by Darcy Burke
“Why?” Gifford asked, his forehead creasing. “Isn’t the story possible?”
“Many things are possible, but Miss West has a habit of lying.” He couldn’t bring himself to tell them why. That incident was between him and Olivia.
Gifford’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know this?”
Jasper gave the young bloke an icy stare. “Suffice it to say that I do.”
Gifford said nothing, but gripped his gin before taking another swig.
“Saxton’s right not to trust her.” Sevrin turned an apologetic gaze on him. “I’m willing to wager she neglected to tell you she’s Fiona Scarlet’s daughter?”
The haze of alcohol completely evaporated from Jasper’s brain. “Fiona Scarlet? Why is that name familiar?”
“She was an infamous actress and courtesan. Bright red hair. Changed her lovers more often than the mail coach to Cornwall changes horses.”
God damn it. He knew she’d lied, but this was unconscionable. Any number of people at the Favershams could have made the connection Sevrin did. “Of what class were her paramours? The sort that frequent your club or the sort that frequent White’s?”
“Something in between, I think. No one like you would have sought her out.”
So perhaps no one at the Favershams recognized her. But he couldn’t know for sure. What a disaster. If Holborn learned the truth, he’d get rid of Olivia faster than he had Abigail. Jasper had to prevent that from happening, and he had to ensure his aunt heard the truth from someone who cared. Louisa was going to be devastated.
“Is it possible she can be this woman’s daughter and your uncle’s cousin?” Gifford asked.
“I intend to find out.” Jasper wanted to go to Benfield to demand answers. Now. He rose from his chair.
Sevrin looked up at him. “It’s past three in the morning. You can’t go talk to her now.”
Though Jasper wanted to, it would be an hour before he arrived at Benfield. Almost tomorrow. And tomorrow would have to be soon enough. Except, his brain reminded him, tomorrow is your mother’s picnic, and you promised Lady Philippa you would be there.
“Bloody, bloody hell,” he muttered and sank back onto his chair. After the damn picnic, then.
At last the slattern returned with another cup of whiskey. Jasper glanced up at her. “Bring the bottle.”
OLIVIA’S borrowed coach from Benfield reached the vicarage in Cheshunt just after noon. The footman opened the door and helped her descend to the dry, packed dirt. She studied the building, noting it was perhaps twice as large as the vicarage in which she’d lived as a child. Aunt Mildred’s relative was apparently more successful in his endeavor than Uncle had been.
She turned to the retainer. “I don’t know how long I shall be. Will you wait here?”
“Yes, miss.” He hadn’t asked why they’d come, and Olivia could only imagine what he speculated. She’d informed Louisa of her specific plans, but told the servants she was only exploring the heath. When they’d gone considerably farther than that, she’d simply told the coachman she was on an errand.
Since Louisa had told her of Aunt Mildred’s relocation the previous evening, Olivia could think of little other than visiting the woman who had raised her. She’d barely slept, organizing today’s trip in her mind.
A warm, gentle breeze stroked her face, completely at odds with the turmoil inside her as she stared at Mildred’s brother’s vicarage, about to come face to face with the woman who’d turned her out seven years ago. She walked, haltingly, up the short path leading to the door. The scent of roses filled the air, reminding her of her mother’s keepsake box, of Merry, and of Louisa. She’d raised her hand to knock, but didn’t strike the wood. With a loud exhalation, she dropped her fist.
What was she doing? She had Louisa, who loved her. Did any of this matter anymore? Perhaps she’d come to show Mildred West she’d not only survived, but also hadn’t become the fallen woman Mildred expected her to be. Nor was she the vicar’s bastard. How satisfying it would be to inform her she’d tossed Olivia out for nothing.
Or, mayhap she’d come to see if Mildred cared anything for her. The idea that she’d never wanted Olivia, had only suffered her presence out of some harassed sense of duty carved a hollow ache in Olivia’s soul.
She straightened her shoulders and rapped on the thick oak. A moment later, the door swung open to reveal a middle-aged housekeeper.
She eyed Olivia with curiosity, taking in the coach behind her. “May I help you?”
“I’m here to see Mrs. West.”
“I’m afraid Mrs. West isn’t expecting company.”
“Would you mind telling her Miss Olivia West is here? I’m certain she’d care to see me.”
The housekeeper’s eyes widened upon hearing Olivia’s surname. “I suppose I can ask.”
She couldn’t be turned away. Not now. “Is it too much trouble if I wait inside? I’ll go if she truly doesn’t wish to be disturbed. I’ve come a bit of a long way…” She offered a pleading, hopeful smile.
With a sweeping look, the housekeeper took pity on her and opened the door wider. She gestured Olivia into the house.
After the opulence of Benfield, the vicarage was dark and small, but well kept. The housekeeper led her to a room directly to the right. The window facing the drive invited much-needed light into the oak-paneled chamber.
She inclined her head toward Olivia. “I’ll just speak with Mrs. West.”
Olivia studied the interior while she waited. Mildred’s sewing basket sat near a chair positioned between the fireplace and the window. How many times had they sat together, stitching in quiet companionship? Or what Olivia had thought was companionship.
“Olivia?”
At the familiar sound of Aunt Mildred’s voice, Olivia turned to the door. “Good afternoon, Aunt Mildred.”
Dark blonde hair pulled into a severe bun, Mildred stood with her brows knitted and her thin lips pursed until they disappeared. “What an unexpected…surprise.”
Olivia’s hopes fell at the other woman’s lack of affection. She’d so hoped time had soothed Mildred’s animosity. “A surprise indeed. I just learned you’d relocated to Cheshunt, so close to London. I was sad to hear about Uncle. I wish you would’ve sent word.”
Mildred brushed her hands over her hips, accentuating her extreme thinness. “To what end? So you and your trollop mother could come to his funeral? I think not.”
Stung, Olivia searched for a response. She hadn’t expected open arms, but she also hadn’t expected the same level of frigidity as seven years ago. It was as if Mildred had just expelled her yesterday. “Do you not know that Fiona passed last year?”
Her expression offered no surprise, no compassion. “No, and I’m not sorry for it.”
Olivia knew better than to expect sympathy, especially for the half-sister her aunt had despised. “That’s not why I’m here. I came to tell you I’ve recently learned the true identity of my father, and it’s not Mr. West, as you supposed.”
Mildred stalked further into the room, her eyes narrowing. “Of course, he was. I don’t know what nonsense you’re spouting, but you shan’t do it here.”
“I live with my stepmother now, the dowager Viscountess Merriweather. Her husband was my father.”
Her aunt’s shrill, mirthless laugh filled the room. “That’s quite a tale. And she believes you?”
Olivia struggled to keep her voice even. “She’s the one who told me.”
Mildred stared at her. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, and furthermore, I don’t care. I want you to leave.”
Olivia couldn’t keep her emotion in check. She knew she wouldn’t get another chance to question her aunt. “Why did you send me away?”
“You know why.” She sneered. “Your whore mother lured my husband to infidelity. It’s true that men have certain needs…but not with their wife’s half-sister.”
“That’s not my fault. Why do you blame me?”
Hostility radiated from Mildre
d, her lips curling, her nostrils flaring. “You’re the image of her. Looking at you is like looking at her. The sight turns my stomach.”
Olivia’s nerves stretched. “My mother wasn’t a whore. She did what she had to do to survive. It’s not as if she sold herself to just anyone.” Was she actually defending Fiona?
“A courtesan is still a whore, Olivia, especially one who spreads her legs for her brother-in-law for free.” She spat the last word with such venom, Olivia shrank back.
“How can you be so certain?”
“Because she bewitched Mr. West! Even years later—fourteen years later to be exact—he was pining for her, writing pathetic love letters. I found one of them, and he couldn’t deny it. That very day I sent you to live with the slut. I never should have agreed to take you, but Mr. West was determined to help family as he put it. Would that I had known the truth then.”
If her uncle had loved her mother, the sentiment had not been reciprocated. She wasn’t aware her mother had loved any man. How had he felt when his wife had sent his daughter—at least the girl he thought was his daughter—away?
Olivia thought of the things she had in common with Merry. Did she share any of her uncle’s attributes? She tried to think. “I don’t look like Uncle.”
“No, because you look like your whore of a mother.”
“I don’t share any of Uncle’s interests, but I possess some of the viscount’s talents.”
“Nonsense. The only talent I recall you demonstrating was embroidery, which I taught you.”
“I can sketch and paint. The viscount was a gifted artist.”
“That proves nothing. This viscount isn’t your father. You and Mr. West can both read a book faster than anyone I know, and neither one of you can sing in key.”
Both of these things were true. Olivia ignored a building unease. “My hair is both my mother’s color and the viscount’s.”
“What? Your hair is more auburn than your mother’s so perhaps you did inherit your father’s darker hair. I know it’s hard to remember, bald as he was, but Mr. West’s hair was once quite dark. Really, Olivia, this is all nonsense.” She stepped forward, stopping just in front of Olivia. The pinched look on her face said she’d rather stand in a pigpen. “You’ve a mark on your head, beneath your hair now, but it was quite visible when you were a baby. Dark pink and shaped like a pear. Mr. West had a similar mark on his head, though it’s larger. Surely you recall seeing it, given his lack of hair.”
Olivia searched her memory. It had been years since she’d seen him, but yes, she remembered that mark. Her insides shriveled until she wanted to collapse onto the floor and pull a blanket over her head.
Mildred stepped back, a look of triumph lighting her small-featured face. “Now then. I should like you to take your fairy tales and return to wherever you came from. I pity that poor woman who thinks you’re some viscount’s daughter.” She went to the window. “Is that her coach? Is she in there? Perhaps I should tell her the truth.”
“No.” Olivia was quite glad she hadn’t brought Louisa. “She’s not there. I’ll go.” She trudged toward the small entry hall, her shoulders drooping with horrible defeat.
She pivoted to look at her aunt one last time. “I understand why it might be hurtful for you to have me in your house, but have you no good will toward me at all?”
Her thin lips pressed together with a short exhale of frustrated breath. “No. I raised you because it was the Godly thing to do, not from any desire to have my sister’s bastard child under my roof.”
Olivia finally understood. She’d figured Mildred to simply be an undemonstrative woman. She’d never said she loved Olivia, but she’d cared for her and treated her fairly, if not affectionately. But she’d only done it out of duty, and the moment she’d learned her husband was Olivia’s father…well, that had been all she’d needed to eliminate her burden. Pain sliced through Olivia, both because she honestly didn’t know who her father was, and because this woman hated her through no fault of her own.
The final moments in the vicarage all those years ago flashed through Olivia’s mind, as so many times before. There were countless things she wished she’d said. Olivia stood taller. Despite her defeat, she would find pride. She was not to blame.
“I’m sorry you feel that way. Family is family, and I shall love you in spite of everything. Thank you for taking me in when you did. I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of, and I actually believe you’d be quite pleased with how I’ve managed things, owing to your influence.”
Mildred blinked. Her mouth opened, but she snapped it shut.
“Good day, then.” Shaking, Olivia turned and quit the vicarage. The footman helped her into the carriage, and within a moment they were on their way. She turned to look back at the house, only to see her aunt standing on the front step with her hands on her hips.
She banged her head back against the velvet cushion. Foolish, foolish errand. She’d resolved nothing. In fact, she’d only watered and nurtured a seed of doubt. Doubt that was even now blooming in her mind and sending tendrils of ice to her extremities.
Which man was her father? More importantly, why had none of these people cared enough about her to keep her close?
Chapter Thirteen
JASPER BLINKED against the bright sunlight as he walked across Hyde Park toward his mother’s annual picnic. Blankets were artfully placed about the ground. Little boats bobbed along the sun-sparkled Serpentine. The affair might’ve looked inviting if last night’s excess of whiskey hadn’t given him a crashing headache and if Olivia’s deception wasn’t keeping his mind utterly distracted. Best to get through his obligation so he could be on his way to Benfield.
Lady Philippa sat with her mother, Lady Herrick, on a large blue blanket about five yards distant. Jasper shoved aside his preoccupation with Olivia and made his way toward them.
“Good afternoon, ladies.” He smiled at Lady Philippa, a picture of sophisticated beauty with her upswept chestnut hair topped with a splendid wide-brimmed hat tied beneath her chin with yellow gauze.
Jasper deposited himself on the pale blue blanket. The matted grass beneath the cotton offered little cushion to the hard ground, but he didn’t plan to sit here long. “Have you taken to the Serpentine yet?” he asked Lady Philippa.
She shook her head. “I’m afraid I’m not too keen on boats.”
Jasper gave an inward sigh of relief. One less thing he’d have to do today, which meant he could leave for Benfield even sooner.
“You should walk a bit, Philippa, enjoy the day,” her mother urged, with a glance toward Jasper.
“I should be happy to escort you,” he offered.
Lady Philippa looked to her mother who answered with a tiny nod. Jasper stood and helped Lady Philippa to her feet. Their gloved hands met, and he felt…nothing, which was a trifle disappointing since he’d be marrying her. He blamed his lack of response on his obsession with Olivia. Soon he would be able to focus on duty again.
He wrapped Lady Philippa’s arm around his and led her along the Serpentine. “Do you mind walking by the water?”
“Not at all. I just have no desire to be on it.” She smiled, her eyes sparkling. She was very pretty, but he still wasn’t stirred. She wasn’t Olivia.
Jasper searched for a topic of conversation, both to appear a gentleman and to try to keep from thinking of Olivia. “Is your father here today?”
“No, he’s in Oxfordshire. You needn’t worry he’s off scouting husbands for me. Not yet anyway.” She smiled. “I jest. The choice will be mine.”
He was surprised by her candor. “Choice is a valuable thing.”
She peered up at him with intelligent, golden brown eyes. “Yes, we women don’t get many of them. You, on the other hand…”
He let out a bark of laughter. “Don’t get as many as you think.”
Her brows knitted together. “I see.” They walked in silence a moment. “Are you here, with me, of your own choice?”
J
asper concentrated on keeping his feet moving. “Of course. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” Now who was the liar?
“I see your parents casting furtive looks in our direction. They have an expectation.” She glanced at him with those warm, assessing eyes. “It’s all right. Last spring was not my first Season, you know.”
He found her wisdom disquieting. But also encouraging. He didn’t want a ninnyhammer for a wife. His eye caught his father standing off to the right, chatting with some other gentlemen. The duke wouldn’t want a ninnyhammer for a daughter-in-law, either. Well, that wasn’t precisely true. She could be a ninnyhammer provided she was a well-placed one.
And that’s really all it was, wasn’t it? Lady Philippa was plenty good enough, intelligence notwithstanding, because of the “lady” preceding her name. And Olivia wasn’t. Even if she were Merry’s cousin, her lack of a titled father made her less desirable than Lady Philippa. Just as Jasper’s second son status made him less desirable in the duke’s eyes.
Lady Philippa paused. “Shall we return?”
Jasper realized he’d continued moving, while she’d stopped. He shook the thoughts of the duke from his mind and turned her back toward her mother’s blanket. “May I call on you tomorrow?”
She didn’t immediately respond. “No.”
He’d bungled this with his inattention. “Oh.”
She laughed softly. “I have an appointment already tomorrow. How about the day after? It would be…nice to see you without your parents lurking about.”
Very wise. And understanding. “I should like that.” He felt guilty courting her while Olivia was omnipresent in his mind. He owed Lady Philippa more than he was giving her. “We have things to discuss.”
She arched a brow. “We do? Are you ready for that?”
“Are you?” he countered, almost wishing she’d say no.
“I suppose I must be.”
Now it was his turn to laugh. “Your exuberance overwhelms me.”
She blushed, and he wondered if he’d gone too far. “You know how this is, Saxton. A silly dance. But I like you, and I think we may get on well together.”
