His Wicked Heart (30 page)

“I’m sure I know which viscount you refer to.
Merriweather, isn’t it?”

Olivia sucked in a breath, hope surging in
her chest. “Yes.”

“Aye, he skulked around the theatre quite a
bit back then.” She chuckled. “Hopelessly besotted with Fi. Most
men were. How’d she pass?”

“One of those men, actually. Her protector
pushed her down the stairs.”

Mrs. Pitt shook her head sadly. “I worried
she’d go that way. Fi didn’t always choose the best lovers.
Sometimes you need to listen to your mind instead of...”

Your heart? Did Mrs. Pitt mean Fiona had
loved some of these men? Or did she refer to something…baser? “Did
my mother fall in love? I didn’t think she loved anyone but
herself.”

“Oh, you poor child. Fi was as selfish as
they come. No, Fi didn’t fall in love easily. Her heart wasn’t the
body part leading her.” Mrs. Pitt’s paper-thin lips stretched into
a smile. “Ah well, there are some things a girl doesn’t need to
hear about her mother.”

Though Olivia never approved of her mother’s
behavior, she found this woman’s insight irresistible. “I’d like to
know.”

“All right, then. Fi liked men. She’d lust
after one, establish whatever situation she could, and when she
tired of him, she moved on. Over the years, there were a few who
didn’t grow bored as quickly as she did. They didn’t fancy being
thrown over for the next gent. I always worried one of them would
take their anger out on her. Such a shame.” Her voice trailed off,
and her knitting slowed. “I’m truly sorry for your loss, love.”

“And the vicar?” Olivia asked.

“Aye, he was a persistent fellow. Another of
her madcap followers. He came all the way from Devon to visit her
after she’d spent the holidays with them.

“But none could hold a candle to Oliver St.
Jermyn.” Mrs. Pitt’s voice gained in strength and vigor, as if she
warmed to this subject. “He was an actor. I do believe he was the
one man your mother truly loved. They looked as if they were made
for each other—her with that bright red hair, him with dark auburn
locks—like a matched set.”

Olivia’s gut clenched at the description of
St. Jermyn. And his name.
Oliver
. Instead of definitive
answers, she’d found more doubt, more uncertainty. “What happened
to him?”

“Killed by a footpad before she delivered
you. Fi was devastated. I think St. Jermyn even meant to marry
her.”

Olivia felt a pang of sorrow for her mother,
but also for herself. Another closed door. She fisted her hands in
her lap, the kid of her gloves stretching taut over her knuckles.
“You really don’t know who my father is?”

“I suspect the only one who did was Fi.
However, it’s possible even she couldn’t be certain.” Mrs. Pitt set
her knitting down once more. “Does it really matter?”

For as long as Olivia could remember, she’d
longed for the love of a parent. Her aunt and uncle had provided
for her most basic needs, but care and consideration had not been
included. Now, with Louisa—someone with whom she shared no blood
connection—Olivia knew the love of a true family. “I thought it
did.”

“People will always believe what they wish.
If you’re worried people do not accept you as this viscount’s
daughter, they are not worth knowing.”

Tears burned the backs of Olivia’s eyes. Mrs.
Pitt was right, but acceptance in Society was paramount if she
meant to continue to live with Louisa.

“Love, you’d do best to look forward, not
back. I know this seems terribly important to you now, but some
day—maybe soon—it won’t. Be honest and true to yourself, and things
will turn out right.” She smiled again as she plucked up her
knitting once more.

Olivia could think of nothing else to say, no
other question to ask. Slowly, she rose from her chair, hating that
she hadn’t got what she’d come for, that she’d probably never find
an answer. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Pitt.”

“You’re welcome, love. You seem a charming,
intelligent gel, and I’d wager you’re every bit as pretty as Fi. Do
whatever you must to live with your head held high. The only good
opinion worth having is your own.”

The sound of clacking needles filled the
small space as Olivia made her way toward the stairs. On the ground
floor, the landlady met her with a nod. Olivia thanked her and
stepped out onto Villiers Street.

Though she hadn’t found the answers she
sought, she felt a sense of peace. She’d been wrong not to tell
Louisa the truth about her background and planned to rectify that
mistake immediately. She knew with certainty that Louisa wouldn’t
judge her, that she’d embrace her as warmly as ever. Because they
were family.

“IS LOUISA still napping?” Olivia asked as
the butler admitted her into the townhouse.

Bernard closed the door. “No, but she is
taking tea in her room. I believe her ankle is giving her a touch
of trouble today.”

“Thank you.” Olivia nodded and went upstairs,
eager to see Louisa at once. At Louisa’s door, she rapped
softly.

“Come,” Louisa answered.

“Good afternoon, dear. Were you out for a
walk again?” She smiled from her chair positioned in front of the
garden-facing windows. “Your cheeks are a lovely pink.”

“Yes, it’s quite beautiful outside.” Olivia
removed her bonnet. Sunlight streamed into the room, bathing the
chamber with warmth and cheer. How quickly Louisa’s townhouse had
come to feel like home. Which made her objective all the more
difficult. But it had to be done. Olivia forced herself to perch on
the edge of Louisa’s bed, though she would’ve preferred to pace and
fidget her anxiety away. “I’ve some news to share.”

“Oh?” Louisa straightened. “This sounds
serious.”

Best to just get it out. “I’m afraid I
haven’t been completely honest with you.” If Olivia’s cheeks had
been pink before, they positively burned now. How she wished she’d
been forthright from the start. When had she become so deceptive?
First she’d tried to swindle Jasper, then she’d withheld
information—pertinent information—from the person who’d treated her
more kindly and generously than she’d ever dreamed possible. Louisa
deserved better.

Louisa immediately stood and came to sit next
to her on the edge of the bed. “I know dear. Jasper told me
everything.”

Jasper
? What had he told her? He
didn’t know anything about her paternity. As far as he knew, she
was Merry’s bastard. Her gut tightened. Had he somehow learned this
truth as well? He’d be furious with her for lying again. “He
did?”

“Yes, he came to see me this morning. I was
going to speak with you earlier, but I just didn’t know how to
start. I’m so sorry about everything.”

She was sorry? Olivia frowned in confusion.
“I don’t understand.”

“Jasper told me about your mother. About
Fiona Scarlet.”

Olivia was momentarily speechless. She’d
planned to reveal this truth today as well as the question of her
paternity, but hadn’t conceived of Jasper telling Louisa. Not after
he’d sought to help her. “You’re not angry?”

“Not at all, dear. I can see why you wouldn’t
want to tell me, and I don’t blame you. Though I never would’ve
judged you for it.”

Olivia didn’t have trouble believing that,
which was why she’d felt so guilty about keeping the secret. “I
know, and I’m sorry. I should’ve trusted you.”

Louisa smiled. “Yes, well, it seems trust is
something we should all work on. I made a grave error in not
trusting Jasper. You were right all along. I should have told him
immediately that you’re Merry’s daughter. He is, in fact, helping
to ensure no one learns the truth of your background.”

The truth
. Olivia didn’t even know the
truth and probably never would. The mystery of her paternity would
remain that: a mystery.

“Olivia?” Louisa touched her arm.

“Sorry, I was woolgathering. I’m glad that
you and Jasper talked.” It was beyond time to be completely
honest—or as honest as she could be. She’d never reveal her liaison
with Jasper. Best to let that molder in the past. “However, Jasper
doesn’t know the rest.”

Louisa’s brow wrinkled. “There’s more?”

“Yes, about my father.”

“Merry?”

Olivia’s chest burned. She wished, more than
anything, that she’d been able to prove Merry had been her father.
Aside from pleasing Louisa, there was nothing Olivia wanted more.
“Yes, Merry and, ah, others.” There was nothing for it but to just
get the words out. “I didn’t have a headache yesterday, and I
didn’t have a pleasant visit with my aunt in Cheshunt. You see, she
evicted me from her house upon learning her husband had sired me.
Or so she believes.”

Louisa’s color deepened. “But that’s absurd.
Merry is your father.”

Olivia smiled sadly, yearning for Louisa’s
assertion to be true. “I only wish he or my mother were here to
confirm it. My aunt raised evidence—quite as sound as yours
unfortunately—that the vicar could be my father.”

Louisa’s brows gathered over her troubled
eyes. “What sort of evidence?”

“Shared traits such as you describe with
Merry. Also, similar marks on our scalps.” Olivia couldn’t help but
notice Louisa’s shoulders slumping ever so slightly, but she didn’t
want to stop until she’d finished. “I’d hoped to find someone who
knew my mother. Someone who could confirm my paternity. I found a
woman.” Louisa’s head perked up. “I’m sorry to say she added
further confusion. A third man, named Oliver St. Jermyn, loved my
mother and unlike the others, she loved him in return. We share the
same hair color and it’s possible my mother chose my name for a
reason. For my father.” Olivia tensed as she shared her theory and
her anguish.

Louisa turned her head. Her fingers played
with the lace edge of her coverlet. Olivia’s body trembled in the
enveloping silence. Finally, after several minutes, Louisa faced
Olivia once more. “Your mother could have named you after the man
she loved regardless of who sired you. Perhaps
she
didn’t
even know the truth.”

Olivia had also considered this, but hadn’t
wanted to dwell on her mother’s perfidy. “It doesn’t really matter
now. The truth shall never be known.” She steeled herself to say
what she must. “I should leave.”

“No!” Louisa’s blue eyes sharpened as she
grabbed Olivia’s hand. “You’re right about one thing—it doesn’t
matter. I don’t care if Merry was your father or not. You’re a
daughter he would be proud of, a daughter I’m proud of. Perhaps I’m
a foolish, lonely old woman, but I enjoy your company. You don’t
truly wish to leave, do you?” Her gaze was searching,
expectant.

A daughter she was proud of. A daughter who’d
tried to use Jasper for financial gain and who could never be the
virtuous, marriageable debutante Louisa wanted. She really should
go, but the thought of returning to her loneliness was more than
she could bear. She struggled to speak around the ache in her
throat. “No.”

“I want to be clear. I want you with me,
wherever that may be. We don’t need to stay in London, in Society.
You said you didn’t want to find a husband, at least not right now.
I was thinking we might adjourn to York, to the dowager house at
Merriweather Hall.”

Olivia felt a burst of love for this woman
who understood her so much better than either of her two supposed
mothers. “I should like that very much.” Though if she were honest,
she would miss just one thing about Society. The very thing she’d
dreaded from the start and had now grown quite fond of: Jasper.

“Excellent. We shall leave as soon as Jasper
announces his engagement.”

Olivia’s mood deflated again. She knew Jasper
would marry, and she knew it wouldn’t—couldn’t—ever be her. Still,
the knowledge that it was imminent was a bitter reminder of what
she could never have. She supposed she ought to regret their
liaison, but she couldn’t. Not when she would cherish the memory
always.

“Olivia, dear, would you care to join me in
the Rose Room for tea? Do you have a project you can work on? What
about Jasper’s waistcoat? I haven’t seen it at all. Are you making
progress?”

She was, in fact. Working on it was a
constant and usually pleasing reminder of the afternoon they’d
spent at Benfield. Now, however, the thought of stitching the
pieces together as she recalled every line and plane of his form
made her sad.

Pasting a smile on her face, she rose from
the bed to fetch it. “It’s coming along quite nicely.”

Louisa’s face lit up. “Perhaps he can wear it
for his engagement dinner.”

“That would be lovely,” Olivia said. Lying,
it seemed, was a necessary evil. Especially to one’s self.

THE dark, tight air of the Black Horse
welcomed Jasper like an old friend. The club had already convened.
He heard the unmistakable sounds of flesh hitting flesh just before
he opened the door to the back room.