by Darcy Burke
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 dripped 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. “I’m not the best reader, but I recognize the word ‘earl’ when I see it. That gent was an earl?”
“He’s 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 that. 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. “I’d rather talk about that gent.” 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.
Chapter Two
JASPER STEPPED into the ring as the spectators all fell silent. He moved his gaze from the familiar gentleman and looked around the crowd. Not a single recognizable face. Good.
The other man in the ring—what was his name, Enders?—looked Jasper up and down. “Are you joking?”
Now this pup meant to insult him? Jasper’s blood boiled. “Not even a little bit.”
The gentleman came to the center. “Hold there, Saxton.”
Though Jasper couldn’t quite place him, he wasn’t surprised the man knew him. “Have we met?”
The gentleman’s mouth quirked. “Most certainly, though I daresay you wouldn’t admit it. I’m Sevrin.”
Jasper knew the name and the scandal, if not the man himself. The viscount was notorious for ruining a girl, his brother’s fiancée if he recalled correctly, and refusing to marry her. Ironically, he and Sevrin had more in common than the rakehell would ever know.
“Do you realize you’re auditioning for a fighting club?” Sevrin asked, his dark brow arched in suspicion.
Jasper possessed no such notion, but that wouldn’t stop him. Denied his original plan for the evening, the idea of pummeling someone beyond the rules and respectability of Jackson’s held an indefinable, and quite necessary, appeal. “Of course.”
Sevrin paused just briefly, reflecting a flash of surprise before he gave a slight nod. “All right then. Take off your hat and your coat. And whatever else you choose.” He gave a half-smile and returned to his spot on the perimeter.
Jasper stripped off his coat. He thrust it and his hat at a wrinkled old man. “Hold this.”
He turned back to face his opponent, Enders. The younger man had removed his coat and wore only a shirt, open at the neck. He’d rolled up his sleeves, revealing muscular forearms. Jasper discarded his waistcoat as well and then folded over his cuffs.
Wagers on Enders reached Jasper’s ears, stoking the fire in his belly. He curled his fists, eager to demonstrate his skill.
“Go,” called Sevrin.
Enders launched forward, fists flying. He moved differently than the men Jasper was used to sparring with at Jackson’s. He caught Jasper in the face, but Jasper moved quickly and deflected the man’s subsequent blows. Pain raced up Jasper’s cheekbone, jolting his senses, but with it came a vibrant, jubilant sensation.
Jasper’s feet were light, his hands charged with violent intent, his chest thundered with his elevated heart rate. He answered Enders’ attack with a vicious cut to his jaw. Jasper’s knuckles stung, but he barely noticed over the exhilaration making his heart pound. With distinct clarity, he saw the glow of the street lamp illuminating their fight, the yelling crowd, the flash of respect on Sevrin’s face. God, he felt alive.
Enders delivered a two-punch to Jasper’s stomach and side. Jasper danced backward a moment and considered his opponent’s technique. Detecting what he thought was a weak spot, he jabbed toward Enders’ middle, but the man grabbed Jasper’s arm and pulled him off balance.
While Jasper struggled to regain his upright position, Enders delivered a blow to his ribs. Then another to the side of his head. Jasper moved to the right, barely evading a third strike. He stumbled close to Sevrin, who was frowning.
Sevrin’s chin ticked up in warning, and Jasper threw himself to the street and rolled. Enders had lunged forward, pitching himself off balance to take Jasper down. Without Jasper to break his fall, he tumbled to the ground face-first.
Jasper jumped to his feet, insulted Sevrin had thought he’d needed help. Enders wrapped his hand around Jasper’s ankle and pulled.
“Kick him!” someone yelled.
Staggering to keep his footing, Jasper recognized why this was different than Jackson’s. It was still sport, but more primal, borne of man’s most basic needs: survival and dominance. He shook off the man’s hold, thrilling to this new challenge.
Enders got to his knees, but Jasper kicked him in the chest. His opponent fell backward. The spectators cheered. Jasper’s blood surged. He circled the downed man. “Get up.”
It would have been easy to conquer the man while he was on the ground, but Jasper didn’t want to win that way. He wanted the hard-earned victory. He wanted the fight.
Enders struggled to his feet. They contemplated each other, taking a moment to assess and strategize. Jasper lowered his guard a bit, inviting Enders to advance. His opponent didn’t immediately take the bait but considered his options. Finally, he surged toward Jasper, but Jasper timed his movements perfectly. He stepped to the side and drove his fist into Enders’ gut. Enders doubled over. Using his elbow, Jasper then struck the back of the other man’s neck. Enders sank to his knees, but quickly wobbled to his feet. When he came forward, Jasper landed a fist in the man’s warped nose.
“Enough,” Enders mumbl
ed through the blood streaming over his mouth.
Jasper stepped back, his chest heaving with exhaustion. The crowd yelled its approval, and Jasper’s muscles sang with victory.
Sevrin stepped forward. “Enders, you’re in. Saxton, come with me.” Without waiting for Jasper, he turned and went into the tavern at the back of the court—a slope-roofed establishment bearing a sign with a black horse.
Jasper stared after Sevrin. Why had the man he’d just beaten been invited to join, while Jasper had been beckoned like a child awaiting punishment? He retrieved his coat and hat from the old man and followed Sevrin inside, intent on pummeling him too, if necessary.
The small common room was crowded with more furniture than people. Sevrin led him to a room at the back where candles flickered in sconces along the walls and on a few rough, dirty tables.
Pain began to enter Jasper’s consciousness. His cheek, his side. “Why is Enders in? I beat him.”
“Because he’s a good fighter, and he’s tried out three times. Each time he’s better. He’ll be a good addition to the club.” Sevrin dropped into a chair. “You, on the other hand, are something I hadn’t considered.”
A serving maid entered with two tankards and deposited them on the table next to Sevrin without a word. She left as quickly as she’d appeared.
The viscount slouched in his chair, assuming a position in tandem with his dissolute reputation. “Sit. If you please,” he drawled with a bit of a smirk. “You’re a surprisingly good fighter. At first I didn’t think you were going to fare well. You fight at Jackson’s?”
Asinine question. “Of course.”
The viscount smiled, but it was of the self-deprecating variety. “I’m not welcome there. Besides, I prefer a more…visceral bout.” He pulled his gloves off, revealing scabbed knuckles. “Did you enjoy it? The fight?”
“Yes.” Jasper stared at the man’s hands. Then he raised his gaze and noticed the faint yellow tint around one eye and along the line of his jaw. A few days ago, he probably looked as bruised as Jasper felt right now.
