His Wicked Heart (12 page)

The duke stopped near the table, but didn’t
breach the intimate circle surrounding it. His position clearly
indicated he expected Jasper to come to him, and Jasper had
expected such a summons given his absences the past few days.

“Please excuse me,” he said to his companions
as he stood.

Holborn led the way to the private chamber he
kept for his personal use. The room was small but lavishly
appointed. A painting from the duke’s collection hung over the
fireplace, proclaiming this small space as belonging to him. Even
the chairs were the color of the Holborn livery: dark blue with
gold-tasseled pillows.

Holborn ground his teeth, a sound that always
served to put Jasper’s nerves on edge. “You kept me waiting long
enough. Unwise, since I’m only more annoyed with you now.”

Typically, Jasper found the fortitude to
ignore the duke’s subtle irritations, but tonight Holborn’s very
presence had him tight as a new saddle. “Is that truly
possible?”

The duke went to the sideboard and poured a
glass of aged whiskey. He didn’t offer any to Jasper, not that he’d
expected such courtesy.

“You were sitting with that blackguard
Sevrin. You can’t associate with the likes of him.”

If only the duke knew Jasper associated with
worse at the fighting club. He’d hate Fitch the dockhand or Gifford
the tailor’s apprentice, which only made Jasper like them more.
Jasper crossed to the sideboard and helped himself to some of
Holborn’s private stock. His whiskey really was superior. “Surely
you didn’t come here to bother me about who I drink with?”

Holborn ignored the question to fire his own.
“What must I do to make you take your duty seriously?”

It wasn’t as if Jasper had been a towering
failure. He didn’t gamble. He didn’t drink excessively. He kept his
proclivity for visiting tucked-away brothels, well, tucked
away.

“With the exception of that incident ten
years ago—which you’ll never let me forget—I’ve been the model
heir. I realize I’m not James, but seeing he’s been gone these past
two decades...”

The duke’s eyes hardened to near silver.
“Don’t compare yourself to your brother.”

Invoking James’ name had been a foolish
indulgence spurred by Jasper’s irritation. He tried never to
mention him because, though James was long dead, to the duke he
would always be the heir. That Jasper had inherited the courtesy
title, that it was his
right
to be Saxton and some day
Holborn, mattered not. His father’s preference for his brother was
a wound that never healed.

“If there’s nothing else, there are a hundred
places I’d prefer to be.”

“Tell me whom you plan to court, and you may
go.”

“Really, and how would you endeavor to keep
me here? It’s been ages since you tried physical coercion, and I
don’t recommend you try it now.”

The duke’s nostrils flared, and his hands
fisted. Jasper enjoyed the man’s frustration. Holborn knew he
couldn’t follow through on his threats so easily. But in the end,
Jasper was ready to reveal her name. While he hadn’t been at the
usual Society events the past few nights, he’d been working
diligently to ascertain the lady’s availability and inclinations.
She was beautiful, intelligent, and absolutely above reproach. Also
in the marriage hunt, she sought a title and an impeccable
reputation—no rogues, no drunkards, no gamblers or spendthrifts.
They would suit each other’s requirements perfectly.

“Lady Philippa Latham.” He quashed a
gratifying smirk at the duke’s surprise.

Holborn situated himself in one of the
massive chairs. “She’s amenable to the suit?”

“You needn’t sound so shocked. I
am
heir to your dukedom.”

“Isn’t her father angling for some Flemish
lord?”

Jasper had heard that rumor, but until an
announcement was made, Lady Philippa was fair game, particularly
since she was clearly on the hunt for a husband. “I’ve given you
the name, so I believe we’re finished.”

Holborn’s lip curled, but he said nothing,
merely sipped his whiskey. After a long moment during which Jasper
contemplated how it might feel to face Holborn in the room at the
back of the Black Horse, the duke waved his hand, effectively
dismissing Jasper.

Jasper briefly thought of staying, just to be
contrary, but such games were for lads with far less experience
than him. He turned and left, exhaling in an effort to release the
tension roused by the duke.

As he returned to his table, he contemplated
visiting Olivia later in the evening. She’d had time to reflect and
was now, hopefully, ready to spend the night with him.

OLIVIA stood in the center of her new
dressing room at Lady Merriweather’s—Louisa’s—house on Queen Street
in Mayfair. If she were barefoot, she was certain the thick, plush
carpet would cushion her toes like the softest bed. Pale yellow
paint brightened the walls of the windowless room. A wide oak
armoire devoured an entire corner, while a dainty, turned-leg table
with a small, slipper chair and a long, cushioned bench with a rose
and cream pattern completed the furnishings. Olivia had never seen
such fine things, let alone for her to use.

Her meager wardrobe filled a scant fraction
of the armoire, but Louisa had promised a plethora of new clothes
as soon as they could go shopping, which she’d indicated would be
tomorrow.

In a daze, Olivia staggered back into the
main bedchamber, a massive room that would easily hold her entire
apartment with space to spare. Though she’d slept here last night,
she’d wondered this morning if the entire previous day hadn’t been
a dream.

Her maid—her maid!—finished tidying the bed.
Perhaps a decade older than Olivia, Dale seemed capable and
intelligent—worldly almost. Her costume was made from finer fabric
than most of Olivia’s clothes. Olivia crossed her arms over her
chest and fidgeted with the sleeve of her gown, feeling as if she
didn’t belong.

“Oh, I see you’re already dressed. I could’ve
provided assistance, miss.” Dale offered a warm, friendly
smile.

Olivia had never had help dressing. The
notion was novel, if not frivolous. But then, much of everything
she’d seen since arriving at Queen Street might seem frivolous
compared to what she was used to. “That’s quite all right. Thank
you.”

“Very good. Lady Merriweather has requested
you meet her in the Rose Room.”

The Rose Room? Olivia had seen precisely
three rooms last night: the entry, her bedchamber, and the dining
room. Four, she supposed, if one counted the dressing room and,
really, how could she not count it? Must she also count the grand
staircase with its gleaming marble and the gallery leading to her
bedchamber with its numerous paintings and sparkling sconces?

Why was she counting rooms at all? Because
the townhouse made her feel small. Awkward. Insignificant.

Dale gestured to the doorway. “I’ll show you
the way.” She smiled so pleasantly, so helpfully that Olivia
couldn’t help but relax just a bit.

Olivia nodded, letting her arms fall to her
sides. A moment lapsed before she understood she ought to precede
Dale. Goodness, this would take getting used to.

They returned much the way they’d come last
night, but upon reaching the entry made their way to the rear of
the house to a large room with two bow windows overlooking a
manicured garden. Olivia caught sight of roses, herbs, and some
sort of climbing vine before Dale indicated she should go through a
door to the left.

This had to be the Rose Room. Every bit of
its décor was pink or red or cream in color, and the focal point, a
large painting hanging between the windows, boasted a profusion of
pink and red roses blooming all over the front of a stone manor
house. The design of the curling vines was impossible to ignore—it
was the same as the vines on Olivia’s mother’s painted box.

Her heart squeezed. There it was in front of
her—proof she belonged somewhere. Proof she belonged
here
.
The notion that Lord Merriweather, and not the vicar, was her
father became more than mere possibility.

Louisa swept into the room through a
different door. “Good morning! I trust you slept well. Dale, please
ask Bernard to bring tea and scones.” She turned to Olivia. “I
wasn’t sure how late you might sleep—new surroundings and all.
Typically, I breakfast in the breakfast room, but we can enjoy a
light repast here if you like.”

Olivia warmed to Louisa’s consideration.
“That would be lovely.”

Bernard was the kindly butler Olivia had met
upon arriving. She wondered—not for the first time—how many
servants Louisa employed. Olivia returned her gaze to the painting,
enthralled by how precisely it matched her keepsake box.

Louisa came up beside her. “You see how I
unequivocally know you’re Merry’s daughter. Your handkerchief is
exactly the same.”

“How is it you knew he had a daughter?”
Olivia vaguely recalled Louisa mentioning a letter, but couldn’t
remember anything else. Yesterday had been so full of surprise and
wonder.

With a gentle touch to Olivia’s elbow, Louisa
guided her to a rose-patterned, silk-covered settee. Once they were
situated, Louisa said, “Merry, bless his soul, passed three years
ago. It took me awhile to recover and go through his things.” She
paused a moment. “I found a letter from your mother—at least I
assume she was your mother, but perhaps you’ll be able to
confirm.”

For the first time Olivia noticed a piece of
parchment in Louisa’s hand.

Louisa continued, “I must admit, I was upset
Merry hadn’t confided in me, but I can only trust he had his
reasons. You see, I always hoped we might have children of our own,
but it wasn’t meant to be. I was too old when we wed—past forty.”
Her smile was sad, full of dreams that would never be. Olivia’s
throat constricted. “I suppose Merry thought it would be painful
for me to know he had a child with someone else. He was exceedingly
considerate.” She handed the letter to Olivia.

Olivia unfolded the missive and recognized
the handwriting at once. She’d seen enough of her mother’s stage
notes to know this letter had indeed been drafted by Fiona
Scarlet.

Dearest Merry,

Thank you for the gift. I’ve taken care of
the child—a beautiful daughter. She will be raised with love and
kindness.

Yours,

Fi

Short and quite disputable. She didn’t
mention
his
child. Nor did she specifically mention
receiving a painted box from him. Still, these things were implied
and if Louisa was wont to believe them, Olivia wouldn’t argue.
Especially since she wanted to believe them, too. The chance for
this life, to not struggle anymore, to belong… Her throat
constricted painfully. Tears welled in her eyes. She blinked
furiously, not wanting to cry in front of Louisa.

She refolded the paper and set it on Louisa’s
lap. “I still can’t believe you want me to live here with you.”

“Of course I do, dear. You aren’t married.
You were living alone. Clearly, you needed assistance, and I…”
Louisa looked away, but Olivia saw her blinking. She took the
letter and set it on the table in front of the settee before
turning to Olivia with an over bright smile. “May I ask who raised
you?”

Olivia wanted to hug the other woman, but
worried it was too soon for such familiarity. “My aunt and uncle,
who’s a vicar.”

“And what happened to them?”

What could she say?
My aunt expelled me
because she believed I was her husband’s bastard
? “They had
difficulty supporting me. When I was old enough, I came to London
to work as a seamstress.”

Louisa patted her hand. “I must say I’m
shocked you left on your own, and that your foster parents allowed
it. Where were you raised?”

“Devon.”

She shook her head. “Devon must be full of
fools. I can’t believe some nice gentleman didn’t snatch you
up.”

One might have done if she hadn’t been
evicted at four and ten. Olivia said nothing.

Louisa smiled widely, perhaps sensing
Olivia’s discomfort. “How fortunate that I came upon you as I
did.”

Bernard chose this opportune moment to enter
with the tea service. His timing was so impeccable, in fact, Olivia
wondered if he’d eavesdropped. Perhaps that was one of many tools
employed by an exceptional servant. He poured out the tea and
arranged butter scones on two plates. With a bow, he left as
quietly as he’d entered.

“Now, as I said earlier, we need to explain
your presence,” Louisa said, adopting a business-like tone. Olivia
had the sense this woman was used to taking charge. “I can’t, of
course, present you as Merry’s daughter. I want you to move in
Society. Enjoy a Season. Find a husband.”

Olivia wasn’t sure she wanted Society or a
Season. A husband? She’d only just begun to consider courtship
after her pleasant tea with Mr. Gifford.

Louisa continued, “I’ve thought this through.
I shall introduce you as Merry’s distant cousin. As it happens,
there is a far-flung branch of his family in Devon, so that works
quite nicely. We’ll say your parents died—which isn’t a fib since
they are both deceased—and you’ve come to live with me. No one will
care too much about the particulars, so we needn’t be specific. If
someone asks where you grew up, just tell them the truth.”

Olivia nodded, saying, “Newton Abbott, a tiny
village in the middle of Devon.” Where everyone knew everyone and
though she’d left seven years ago could probably identify Olivia by
name if not face. She tried not to think of that.

“That’s right, dear. We’ll say your mother
was related to Merry’s branch of the family, but unfortunately any
documentation has been lost to fire.” Louisa grinned. “I’m quite
good at this. Perhaps I should pen a novel.”

Olivia wanted to share Louisa’s good humor,
but the possibility of recognition from her brief stint at the
Haymarket lingered, as did her unease. She considered telling
Louisa. She owed it to the woman to be forthright, but the words
wouldn’t come. How likely was the possibility that someone would
discern an understudying minor actress was Lady Merriweather’s new
ward? She settled for a half-truth. “What if someone recognizes me
from a shop? I’ve done work for a fair number of seamstresses.”