His Wicked Heart (2 page)

The room was functional enough, and a quick
review of the bed revealed it to be clean, if not sumptuous. But
Jasper didn’t require silks or velvets. Just a beautiful woman with
skill and an unabashed desire to demonstrate it.

The door clicked, and Jasper’s blood heated.
He was ready.

He turned, and his need evaporated. Christ,
but she was the spitting image of Abigail, a woman he’d spent the
last ten years striking from his memory. But now she came roaring
back as if he’d met her—loved her—yesterday. His body chilled at
the sight of this doppelganger, regret and self-loathing overtaking
any sense of desire and commanding him to leave. Now.

He went to the chair and plucked up his
coat.

“My lord?” the woman asked, her brow creasing
gently. She sauntered toward him. “I’m Tilly. Let me take that.”
She tried to pull the coat from his grip, but he held it fast.

“No. I’m leaving. This isn’t adequate.”

Tilly’s eyes widened briefly and then she
gave a quick nod. “I see. I’m sure I can find us a different room.
Something a bit richer, perhaps?”

Jasper shoved his arms into his coat. “You
misunderstand. It’s not the room. It’s you. You’re all wrong.” He
pushed past her toward the door.

She grabbed his arm, her grip surprisingly
strong for a slender whore. “I’m sure I can be right. Give me a
chance, my lord.” She rubbed her breasts against his sleeve.

Jasper glanced down at her nearly exposed
nipples. Images of Abigail, sweet and virtuous, rose in his mind.
The memories were at total odds with the present scenario—a
strumpet in a brothel. He threw off Tilly’s hold and made for the
door.

She followed him into the corridor. “My lord,
you mustn’t leave.” Her tone took on a dark, desperate edge.

Jasper reached into his waistcoat and
extracted a few coins. He tossed them back to her. “Here, that
should be more than generous for the scant few minutes I took of
your time.”

He stalked away from her and descended the
stairs. The madam watched him as he crossed through the parlor, her
eyes narrowing with concern. Jasper didn’t pause to speak with
her.

Outside, he withdrew his gloves from his coat
pocket. He took a deep breath of sweltering night air and shoved
the gloves right back into the pocket.
Hang them
.

Eager to put tonight’s disappointment behind
him, he took long strides toward the mouth of the L-shaped Coventry
Court. His eye caught a couple near the corner of the court and the
Haymarket. The man—a gigantic brute, really—towered over the woman.
He wrapped his hand around her waist and drew her close against his
chest. But she didn’t like it. She pushed at him, and her hat went
tumbling to the ground, revealing glossy auburn curls pinned atop
her head.

Jasper despised a bully, and as the son of
the Duke of Holborn, he’d had plenty of experience with one. In
several swift strides, he closed the gap between him and the woman
being manhandled.

“I said I’m not interested,” the woman said,
trying, ineffectually, to extract herself from the man’s grasp.

Jasper suppressed the need to smash the
villain into the ground. He’d spent the past decade stifling his
baser impulses, containing them to the appropriate time and place,
but seeing that Abigail lookalike had his senses on overload.
Still, he’d learned to master his control. He’d had to. Others got
hurt when he didn’t. He curled his fingers into his palms. “She
said no. Release her.”

The brute swiveled his block-shaped head
toward him. “And who the hell are you?”

“Your better.” Jasper was glad he’d forsaken
his gloves. He was ready for battle. Eager for it. “Release her
now.”

“Push off.” With a dismissive nod, the man
returned his attention to the redhead.

Unhindered rage poured through Jasper with
the speed of a racing thoroughbred. Without censoring his actions,
he reached out and wrapped his hand around the larger man’s neck.
“You’re not listening to me.” He squeezed his fingers into the
man’s skin, felt tendons straining against his palm. “Let. Her.
Go.”

“My lord?” March, Jasper’s footman, had
silently approached. He’d been stationed just outside the court,
awaiting his employer’s pleasure.

The villain’s eyes widened, and he abruptly
released the woman. “I beg your pardon, my lord.” He bowed his head
and looked at the ground, which was a bit difficult given Jasper’s
grip on his neck.

Jasper didn’t loosen his hold. “If you come
near her again, I’ll know. And you’ll pay for it. Have I made
myself clear?”

“Aye,” he croaked.

Jasper slowly pried his fingers from the
man’s flesh, disappointed he hadn’t put up more of a fight. With a
deep, calming inhalation, he stepped back and straightened his
coat. The brute stepped around March and exited the court.

“March,” Jasper said, inclining his head
toward the Haymarket, where his coach was parked. The footman
nodded and took himself off.

Jasper turned to the woman. She stared up at
him with wide-eyed shock. Captivating green-eyed shock. Or perhaps
wonder.

“Thank you, my lord.” Her voice quavered, and
she bent to retrieve her hat.

Jasper beat her to it. He fingered the thick
felt, thinking it would feel terribly heavy on a sultry night like
this. Why was she wearing it? He looked at her face and simply
stared. She was exquisite. The street lamp splashed across her
fine-boned features, sculpting the patrician nose, full lips, and
saucily dimpled chin. She wore a heavy cloak, which had to be
stifling in this heat, but he could tell from the slender curve of
her neck and the narrow bones of her delicate wrist that she
possessed an alluring figure. She was what he’d been hoping for.
What he needed tonight.

“Your hat,” he offered. “Though I daresay you
might not want to put it back on. It’s rather hot.”

She nodded. “Thank you. I’m nearly home
anyway. I only wear it to disguise myself. Not that it worked this
evening.” Her hand shook as she accepted the hat from him.

“You’ve had quite a scare. Let me see you
home.”

“Thank you, but that’s not necessary, my
lord.” She turned and walked into the court.

He wasn’t going to let her go that quickly.
He caught up to her in a few long strides. “Where do you live?” The
court held a half-dozen ramshackle buildings, the nicest of which
was the brothel. Was she one of their doves? If so, he’d take her
upstairs in a trice. And maybe offer her a long-term arrangement.
She was that beautiful.

“Just there.” She pointed toward the
brothel.

This was too convenient. His night wasn’t
ruined after all. “May I come upstairs with you?”

She paused just before the brothel and shot
him a horrified look. “No.”

Ah, perhaps she was overset after her
encounter. “Tomorrow night, perhaps.”

“No.” She quickened her pace. Past the
brothel.

What the hell
?

Jasper kept up with her, determined to break
through her cool exterior. “I thought you said you lived there?” He
gestured back toward the brothel.

She said nothing, and continued walking
toward the end of the court.

He snagged her elbow. “Stop, please.”

She turned abruptly and glanced down at where
his hand was wrapped around her arm. “Unhand me. You’re no better
than that other man. Worse maybe, since you were so quick to choke
him.” Her gaze was direct but dark. He couldn’t tell if she was
afraid. Christ, he didn’t want her to be afraid.

Jasper froze. Images of fights at Eton and
Oxford flashed in his brain. “I’m not a violent person.”
Anymore
. “And I’d certainly never attack a woman.”
Ever
. In fact, several of those rows had been in defense of
a woman.

He let her go.

She arched a brow, and he wondered if she
believed him. “That’s relieving. I live here.” She pointed to the
shabby building they’d stopped in front of, a four-story hovel with
missing shutters, crumbling brick, and a dilapidated roof.

He couldn’t keep his lip from curling. She
lived in this sty? “You can’t.”

“I can, and I do.” She lifted her chin,
giving him a glimpse of a woman who deserved far better than her
current station. Which was?

He took in the pair of slatterns standing in
front of the boarding house. They were of far lower quality than
the women in the brothel next door. But it seemed the entire court
was rife with prostitution. There was only one way to determine her
occupation. “Why won’t you let me make an appointment with you? If
not tonight or tomorrow, tell me when.”

Now her lip curled. “I’m not available. Now,
good night.”

She turned just as a man emerged from the
boarding house.

“Miss West,” he greeted, stepping forward.
His gaze lifted toward Jasper, but he quickly returned his
attention to Miss West. “Are you all right?”

“Fine, Mr. Beatty, thank you. This
gentleman,” she indicated Jasper with a wave of her hand, “rescued
me from a rather forward bloke and insisted on seeing me home.”

Mr. Beatty stepped around her and offered his
hand in greeting. Jasper shook his hand, more than a little
surprised—and impressed—at the man’s nerve.

“Thank you for assisting Miss West. It’s a
shame she has to walk home at this hour from the theatre. I’d offer
my escort, but I’m afraid I’m rather busy with my daughter.” The
lines around his eyes and mouth creased with worry, making him seem
older than his probably thirty years. He turned to Miss West. “I’m
sure I can find someone trustworthy to see you home while you’re
filling in on the stage.”

She was an actress?

She threw a glance at Jasper before returning
her attention to Mr. Beatty. “You’re very kind, but that won’t be
necessary. Mae is returning to her role tomorrow. I was able to
finish Molly’s dress and your shirt tonight, however.” She pulled a
bag from her shoulder, reached inside and withdrew two
garments.

Mr. Beatty’s face lit up the dim and dreary
court. Then the creases returned. “I wish I could pay you, but
Molly’s medicine was too expensive.”

Miss West smiled at him and patted his hand.
“It’s all right, Mr. Beatty. I don’t expect payment.”

He hugged the clothing to his chest and
offered a hapless smile. “You’re surely an angel.” His gaze dipped
to her hem. “I’ll make you a new pair of boots for winter.”

Miss West quickly pulled the worn toes of her
boots beneath her skirt, but not before Jasper noted the deeply
scuffed leather. She replaced the bag over her shoulder and smiled
at Mr. Beatty. “Thank you. Is Molly doing better with the
medicine?”

“It’s hard to tell yet, but I’ve great
hope.”

“I shall keep her—and you—in my prayers. Do
let me know if you need anything else.”

“Yes, ma’am. Evening, sir.” He inclined his
head toward Jasper then turned and went back inside the boarding
house.

Miss West made to follow him, but Jasper
wasn’t ready to let her go. He moved to intercept her. “What’s
wrong with his daughter?” he asked, thinking of any way to prolong
their conversation.

She stopped short and blinked up at him. “A
fever. She’s been sick a fortnight.” She stepped to the side as if
to go around him, but Jasper headed her off.

“You knew he couldn’t pay you, yet you made
the clothes anyway,” he said softly.

She paused, nodded. “He lost everything but
his daughter in a fire several weeks ago, including his wife.” She
lifted her gaze to his and Jasper wondered at the compassion of
this woman. She was clearly in dire straits, yet gave to someone
even needier.

Jasper touched his finger to her upturned
cheek. “He was right. You are an angel.”

Her eyes widened slightly, but she didn’t
jerk away. She stared up at him a long moment, then retreated from
his touch. “My lord, I thank you again for your help this evening.
Good night.”

No, not yet. Please
. Though he ached
to haul her up against him, burned to strip that cloak away and see
the treasures hidden underneath, he forced himself to stand still,
lest he frighten her off. “Let me make an appointment with you.
I’ll pay whatever you ask.”

She stared up at him another long moment,
seemed to consider his offer. Then she blinked. “No. Please
go.”

He frowned. This night was apparently
destined for the privy. But he still wasn’t willing to let her go
without trying to stake his claim. He withdrew his calling card
from an interior pocket of his coat and handed it to her. “Send a
note if you change your mind.”

Her fingers curled around the card. She held
it aloft for a moment. “I won’t,” she said.

She must already have a protector; many
actresses did. He’d kept one himself for a time. He took in the
coarse wool of her cloak, glanced at the hovel she called home, and
recalled the sorry condition of her boots. The rage he’d overcome
toward the man who’d attacked her reformed and directed itself to
the prick who kept her in such squalor. She was a diamond among the
coal. She deserved far better.

“Keep the card. If your circumstances
change,” he gave her a pointed stare, silently urging her to make
that change, “please call upon me.”

Far more disappointed than he’d been a
quarter hour earlier, Jasper pivoted and strode from the court. He
turned onto the Haymarket. March fell into step just behind him,
but didn’t say a word.

His coach stood across the thoroughfare, at
the mouth of another court. Jasper hurried across the Haymarket,
still busy despite the clock nearing or perhaps already passing
midnight. He paused when he reached his vehicle. March moved in
front of him and let down the step.

Raucous shouts drew Jasper to turn toward the
small court, which was maybe thrice as big as an alley. Lanterns
illuminated a circle of people, at the center of which two men
fought. The rough sounds of violence drew him forward. He gestured
for March to stay with the coach.