His Wicked Heart (4 page)

Sevrin’s chin ticked up in warning, and
Jasper threw himself to the street and rolled. Enders had lunged
forward, pitching himself off balance to take Jasper down. Without
Jasper to break his fall, he tumbled to the ground face-first.

Jasper jumped to his feet, insulted Sevrin
had thought he’d needed help. Enders wrapped his hand around
Jasper’s ankle and pulled.

“Kick him!” someone yelled.

Staggering to keep his footing, Jasper
recognized why this was different than Jackson’s. It was still
sport, but more primal, borne of man’s most basic needs: survival
and dominance. He shook off the man’s hold, thrilling to this new
challenge.

Enders got to his knees, but Jasper kicked
him in the chest. His opponent fell backward. The spectators
cheered. Jasper’s blood surged. He circled the downed man. “Get
up.”

It would have been easy to conquer the man
while he was on the ground, but Jasper didn’t want to win that way.
He wanted the hard-earned victory. He wanted the fight.

Enders struggled to his feet. They
contemplated each other, taking a moment to assess and strategize.
Jasper lowered his guard a bit, inviting Enders to advance. His
opponent didn’t immediately take the bait but considered his
options. Finally, he surged toward Jasper, but Jasper timed his
movements perfectly. He stepped to the side and drove his fist into
Enders’ gut. Enders doubled over. Using his elbow, Jasper then
struck the back of the other man’s neck. Enders sank to his knees,
but quickly wobbled to his feet. When he came forward, Jasper
landed a fist in the man’s warped nose.

“Enough,” Enders mumbled through the blood
streaming over his mouth.

Jasper stepped back, his chest heaving with
exhaustion. The crowd yelled its approval, and Jasper’s muscles
sang with victory.

Sevrin stepped forward. “Enders, you’re in.
Saxton, come with me.” Without waiting for Jasper, he turned and
went into the tavern at the back of the court—a slope-roofed
establishment bearing a sign with a black horse.

Jasper stared after Sevrin. Why had the man
he’d just beaten been invited to join, while Jasper had been
beckoned like a child awaiting punishment? He retrieved his coat
and hat from the old man and followed Sevrin inside, intent on
pummeling him too, if necessary.

The small common room was crowded with more
furniture than people. Sevrin led him to a room at the back where
candles flickered in sconces along the walls and on a few rough,
dirty tables.

Pain began to enter Jasper’s consciousness.
His cheek, his side. “Why is Enders in? I beat him.”

“Because he’s a good fighter, and he’s tried
out three times. Each time he’s better. He’ll be a good addition to
the club.” Sevrin dropped into a chair. “You, on the other hand,
are something I hadn’t considered.”

A serving maid entered with two tankards and
deposited them on the table next to Sevrin without a word. She left
as quickly as she’d appeared.

The viscount slouched in his chair, assuming
a position in tandem with his dissolute reputation. “Sit. If you
please,” he drawled with a bit of a smirk. “You’re a surprisingly
good fighter. At first I didn’t think you were going to fare well.
You fight at Jackson’s?”

Asinine question. “Of course.”

The viscount smiled, but it was of the
self-deprecating variety. “I’m not welcome there. Besides, I prefer
a more…visceral bout.” He pulled his gloves off, revealing scabbed
knuckles. “Did you enjoy it? The fight?”

“Yes.” Jasper stared at the man’s hands. Then
he raised his gaze and noticed the faint yellow tint around one eye
and along the line of his jaw. A few days ago, he probably looked
as bruised as Jasper felt right now.

“Are you going to sit? Tom’s ale is quite
good.”

Why not? He had no plans to partake in polite
entertainment, and certainly couldn’t now with his damaged face. He
took a drink of the ale. It was better than good. He downed half
the tankard.

“What are you doing here?” Sevrin asked.

Jasper shrugged. There was no way in hell
he’d share his miseries with anyone. “A fight sounded good.”
Particularly after his original plans for an illicit evening had
gone horribly awry.

“No, I mean what are you doing
here
?
Fighting in a court off the Haymarket? You’re a long way from the
staid, estimable gentleman who’s the object of every young—and
probably old—woman’s desire.”

Sevrin’s description of him was accurate, but
suddenly Jasper wondered how he’d become precisely that man.
Instead of the hot-blooded youth who’d ruined a girl and scarcely
looked back.

He purposely ignored the question and the
emotions it stirred. “So what is this then, a pugilism club?”

A corner of Sevrin’s mouth curved up. “I
wouldn’t characterize it that way. It’s a fighting club.
My
fighting club.”

“Who’s in this club of yours?”

Sevrin lifted his tankard. “No one you
know.”

Nonsense. Jasper’s family prided themselves
on knowing everyone, even if, like Sevrin, they weren’t of the same
quality. “You might be surprised.”

Sevrin chuckled before taking a drink and
setting it back on the pockmarked table. “Truly, you don’t know any
of these men. You saw them outside. Laborers, watermen, a few
professional chaps.”

Now it made sense—
Sevrin’s
fighting
club. “I see, no gentlemen at all.”

“I suppose you won’t count me in that
number?” Sevrin smiled sardonically. “No, of course not. Despite
that, I think you’ll fit right in.”

With a club made up of common men and led by
a reprobate? He nearly laughed, even as the offer tempted him. “I
don’t need another club.”

“You may not need it, but you want it. You
could’ve beaten Enders into the ground, but you savored the fight.”
Sevrin speared him with a knowing stare.

“Why do you want me?” It was obvious other
men, lesser men, tried multiple times to get into this club and yet
he’d invited Jasper on his first endeavor. “Is it because of who I
am? Are you thinking I’ll help improve your reputation?’

Sevrin laughed. Loudly. It was a moment
before he regained his composure. “You think I somehow lured you
here to better my incontrovertible social standing? Good Lord, man,
have you no sense of self-worth? You’re a natural fighter. I don’t
give a pig’s arse if you’re a butcher, a clergyman, or the bloody
prince regent, and the other men don’t either. Take the membership
or leave it. I don’t care.” He leaned back in his chair and drank
his ale.

A place where he could be Jasper Sinclair
instead of Holborn’s heir. A place where background didn’t matter
and men could simply be men. Holborn would hate it, and his father
made everything Jasper did his business. But with the parson’s trap
imminent, perhaps it was time again to do what he wanted. Yes,
Jasper wanted in the club as much as he’d wanted Miss West, and
unlike her, this club wanted him.

“When do you meet?”

“Most nights. Here. Late, but not too late.
There are rules. I’ll fill you in tomorrow night.”

“Until then.” Jasper plucked up his hat and
coat and left, feeling more invigorated than he had in years.

THE following morning, Olivia departed the
boarding house dressed in a simple cotton gown of her own design.
Her wardrobe wasn’t extravagant, but she viewed herself as a
walking advertisement for her services and endeavored to wear
something fashionable when conducting business.

By the time she reached Mrs. Johnson’s shop
in Orange Street, moisture had beaded beneath her gown. Gratefully,
Olivia entered the cool interior, toting a basket filled with the
gowns she’d been hired to stitch. Mrs. Johnson designed the dresses
and pieced them together, then paid women like Olivia to complete
them. This was Olivia’s third commission from Mrs. Johnson, and she
desperately prayed it would become a permanent arrangement,
particularly after losing not one, but both of her positions at the
theatre.

The front room was empty, save the stark rows
of fabric lining the right and left walls. Tables marched along the
middle of the shop bearing buttons and ribbons. Though Mrs.
Johnson’s establishment was smaller than most, it was scrupulously
neat. In fact, Olivia thought the space could do with swaths of
fabric in the corners and displays of Mrs. Johnson’s work. Perhaps
she’d suggest such improvements if Mrs. Johnson decided to hire her
on.

Olivia made her way through a curtain to the
back area, which they used as both a consultation and workroom. She
stopped short upon seeing Mrs. Johnson seated with two
customers.

The shopkeeper looked up. “Olivia, I’d like
to introduce you to my new clients.” Mrs. Johnson gestured to the
pair—a young woman and a man who, by looks, had to be her father.
Their clothing was simple, elegant. Not the finest materials, but a
cut above most. “This is Mr. Clifton and his daughter, who is to be
married. She’s quite taken with your handkerchiefs and wishes to
commission a gown embroidered with doves. I’ve assured her you’d be
pleased to stitch her gown.”

Olivia’s insides gushed with excited
expectation. She set her basket on the floor and moved closer to
their conversation.

A masculine cough filled the small chamber.
“You look familiar to me, Miss…”

“West,” Olivia supplied cautiously. His
questioning tone eroded the edge of her elation.

Mr. Clifton was a large man, too big for the
chair Mrs. Johnson had provided. His knees stuck up, and his elbows
seemed to engulf the space. He stared at Olivia, his dark eyes
protruding from beneath a heavy brow. Men often stared, but she
expected a different sort of behavior from a man chaperoning his
daughter.

“Olivia, Miss Clifton’s nuptials are in
mid-September. I assured her that would be plenty of time to
construct her gown and complete the embroidery. Don’t you agree?”
Mrs. Johnson asked.

Olivia focused on the round-faced Miss
Clifton in an effort to ignore the father’s rude appraisal.
“Yes.”

Miss Clifton blinked overlarge gray eyes.
Then her face split into a wide grin, and she clapped her
hands.

Mr. Clifton coughed again, drawing everyone’s
attention once more. Olivia found it odd he accompanied this girl
on her errand. If she didn’t have a mother, surely she had some
other female guiding her? Olivia wasn’t so far gone from her polite
upbringing to comprehend that a young, unmarried girl in Miss
Clifton’s sphere required a feminine influence.

“I’ve just realized,” Mr. Clifton said,
nodding appreciatively—too appreciatively. “You look rather like
Mrs. Scarlet.”

Olivia’s gut tightened. Her mother.

Mrs. Johnson looked from Mr. Clifton to
Olivia and then back again. “The actress?”

His gaze traveled over Olivia, lingering on
her tell-tale red hair. “Yes.”

Mrs. Johnson gave him a placating smile.
Olivia expected her to remark that this was an inappropriate
conversation to conduct in front of Miss Clifton. Instead, she
said, “You must be mistaken, Mr. Clifton.”

He smiled, the corners of his mouth jutting
up in a grotesque fashion. “I’m certain I’m not.” He didn’t
elaborate, but from the subtle widening of Mrs. Johnson’s eyes, she
well understood his meaning.

Olivia prayed her dead mother wouldn’t cost
her more work. She didn’t know what to say—and judged protestation
as pointless in any case—so she simply folded her hands in her lap
and awaited the outcome. And hoped they didn’t notice the quiver in
her frame.

Mr. Clifton slapped his palm against his
knee. “Do you know, Mrs. Johnson, I believe we’d like to hire Miss
West outright. My daughter requires an entirely new wardrobe, in
addition to the wedding clothes, and I can think of no one better
suited to the task than your protégé. She can move into our
servants’ quarters.”

Olivia squeezed her fingers together until
she lost feeling in the tips. “No, I don’t—”

Mrs. Johnson spoke over Olivia. “There will
be a commission to me, of course.”

A commission? Olivia stared, unable to blink,
unable to process what the woman was saying. Did she not understand
what Mr. Clifton was asking? Or was she eager to play the role of
pimp?

Lest they arrange the entire transaction
without bothering to obtain Olivia’s consent, she said as sternly
as possible, “I’m afraid I’m not available for that sort of
employment, Mr. Clifton.”

He frowned, his gaze riveted to Olivia’s
chest. “You must. I’ll not be satisfied with any other
arrangement.”

Mrs. Johnson leaned toward Olivia and said
softly, “This is an excellent opportunity.”

Olivia’s stomach turned. Was the woman
daft?

Mr. Clifton smoothed his large hands—with
fingers the size of robust sausages—over his thighs. The idea of
him pawing her drew a thread of nausea from Olivia’s belly.

“Susana, dear, why don’t you go and look at
the fabric again with Mrs. Johnson?” Mr. Clifton wrestled out of
his petite chair, his mouth turning up in a condescending
smile.

Miss Clifton nodded and stood up alongside
Mrs. Johnson who led her through the curtain to the front of the
shop.

Alone with Mr. Clifton, Olivia’s skin
prickled. His gaze became much more frank, the dark flint of his
eyes scraping over her with languid prurience. “You’re even
lovelier than your mother. I imagine that’s because you haven’t yet
suffered much use. In a few years, perhaps your skin will lose that
luscious, youthful glow, but now…” He smacked his lips together as
if he were contemplating a plate of succulent cakes.

She edged closer to the curtained
doorway.

He moved to block her exit. “Oh, you mustn’t
go.”

A blistering set down came to her lips, but
she knew better than to insult Mrs. Johnson’s client. If she could
just get around him and escape… “Thank you, but no.”