by Darcy Burke
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.”
Chapter Six
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 a
nd 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.
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?
