His Wicked Heart

by Darcy Burke

  She lugged her items down the four flights of stairs and set them in the corner of the entry hall. Brushing her hands on her skirt, she turned and went to Mrs. Reddy’s door. She rapped twice and waited patiently for the landlady to appear.

  The moment stretched, causing a bead of concern to wedge between Olivia’s eyebrows as she stared at the door. She raised her hand to knock again, but the portal cracked open to reveal Mrs. Reddy’s battered face.

  “Livvie,” she croaked and opened the door wider. “Come to check on me?”

  “Are you all right, Mrs. Reddy?” Olivia tried not to wince as she looked at the damage to the woman’s eye and throat. Memories of her mother’s countless beatings pounded the recesses of her mind, but she refused to visit them.

  Mrs. Reddy waved her hand. “Bah, I’ve had worse.”

  Olivia peered around the woman to see if she too had packed her things, but there was no evidence of it. “Are you ready to leave with Lord Saxton?” She kept the tremor from her voice. She could not be here when he arrived. Heavens, what if he was on his way even now? Oh, but surely earls didn’t rise at this hour.

  “I don’t think I’m leaving. I’m comfortable here.” She stuck her chin out in a thoroughly stubborn fashion.

  Olivia wasn’t surprised. “You must go. Unless you’re content to die at Mr. Reddy’s hands.” She didn’t say that lightly. Olivia firmly believed Mrs. Reddy could very well die from one of his beatings. She’d seen it happen firsthand.

  “Doubt it. He likes havin’ me to smack around.” She exhaled heavily and glanced behind her. A piece of parchment sat atop her small dining table. “His lordship sent a note a little while ago. Threatened to haul me off to debtors’ prison if I don’t work off what I owe.”

  Of course he did. Just as he’d threatened Olivia with the magistrate. And then he’d sworn that she’d repay the debt after insisting she take his money. “Lord Saxton is ruthless. I wouldn’t take his threats lightly.” Not that Olivia was following her own advice. Even now, her feet itched to run.

  Mrs. Reddy rubbed her dirty hand across her forehead. “I suppose. He’ll be here soon anyway. Guess I have to make up me mind.”

  Olivia’s breath seemed to evaporate right out of her chest. “Soon? When is he coming?”

  “Noon.”

  Relief nearly collapsed Olivia’s frame against the door. “He won’t give you a choice. If you refuse his demand, he’ll take you to prison.”

  “You think he’d do that?”

  “In a trice. Don’t you see you can’t stay here? He’s taken that option away from you entirely.” From both of us. Anger burned beneath Olivia’s already heated skin.

  Mrs. Reddy’s thin shoulders slumped. “I don’t want to work for him.”

  Olivia didn’t blame her, but for Mrs. Reddy it would be far preferable to her current existence. “It won’t be bad. I’m sure his lordship is…kind.” She reasoned it was acceptable to lie in order to better this poor woman’s life.

  “I suppose if I don’t like it, I can leave.”

  “And it’s not permanent. Once you work off the debt, you’ll be truly free. Of his lordship and Mr. Reddy. Maybe you’ll be even be able to help your sister.”

  “Oh, do you think his lordship might give her a job, too? She’s far more respectable than me. She’s never even had gin. She’s a good mum to that sweet boy.” Mrs. Reddy sniffed and swiftly pinched her nose, perhaps to stop a flow of tears. An uncharacteristic show of emotion, to be sure.

  Olivia had no notion whether Saxton’s benevolence would extend to Mrs. Reddy’s sister, but if it would encourage the woman to go, why not agree? Especially when Mrs. Reddy clearly cared for her sister and nephew. “I’m sure he would. As I said, he seems kind. He came to your rescue, didn’t he?” Ruthless, but kind. She’d never met anyone who could be both. Would it surprise her if he did something for Mrs. Reddy’s sister? Olivia didn’t want to answer that question. She wanted to get away from the boarding house as soon as possible. But she also didn’t want to alert Mrs. Reddy to her departure, which is why she’d left her belongings in the corner.

  “So you’re decided then?” Olivia asked.

  “I suppose I must be. You’re a good girl, Livvie.” She reached out and patted Olivia’s sleeve.

  Olivia smiled at the woman, glad this necessary interview was done—and that she’d achieved the desired result. Now she could escape. “I’d offer to help you pack, but I have a few errands I must run. I may be back before you go.”

  Mrs. Reddy winked at Olivia. “I’m sure his lordship would like that.”

  Olivia was sure he would, too.

  She turned and waited for the door to latch behind her before she went to the corner and picked up her belongings.

  Outside, Olivia hurried along the street, the morning sun finding its way into their little court and heating the pavement beneath her feet. Tilly stepped into her path. Her gaze dropped to the valise. “You’re leaving?”

  Olivia clutched her things tighter, perhaps a reaction to her newfound distrust of Tilly. She’d been a fool to trust her in the first place. She’d hoped to get away from Coventry Court without anyone realizing she’d left. “I’m afraid I must. His lordship was furious. You should’ve told me he’d discovered the ruse.”

  Tilly crossed her arms. “He said he’d turn me in to the magistrate. I’m not a good girl like you. I’ve got debts. I would’ve gone to Newgate for sure.”

  So she’d looked out for herself and ignored the consequences to Olivia. “You didn’t think about what he might do to me?”

  Tilly’s eyes widened, and she searched Olivia’s face. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

  Olivia pulled back at the vehemence in Tilly’s tone. “No. Why would you think that?”

  A shiver twitched Tilly’s shoulders. “Meg saw him fighting last night at the Black Horse.”

  This shouldn’t have surprised her, given his apparent penchant for violence. Twice she’d met him, and twice he’d fought. Granted, both acts had been for a good cause, but Olivia couldn’t ignore the sense of dread curling up her spine. She was aware of the club, run by some viscount, and because of it had stayed as far away from the Black Horse Court as she could. “He’s a member of that fighting club?”

  “Must be. Lord Sevrin’s particular about whom he lets in, and Meg said he was fighting.”

  A man who enjoyed violence enough to engage himself twice in one evening wasn’t a man Olivia wanted to spend time with. It was good she was running. Necessary, even.

  “Where will you go?” Tilly asked.

  “I’m not sure.” She wouldn’t tell Tilly even if she knew. Trying to sound as uninterested as she ought to feel, she asked, “Did Saxton purchase anyone’s services?”

  Tilly giggled, a surprisingly charming sound from such a coarse woman. “Bit jealous?”

  “So he did?”

  Her giggle escalated to a laugh. “Not that I heard. It’s not too late for you. Invite him over again.”

  Olivia kept her head bent so Tilly couldn’t see the flush spreading up her neck. “Why would I willingly seek him out? He’s furious with me and likes to hit people for fun.”

  “He was fairly angry with me and didn’t lift a finger. Mayhap his fighting really is just sport. I don’t think you need to be afraid of him, Livvie.”

  But she was. Afraid that she wanted him without care for his money or her position, that he would hurt her in ways that could never be seen on the outside. “Goodbye, Tilly. Do me a favor and don’t tell anyone I’ve gone.”

  Tilly nodded. “You’ll land on your feet. Girls like you always do.”

  That afternoon, after securing a small room in a clean inn that she could only afford for a short time—unless she wanted to spend the entire ten pounds on temporary lodgings, and she didn’t—Olivia made her way along the Strand. Her multiple attempts to sell her wares had so far been fruitless, and with each rejection she found herself thinking of Saxton more and more.
She could stretch the ten pounds for quite some time, but she suspected he’d give her more. But if she accepted more, he’d expect something in return—more than he already did.

  Would a few nights of pleasure be so awful? It wasn’t as if she would be committing to a life of selling her body, as her mother had done. It would be a temporary situation to provide for her long-term needs. Then there was the tiny voice in her head—the one that had kept her up all night. Don’t do it for the money. Do it for yourself.

  The sun burned hot through her bonnet and the lawn of her gown. The basket containing her sewn goods grew heavier with each block. By the time she reached Mrs. Gifford’s shop, where she’d left ten handkerchiefs on commission a few days prior, Olivia felt flushed and overheated. The interior was blessedly cooler and she welcomed the relief.

  A man emerged from the back as soon as she entered. He was similar in age to Olivia, which immediately put her at ease, as did his warm sherry-colored eyes. They made her feel welcome, comfortable. So different from Saxton’s pale blue, which so often imbued a sense of danger or, perhaps more accurately, excitement.

  “Good afternoon,” he greeted, a smile lighting his face with charm.

  “Good afternoon. My name is Olivia West, and I’m here to see the shopkeeper, Mrs. Gifford.”

  “That would be my mother. Do you have an appointment?”

  “I don’t, but I’m a seamstress and recently left some embroidered handkerchiefs on commission. I’d hoped she’d had occasion to sell them.”

  His brow gathered briefly, but in question, not concern. “By chance did these handkerchiefs bear roses and doves?”

  Olivia’s pulse quickened. “A few of them, yes.”

  “Allow me.” He took her basket and ran his fingers over the topmost item. “Lovely. I think my mother sold all of your handkerchiefs just today. In fact, the woman who bought them wanted to meet you. She was most impressed with your needlework.”

  The best news! Perhaps she wouldn’t need Saxton’s money. Olivia barely restrained herself from grinning like a fool. “I’d be delighted to meet with her.”

  “I’ll fetch Mother.” He gave her a jaunty wink before depositing her basket on the floor and exiting the way he’d come.

  Olivia squeezed her hands together, trying not to succumb to excitement. Just because the woman who’d purchased the handkerchiefs wanted to meet her didn’t mean she’d order enough embroidery to solve all of Olivia’s problems. Oh, but wouldn’t that be grand? It was difficult not to let hope bloom.

  Mrs. Gifford, a pleasant woman with a plump frame, emerged from the back room. Her cheerful face broke into a wide grin. “Good morning, Miss West. I’m so glad you’ve come today.”

  Mr. Gifford followed. Olivia immediately saw the resemblance in the shape of their eyes and the jut of their chins.

  “I understand you’ve already met my son. Samuel is a dear boy.” She looked at him with obvious love, a painful reminder of Olivia’s loneliness. “Has he told you about your handkerchiefs? I sold all of them not an hour ago to a lovely woman. She’s eager to meet you. In fact, she may still be shopping along the Strand. I’ll send my apprentice after her.”

  Olivia could scarcely believe her luck, just when she needed it most. Fortune must surely be smiling upon her today. It was about time.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Gifford. I’m happy to wait.”

  The shopkeeper nodded her silvery head. “I’ll just go and send Becky off then. Samuel, why don’t you take Miss West to the sitting room for tea?”

  “Of course.”

  Mrs. Gifford departed to the rear of the store once more.

  “The sitting room is just back here.” Mr. Gifford retrieved Olivia’s basket and led her through a curtained doorway to a small room containing a settee, chair, table, and dressing screen. Presumably this was where Mrs. Gifford conducted fittings.

  “I’ll just get the tea. Please, sit.” Mr. Gifford indicated the striped settee.

  Olivia sat and waited for him to return. Her mind continued to spin possibilities regarding the woman who’d purchased her handkerchiefs. Perhaps she would commission enough to allow Olivia to afford new lodgings. Beyond handkerchiefs, Olivia could offer embroidered gowns, furniture covers, and any number of accessories.

  Mr. Gifford returned with the tea tray. It had been years since she’d taken proper tea at the vicarage with her foster mother, who was also her aunt. Olivia missed the civilized ritual of it, particularly when teatime with Fiona Scarlet had always included boisterous impropriety.

  “Mr. Gifford, do you mind if I pour?”

  “Not at all.”

  He sat in the lone chair while Olivia poured out. “Sugar?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Olivia handed him his cup and then made her own. The first sip was heaven, but it could’ve tasted like dirt and she wouldn’t have cared. Just the simple act of sitting in polite company and enjoying a cup of tea was enough to make this a perfect day. Add to that the potential for substantial income, and she was fairly ecstatic.

  He peered at her over his cup. “Your skill with a needle is superior. You must have been embroidering for quite some time.”

  “Since I was a child. I find it relaxing, as well as profitable.”

  “My mother called you ‘Miss West.’” His face reddened. “I wonder, that is, do you have an address at which I might call on you?”

  Call on her? In her youth, she’d imagined gentlemen callers, a courtship, marriage. But in the ensuing years with her mother, she’d given up on such folly. Furthermore, she didn’t yet have permanent lodgings. “I, that is, I don’t have a residence appropriate for social calls.” Goodness, that sounded awful.

  “Alone in London… You’re a brave young woman, Miss West.” Respect shone on his face. “You’re an independent seamstress then?”

  Olivia nodded, liking that description immensely. She studied Mr. Gifford for a moment. The flesh around his left eye was puffy and red, with just a touch of purple that might be explained away as part of his complexion. However, seated in close proximity as they were now, she had a better vantage point. He definitely looked wounded. “Did something happen to you? Your eye…”

  He set his cup down and gave a sheepish nod. “It’s terribly embarrassing. I tripped down the stairs.”

  “Heavens. Are you all right?”

  “Yes. I’m afraid I was carrying too many bolts of wool. I apprentice with Mr. Weston.”

  “Indeed?” He was nice-looking, courteous, and working for the most illustrious tailor in London. Furthermore, he seemed legitimately interested in her—not just her person. She allowed herself to feel…flattered.

  The bell over the front door of the shop jingled. Olivia’s gut clenched. She set her teacup on the table and smoothed her hands over her skirt, glad she’d worn her most respectable gown.

  Mr. Gifford leapt to his feet as the curtain moved. An older lady—she was most certainly Quality—stepped through the panels. She was dressed in the height of fashion, but with nary a stitch of embroidery anywhere on her costume. Olivia suffered a moment’s concern.

  The lady’s gaze immediately settled on Olivia. She looked her fill and then smiled, her diminutive features lighting up. She walked to Olivia and took her hands. “My dear, I am so pleased to meet you. I’m Lady Merriweather.”

  Mrs. Gifford came in from the back door, which presumably lead to the rearmost room of the ground floor. “My goodness, Becky found you very quickly.”

  “Yes, and I’m so glad she did,” Lady Merriweather said, glancing at the young woman who’d followed her through the curtain.

  Olivia stood up and then had to look down at the tiny woman. Lady Merriweather possessed the most vividly blue eyes Olivia had ever seen. At once they made her feel charmed, delighted, and cared for. A peculiar reaction upon meeting someone.

  Lady Merriweather turned to Mrs. Gifford, but didn’t release Olivia’s hands. “I wonder if I might speak with Miss West alone.” />
  “Of course. Come, Becky, Samuel.” Mrs. Gifford gestured for them to follow her. Becky departed with alacrity. Mr. Gifford, however, lingered a moment.

  He bowed to Olivia. “It was my singular pleasure to take tea with you, Miss West. I look forward to our next meeting.”

  “Indeed, thank you.” Though Olivia had very much enjoyed their tea, she couldn’t wait for him to leave. She sensed a barely contained energy in Lady Merriweather, and her curiosity had the better of her.

  Once they were alone, Lady Merriweather—still holding Olivia’s hands—pulled her down to sit beside her upon the settee. She studied her for a moment, beaming. Olivia couldn’t begin to imagine why the woman appeared so happy.

  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.”