His Wicked Heart (3 page)

Jasper sparred several times a week at
Jackson’s, a necessary exercise that both calmed and focused him.
Tonight, the sounds of fighting—of fists striking flesh, of
exertion—moved through him like the finest symphony, a balm for his
frayed temper.

He moved closer, to the outermost ring of the
circle. Two burly men fought in the center. One’s nose dripped
blood, and the other sported a swelling eye. The spectators were
entirely working class folk. Except one. A gentleman stood at one
end, his arms crossed, his face fixed on the fight. He looked
vaguely familiar. After a few moments, he raised his hand.
“Enough,” he called. “Come back next time.”

The combatants stopped, their chests heaving.
Both nodded but hung their heads a bit, as if that wasn’t the
decision they wanted.

“Who’s next? I’ll watch one more bout,” the
gentleman said.

A young, spry-looking fellow with a hooked
nose stepped forward. “Enders, my lord.”

“Ah yes, Enders. I hoped you’d come back. Who
will take him on?” He surveyed the crowd and when his eyes fell on
Jasper, his lips curved into a smile. But then he moved on,
dismissing him. Jasper’s ire surged. For the second time tonight,
he’d been discounted. Rejected.

He pushed through the crowd and stepped into
the circle, trained his gaze on the gentleman who’d passed him
over. “Me.”

OLIVIA West watched the fair-haired gentleman
stride from the court. She could still feel his touch, making her
already heated flesh warmer than she wanted it to be.

She looked down at the card in her hand.

Earl of Saxton

An earl had come to her rescue? And a rather
dangerously attractive one at that.

Tilly, one of the prostitutes from Portia’s
Garden and the closest thing Olivia would allow to a friend, sidled
up beside her and looked at the card. “What’ve you got there?”

Olivia tucked it into the pocket of her
cloak. “Nothing.”

Tilly arched a brow at her. “I’m not the best
reader, but I recognize the word ‘earl’ when I see it. That gent
was an earl?”

“He’s no one.” Olivia could guess what Tilly
might say next. She’d been pestering Olivia the past two months
she’d resided in Coventry Court to take up occupation as a
lightskirt.

Tilly whistled between her teeth. “Gor,
Livvie, you couldn’t do better than that. Did he make you an
offer?”

“That doesn’t signify. I am not in your
trade.” Olivia turned toward her boarding house, an unfortunate
establishment, but the best she could afford if she wanted her own
room. And she wanted her own room. She’d spent the previous nine
months since her mother’s death lodging with other women, having
her things ruined or stolen, suffering intrusions at all hours, and
finding herself in close quarters with unsavory men.

“You could be,” Tilly said, surely about to
launch into her favorite topic of conversation: the benefits of
prostitution.

“No, thank you.” Olivia’s mother had
gleefully sold her body for money, baubles, meager affection, but
more often than not, misery.

“Oh, but surely you’d change your mind for
one such as him!” Tilly cajoled.

An image of Lord Saxton crowded her mind.
Individually, his features were unyieldingly stark—a prominent
brow, wide nose, square jaw. Together, however, they formed a
visage that bespoke power, dominance, and beauty. His lips had
formed a half-pout, half-purse that, with the intensity of his pale
blue stare, gave him an air of ruthlessness. He was, without
question, the most striking man she’d ever seen. And he’d smelled
of pine instead of rotting London. Yes, Olivia supposed he might be
able to lure a desperate woman to sell him her body, but not
her.

“I would not change my mind for the prince
regent,” Olivia said.

Tilly shook her head. “You’re touched in the
head. Can’t imagine why you’d rather work your fingers to the bone
sewing clothes what won’t ever belong to you. Or treading the
boards at the Haymarket, or have you warmed up to filling in for
Mae?”

“As it happens, Mae is returning to her role
tomorrow night, so my temporary run as an actress is at an end.” As
was her run as one of the company seamstresses. Mr. Colman, the
theatre manager, had sacked her just that evening. He’d hired a new
costumer, and her services were no longer required. But these were
personal troubles she never shared with anyone.

Tilly plucked at her bodice to reveal a bit
more flesh. “Well, that must make you happy then.”

It was true Olivia didn’t care to act, but
any extra money earned could be put toward opening her own dress
shop. “It’s just as well. I’m afraid I wasn’t any good at it.”

“Pah, you’re always too hard on yourself,
Livvie. You know you could make twice or three times as much as any
of us.” She gestured toward Portia’s Garden.

Olivia arched a brow. “I thought we were
discussing acting.”

Tilly patted her upswept hair. “I’d rather
talk about that gent.” She cocked her head to the side and regarded
Olivia with a suspicious gaze. “You’d tell me if you’d made an
assignation with him, wouldn’t you? I’d be happy to give you a bit
of tutoring before you shag him.”

“There’s nothing going on. He gave me his
card, but I’ve no intention of contacting him.”

Tilly’s lips curled up into a wide smile.
“But you pocketed it just the same. Let me know when you change
your mind, dearie. I’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

“Oh, Tilly, you’re incessant. Good night.”
She turned and entered the boarding house.

The windowless entry, lit by a single
guttering candle in a sconce on the wall, was empty. The stairwell
was blister-hot as Olivia climbed toward the topmost floor. She
stopped short as she approached the second landing.

Mrs. Reddy, her landlady, leaned against the
wall, a cup clutched in her left hand. “’Bout time you showed up,
Livvie.”

Olivia forced a smile, albeit not a very
friendly one. It had been an awfully long day, and Mrs. Reddy was a
handful at the best of times. This didn’t look to be one of them.
“Good evening to you, too.”

Mrs. Reddy pursed her thin lips, eyeing
Olivia’s cloak as if it were lined with coin. “I need yer
rent.”

Olivia refused to be bullied, especially when
her feet were throbbing and she was sweating through her gown. “I
paid you for the week only three days ago.”

Mrs. Reddy’s tone escalated to a childish
whine. “But I need a spot of blunt now.”

Sympathy was not something Olivia would
extend to the gin-addled woman. Not when she would just use the
money for drink. It reminded Olivia far too much of her mother’s
penchant for spending nearly everything she earned on clothes and
worthless jewels. “I don’t have it. I’ll pay when it’s due.”

Mrs. Reddy wobbled forward, coming
dangerously close to the top of the stairs. Afraid the woman might
tumble over, Olivia moved up to the landing. She was relieved when
Mrs. Reddy turned and stepped away from the edge.

“Livvie, I know you have some.”

A very little, but it was her hard-earned
savings, scrimped from a tight budget that allowed no room for
extravagance or error. Money she needed for her future. “I have
none to spare.”

Mrs. Reddy advanced on her, wheezing
gin-saturated breath. “I already have another tenant lined up. Go
get the money, or I’ll toss you out.”

She had no idea if the landlady had another
tenant, but she couldn’t risk that chance. Shooting Mrs. Reddy a
disgruntled stare, she turned and started up the stairs.

“And it just went up another shilling!” she
called after her.

Olivia paused and turned. “Again? You only
raised the rent week before last.” Any higher and she’d have to
move. Olivia dreaded the idea of looking for new lodgings. She
could barely afford the tiny attic room at Mrs. Reddy’s. She’d be
hard-pressed to find another in this part of town, and she refused
to move east where rent was cheaper but the neighborhoods were much
coarser.

Mrs. Reddy jabbed her cup forward, sloshing
liquid onto the floor. “Rent’s payable when I say so and how much I
say so.”

Olivia turned and gritted her teeth against
correcting the woman’s speech. Fourteen years in a vicarage had
ensured an excellent education, even if it was wasted in a career
as a part-time seamstress.

Hopefully, she would be able to turn
tomorrow’s dress delivery at Mrs. Johnson’s shop into a permanent
assignment as a seamstress. Olivia had gone above and beyond what
Mrs. Johnson had asked by embroidering the sleeves—a risky move,
but one Olivia prayed would prove successful.

When she finally reached her room, Olivia
unlocked her door and immediately bolted herself inside. Unbearably
hot, she pulled off her cloak and tossed it on the bed. Lord
Saxton’s card drifted to the floor. Olivia bent and picked it up.
Even the paper felt rich.

If she accepted his offer, she could stop
worrying about her next meal and concentrate on the dress shop. She
might even be able to find better lodgings.

No. She couldn’t consider it. She couldn’t
relinquish her dignity and her virtue the way her mother had.

She set the card on top of the dresser next
to her bed, next to the small box painted with roses and vines that
had belonged to her mother. Olivia opened the painted box and
contemplated her woeful savings. She extracted the rent money and
closed her fist around the precious coins. With heavy steps, she
turned to deliver the funds to Mrs. Reddy, her mind frantically
working as to how she would replace the loss. She simply had to
find more sewing and embroidery work. She
had to
.

JASPER STEPPED into the ring as the
spectators all fell silent. He moved his gaze from the familiar
gentleman and looked around the crowd. Not a single recognizable
face. Good.

The other man in the ring—what was his name,
Enders?—looked Jasper up and down. “Are you joking?”

Now this pup meant to insult him? Jasper’s
blood boiled. “Not even a little bit.”

The gentleman came to the center. “Hold
there, Saxton.”

Though Jasper couldn’t quite place him, he
wasn’t surprised the man knew him. “Have we met?”

The gentleman’s mouth quirked. “Most
certainly, though I daresay you wouldn’t admit it. I’m Sevrin.”

Jasper knew the name and the scandal, if not
the man himself. The viscount was notorious for ruining a girl, his
brother’s fiancée if he recalled correctly, and refusing to marry
her. Ironically, he and Sevrin had more in common than the rakehell
would ever know.

“Do you realize you’re auditioning for a
fighting club?” Sevrin asked, his dark brow arched in
suspicion.

Jasper possessed no such notion, but that
wouldn’t stop him. Denied his original plan for the evening, the
idea of pummeling someone beyond the rules and respectability of
Jackson’s held an indefinable, and quite necessary, appeal. “Of
course.”

Sevrin paused just briefly, reflecting a
flash of surprise before he gave a slight nod. “All right then.
Take off your hat and your coat. And whatever else you choose.” He
gave a half-smile and returned to his spot on the perimeter.

Jasper stripped off his coat. He thrust it
and his hat at a wrinkled old man. “Hold this.”

He turned back to face his opponent, Enders.
The younger man had removed his coat and wore only a shirt, open at
the neck. He’d rolled up his sleeves, revealing muscular forearms.
Jasper discarded his waistcoat as well and then folded over his
cuffs.

Wagers on Enders reached Jasper’s ears,
stoking the fire in his belly. He curled his fists, eager to
demonstrate his skill.

“Go,” called Sevrin.

Enders launched forward, fists flying. He
moved differently than the men Jasper was used to sparring with at
Jackson’s. He caught Jasper in the face, but Jasper moved quickly
and deflected the man’s subsequent blows. Pain raced up Jasper’s
cheekbone, jolting his senses, but with it came a vibrant, jubilant
sensation.

Jasper’s feet were light, his hands charged
with violent intent, his chest thundered with his elevated heart
rate. He answered Enders’ attack with a vicious cut to his jaw.
Jasper’s knuckles stung, but he barely noticed over the
exhilaration making his heart pound. With distinct clarity, he saw
the glow of the street lamp illuminating their fight, the yelling
crowd, the flash of respect on Sevrin’s face. God, he felt
alive.

Enders delivered a two-punch to Jasper’s
stomach and side. Jasper danced backward a moment and considered
his opponent’s technique. Detecting what he thought was a weak
spot, he jabbed toward Enders’ middle, but the man grabbed Jasper’s
arm and pulled him off balance.

While Jasper struggled to regain his upright
position, Enders delivered a blow to his ribs. Then another to the
side of his head. Jasper moved to the right, barely evading a third
strike. He stumbled close to Sevrin, who was frowning.