his head, his mouth set into an
amused half-smile. “Usually too boring.”

“For your ilk, I imagine so.”

“What does that mean, his ‘ilk’?” Jasper
asked, purposely provoking Penreith. He and Black begrudged Sevrin
his membership rights because of the rumor that had tainted his
reputation. If not for Holborn’s interference ten years ago, Jasper
would’ve endured the same ignominy. It hardly seemed just.

“You know, Saxton,” said Sevrin. “I typically
prefer livelier entertainment.” Though he was a noted libertine and
rakehell, Jasper had never seen him with a woman. Nor was he aware
of Sevrin participating in any orgies or other salacious
activities. In fact, outside of the fighting club, Jasper wasn’t at
all certain what Sevrin did with his time.

Both Penreith and Black sat a bit straighter
in their chairs. Black lost his dark expression. Penreith gestured
to the brandy bottle with a questioning look. Sevrin answered by
pouring into Penreith’s glass.

“Er, what sort of entertainment?” Black
asked.

Jasper bit back a laugh. Their prurient
curiosity had gotten the best of them. Scoundrels. They were no
better than him or Sevrin.

Sevrin arched a brow. “Parties and
establishments no one in Polite Society would dare frequent.”

“Is it true…” Penreith licked his lips. “That
is, do you really have your own suite at the Red Door?”

Sevrin lifted his glass, his lips twitching.
“I’ll never tell.”

Suddenly, the air at the table seemed to
loosen. Or perhaps it was simply the sticks falling out of
Penreith’s and Black’s arses.

Another hush descended upon the room. A hasty
beat of silence that heralded the arrival of a Terribly Important
Person. Jasper’s neck prickled. The duke.

Holborn’s icy gaze surveyed the room quickly.
He located Jasper, taking in his tablemates—or rather, just one
tablemate in particular—and his mouth pulled down into a severe
frown. He made his way toward them with the elegant grace of a cat
on the prowl, instead of the aging gait of a man of four and fifty.
Though his blond hair was liberally shot with silver and his frame
wasn’t as powerful as in his youth, women never failed to seek his
attention. Furthermore, he rarely failed—surreptitiously, of
course—to grant it. Holborn was nothing if not the master of
discretion. Jasper wouldn’t be surprised if the duchess had little
knowledge of Holborn’s liaisons, but rather thought the truth was
she didn’t care. Such a cold marriage.