His Wicked Heart (22 page)

Sevrin slouched further into his rickety
chair, giving no sign he gave a fig about the lightskirts. “You
asked me awhile back about an actress, Olivia West. I saw a woman
who looked like her at the Favershams’ the other night. I assumed I
was mistaken, but then I heard her name mentioned at White’s
earlier today. Some fellow, Twickenham or something, was going on
about her. Is it the same woman?”

Jasper wrapped his fingers around the cup of
whiskey and squeezed the pottery. He downed the fiery liquid before
answering. “It is.”

Gifford sat a bit straighter in his chair.
“Olivia West, you say?”

“Do you know her?” Sevrin asked before Jasper
could.

“The name sounds familiar.” Gifford sipped
his gin, regarding them over the rim of his cup.

Sevrin turned to look at Jasper. “Twickenham
said she was Lady Merriweather’s ward. Lady Merriweather is your
aunt, I gather.”

“Both statements are correct.”

Sevrin leaned forward. “You’re being damnably
reticent. How is this woman in Society?”

Jasper should have realized someone would
recognize her somehow. He was only glad it was Sevrin and not
someone with more…influence. Preparing to share the spectacular
story of Miss Olivia West, he signaled for more whiskey.

“Miss West claims to be my uncle’s distant
cousin. There is, conveniently, no evidence of this claim save a
painted box that was definitely painted by my uncle and is now in
her possession. I’ve no idea how she came to own this box, but my
dear aunt believes she’s found a young woman in need of family and
care, two things she’s desperate to endow.”

Sevrin shook his head. “Are you saying Miss
West is a charlatan?”

“I suspect as much, yes.”

“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 Mildred, 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.