His Wicked Heart

by Darcy Burke

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.”

  “I understand your trepidation, dear, but you mustn’t be nervous. Even if you look somehow familiar, no one will suggest you’re anything other than what I present you to be. At least, no one with proper breeding,” she added with a flash of a smile.

  Olivia wasn’t sure she agreed. Perhaps in a few days she’d feel less like a child about to be knocked down by a runaway horse.

  “It’s very important this secret stay between just the two of us, Olivia. No one can know the truth. Do you understand?”

  Olivia nodded, though the serious tone of Louisa’s words did nothing to ease her worry.

  “Excellent. The very next thing we shall do is expand your wardrobe.” Louisa tapped an elegant fing
er against her lip. “I hope you don’t mind if we don’t visit Mrs. Gifford. I’m deeply grateful to her for bringing us together, but she hasn’t the variety or quality of Bond Street. I’m partial to Madame Oseary.”

  Olivia’s excitement at visiting Bond Street—a place she couldn’t obtain work, let alone purchase anything—was tempered by her anxiety about encountering someone who might recognize her. She’d very rarely worked directly with Quality, so her apprehension was probably unnecessary, but she couldn’t completely discount it. “If it’s all the same, I’d prefer to make my own clothing. We need only shop for fabric and such.” The less time she spent working with seamstresses who might know her or had heard her name—goodness, why hadn’t she thought to adopt a different surname?—the better.

  Louisa’s sympathetic smile was well-meaning. “My dear, you needn’t toil in that manner any longer.”

  It wasn’t toiling if she did it for herself. “Truly, I enjoy sewing. I could probably assemble the necessary items before anyone else could. I have some designs…”

  “You design gowns?”

  Olivia blushed at the other woman’s sharp interest. “Yes.”

  Louisa smiled broadly. “Further proof! As if we needed it. Your artistic skill is surely a gift from your father.”

  Olivia’s gaze drifted again to the painting. Although Louisa was confident in Olivia’s paternity, she wasn’t as certain. It didn’t make sense for two different women to claim she’d been sired by two different fathers. She wanted more proof than the roses and her ability to sketch. “Do you have a portrait of him? My father, I mean?”

  Louisa set her cup down with a loud clack. “Certainly! I meant to show it to you straightaway.” She went to a table under the painting of the rose-covered manor house and picked up a small portrait.

  She brought it back to the settee and handed it to Olivia. “This is your father. There are other portraits I’ll show you later, but this is one of my favorites. He painted it himself, and so I keep it there, close to the painting he did of our house in Yorkshire.” She settled back down next to Olivia.

  Olivia studied the small portrait of the viscount. His eyes looked dark, but it was hard to discern on such a small piece. Perhaps the other portraits Louisa planned to show her would reveal the true color. He wore a powdered wig. “What color was his hair?”

  Louisa smiled at the portrait in Olivia’s hands. “Quite dark.” She glanced at Olivia’s head. “But I’d wager your hair came from your mother.”

  “Yes.” A flamboyant stage name—Fiona Scarlet—to match not only her hair, but her spirit. Olivia was grateful Louisa didn’t seem to know her mother’s identity. How would she feel knowing her husband had sired a child with one of London’s most notorious actress-courtesans?

  Olivia set the portrait on the table next to the tea service. “Your husband’s skill was exceptional.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve ever used watercolors?”

  Olivia shook her head.

  “You shall have lessons,” Louisa said. “Merry loved to go to Hampstead Heath and paint. We’ll take a picnic there.”

  Watercolor lessons? Picnicking? This new life swirled before Olivia as tempting as the scones on the table. Olivia put her plate on her lap. It had been ever so long since she’d enjoyed such sumptuous fare. Ever so long since she’d enjoyed anything as much as the past day.

  “Certainly, my lord.” Bernard’s voice came from outside the Rose Room.

  “It sounds as if we have a visitor.” Louisa grinned. “I imagine it’s my favorite person.”

  “And who is that?” Olivia pulled a bit of scone away and popped it into her mouth.

  “My nephew.”

  A tall, fair-haired devil dominated the doorway. Olivia promptly choked.

  Chapter Seven

  JASPER STOOD stunned, but Olivia’s distress galvanized him to rush to her side. Her mouth and neck worked while her face flushed crimson with the effort to dislodge whatever clogged her throat.

  What the bloody hell was she doing here?

  Louisa looked up at him with panic in her eyes. “Help her!”

  He pulled Olivia to her feet. She continued to hack. Instinctively, he patted her back. No improvement. “Bend over.”

  Olivia looked at him, her eyes full of storms, and did as he bade.

  He gave her back a swift thwack and finally heard a deep gasp of air enter her lungs. His hand lingered on her spine. Was she really here? After a moment, she straightened then fixed him with a wide-eyed stare. He inched backward, hoping distance might improve his ability to think clearly.

  “Goodness, Olivia, are you all right?” Louisa stroked Olivia’s back as they both sank to the settee.

  Olivia nodded. Was she still trying to get her throat in working order or unable to find her tongue?

  Jasper tried to make sense of her presence in his aunt’s drawing room. He’d gone to see her last night only to learn she’d left the boarding house with no direction. No one else in the dingy board house seemed to know anything, other than she was gone. He’d considered going to Portia’s Garden to interrogate Tilly but had ultimately returned to Saxton House. There, he’d questioned Mrs. Reddy, whom his footman, March, had removed to Saxton House earlier in the day. Unfortunately, she’d claimed to know nothing about Olivia leaving, and Jasper reluctantly believed her.

  Frustrated and bitterly disappointed, he’d spent the remainder of the evening in the comforting confines of the back room at the Black Horse.

  Today, however, was a new day. He’d planned to search for Olivia after visiting Louisa, yet here she was. If he weren’t so stupefied by her presence, he would’ve been quite satisfied.

  He pinned her with a probing stare, which she ignored. In fact, her refusal to look at him would surely draw his aunt’s attention. For now, however, Louisa seemed oblivious.

  “Olivia, this is Saxton. Jasper, allow me to introduce Miss Olivia West. She’s a cousin to Merry, and I’ve taken her in. Isn’t that splendid?”

  Cousin to Uncle Merry? A Banbury tale if Jasper had ever heard one. Her scheme to defraud him had failed, and here she was in his aunt’s house. Living here. He had to assume this ruse had something to do with him. Of the hundred questions that sprang to mind, he started with, “And how did you come to ‘take her in’, Aunt?”

  Louisa’s eyes narrowed. “Now, Jasper, don’t behave like the duke. Olivia’s parents died earlier this year, and she came from Devon looking for her extended family. I’m only sorry it took so long for us to find each other.”

  He couldn’t help looking at Olivia. “Devon?” Then he turned his attention to his aunt. “Odd you never mentioned her.”

  Louisa arched a brow. Her eyes said, careful. “Didn’t I? Well, you’ve been awfully busy of late.”

  This was embarrassingly true. He hadn’t seen her as much as he ought given the fighting club and the charlatan currently gracing Louisa’s settee.

  Olivia finally looked at him. “I’m pleased to meet you, my lord.”

  He couldn’t let it be that easy, not when he didn’t trust her a whit. “You look terribly familiar Miss West. I feel certain we’ve met.”

  Olivia’s gaze sharpened.

  Louisa looked between the two of them. “You can’t have met her before, Jasper. Not unless you shop in the Strand.” She pierced him with an inquisitive stare. “Do you shop in the Strand?”

  The actress had fooled her but good.

  “No, of course not.” He smiled artificially at Olivia. “I think I know. She looks like an actress I saw the other night at the Haymarket. Yes, that’s it.”

  Olivia’s eyes widened an infinitesimal amount, and he allowed himself a smug smile.

  Louisa pursed her lips. “Oh, balderdash. Jasper, you’re acting like Holborn. Sit down and behave yourself.”

  Jasper sat, but kept his gaze riveted on Olivia. Oh, she was an excellent actress. She’d watched their exchange with even breaths and nary a spot of color to her com
plexion. Absolute serenity. As if they discussed luncheon, or whether to ride or walk to the park. But then she’d also completed her seductive trickery with the practiced ease of one born to deception.

  Louisa patted Olivia’s knee. “Ignore Jasper, dear. He can be a bit of an oaf from time to time, but I love him anyway so do try to overlook his boorishness.”

  Jasper stared at his aunt’s hand feeling a surge of protectiveness. Louisa was his aunt. His family. His to keep safe from harm.

  Olivia coughed. “I believe I require some water after that incident with the scone.”

  Jasper got up to go to the sideboard where there was a pitcher of water, but Olivia’s gaze found his, arresting his movement.

  “Would you mind tapping my back again?” she asked. “I think perhaps a crumb might still be lodged in my throat.”

  “I’ll fetch the water.” Louisa hastened to the sideboard.

  Jasper sat next to Olivia on the settee and patted her back. Softly, he said. “You’re lying to her as you did to me—”

  “Don’t,” she hissed. “Please. Don’t tell her about the Haymarket, about…us. You said you wanted to help me.”

  He steeled himself against the anguish in her tone. “Not at the cost of my aunt’s well-being. She deserves your deception even less than I did. I don’t believe for a moment you’re Merry’s cousin.”

  She clutched at his sleeve, her eyes wide, pleading. “She wants me here. And I have no employment aside from selling handkerchiefs.” Her gaze darted to Louisa who had finished pouring.

  Of course, this was a far better opportunity than either being his mistress or operating a dress shop. But this wasn’t just about her. He had to protect his aunt. He didn’t want to see her hurt, not after the depression she’d suffered following Merry’s death.

  “Please, I can explain everything to you.” The anguish in her voice won her a reprieve—for now.

  “I’ll be watching you. Very, very closely,” he said. “And I expect your full and honest explanation.”