by Darcy Burke
“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 toge
ther 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.”
He leaned forward and inhaled her scent. “Are you being overly discriminating, or is it that you haven’t yet engaged in your mother’s trade? I find that inconceivable.” His eyes lit. “Ah! You’ve a protector, perhaps? He can’t pay you very well if you’re looking for work in a lowly dress shop.”
Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. She’d been propositioned before—twice just last night, in fact—but never in so awful a fashion. “I’m not interested in that type of work.”
“Now see here, gel.” He snagged her wrist in a brutal grip. Olivia tried to wrench free, but he pulled her against his barrel-sized chest. His fingers bit into her flesh, sure to leave a mark. Cruelly, he grasped her chin while he lowered his head. “Open up now.” His humid breath washed over her, and she gagged. No, no, no, this couldn’t happen! She brought her knee up and delivered the blow her mother had assured her would wound any man.
Sure enough, Clifton howled with pain and fell to the side onto one of the chairs. The wood splintered beneath his weight and he crashed to the floor in an ungainly mess. Olivia didn’t wait to see if he got up. She turned on her heel, plucked up her basket, and raced through the curtain, running into Mrs. Johnson in her dash to safety.
The shopkeeper held her steady for a moment then dropped her arms, glaring at Olivia. “What did you do?”
Miss Clifton, ribbons cascading from her fingertips, gaped at Olivia.
“I protected myself. Mr. Clifton was…too familiar.”
Mrs. Johnson sucked in a breath. “Did you hurt him? I heard a noise.” She peered around Olivia.
Fright and anxiety suffused Olivia in sweat. She had to get out of the shop. “He’s fine. I think.”
The shopkeeper returned her narrowed gaze to Olivia. “If you’ve done him harm, pray he doesn’t notify the watch.”
Olivia’s fear crested into panic. She tried to push past Mrs. Johnson, but the older woman grabbed her arm. “You’re a fool to refuse his offer.”
“I’m not for sale, Mrs. Johnson.” Olivia’s voice shook with anger and revulsion. “I was raised as a gentlewoman.”
Mrs. Johnson sneered, revealing yellowed teeth. “You’re no gentlewoman now. From what I’ve seen, you can’t afford to refuse Clifton, and I refuse to lose his business! If you leave now, you’ll never work for me again.”
“I know. Here.” She pulled the dresses from the basket and thrust them at Mrs. Johnson so the shopkeeper had to let go of her arm. The loss of income, especially for the dresses she’d just brought, was something she’d contemplate—and bitterly regret—later, but now she just had to get out of the shop.
The curtain behind her rustled. Olivia turned her head just as Mr. Clifton’s beet-colored face appeared. Sweat ran down his cheek as he limped into the shop, retribution etched into his angry features.
Olivia sprinted for the door and freedom beyond.
“I’m not finished with you!” Clifton’s furious promise chased her from the shop.
Olivia ran until perspiration trailed down her back in rivulets. When her lungs felt close to bursting, she slowed. A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed she hadn’t been followed. At least not that she could see.
She walked quickly, her breathing coming in fast, hard pants. Mr. Clifton may not be on her heels, but his declaration still rang in her ears.
Twice in as many days she’d suffered attacks on her person. The protective cocoon she’d carefully built in the months since her mother’s death was crumbling around her. She supposed it was bound to happen. How safe could a young, unmarried woman with no family hope to be in London?
Olivia forced her panic into a cold knot of determination. Though she’d lived with her mother the past seven years, she’d spent the entirety ensuring her own well-being.
If she could manage to find employment—honest, decent employment—she could continue as she’d done. She’d survived nearly a year on her own, and she refused to let these two lamentable occurrences beat her down. She simply had to find more sewing work immediately. Several embroidered handkerchiefs sat at the bottom of her basket. She made her way toward the Strand where there were several shops that might be interested in purchasing her work.
Her options, like her meager savings and her food stores, were dwindling. She could almost see how her mother had fallen into the position of courtesan. How easy it must have been to accept a protector and enjoy all of the luxuries that accompanied such an arrangement. But Olivia couldn’t countenance suffering the unsavory proclivities of the man who all but owned her.
Unless the man wasn’t unsavory at all. Like Lord Saxton. Little flutters danced in her belly as she recalled his fair hair and pale blue eyes.
She cringed at the direction of her mind. She wasn’t yet willing to take on her mother’s trade. And there was the key: yet. Which meant she was already beginning to consider it.
Chapter Three
THAT AFTERNOON, Jasper strode into his parents’ drawing room. As the space was not yet filled to the brim with Important Persons, he was able to make his way quickly to his aunt, the only person he really cared to see. In truth, he’d rather be anywhere else, but duty dictated he suffer his mother’s bi-weekly tea, which was a means to another dutiful end—selecting a wife.
Aunt Louisa, perched upon a settee newly covered with rich olive-green damask, grinned at him. “Sit with me.”
Gratefully, he took the empty space beside her. Aunt Louisa’s presence might keep the marriage-hunting debs at bay—Jasper preferred to conduct his wife hunt on his own terms—as well as his mother, who coldly tolerated Louisa’s presence because one simply didn’t ignore one’s sister-in-law.
She stared at his face. “However did you get that nasty bruise and that cut on your cheek?”
He’d expected the question given last evening’s spontaneous activities. “Promise you won’t laugh?”
“When have I ever laughed at you, dear boy?”
“I tripped into the doorframe of my office.”
She set her teacup on th
e table and chuckled.
“You promised you wouldn’t laugh.”
Her robin’s egg blue eyes crackled with mirth. “Sorry, dear. You mustn’t tell anyone else that story. Though it will go against your image, say you got into a fight.”
Jasper smiled in spite of himself. “If you say so.”
“I do. I suppose that explains why you weren’t at de Longley’s rout last night, but it was unkind of you to make me go alone.”
After the devastating loss of her husband three years ago, Jasper had taken special care of her and almost always escorted her to events when he was in Town. “My apologies, Aunt. I confess I needed a respite from Holborn.”
She gave him a knowing look. Of anyone, she knew her brother’s cruelties best. “Still harassing you about marriage, I suppose.”
“Among other things.” The duke never suffered a dearth of complaints where Jasper was concerned.
“Have you any say in your future countess?”
Holborn preferred to dictate his choice of bride—had in fact prevented Jasper from marrying once—but Jasper would be damned if he’d allow such interference again. It was precisely that interference that had prevented Jasper from seeking a wife during the past decade. However, now he had to marry or suffer his father’s meddling. He’d made a deal nearly one year ago to wed, a deal that had allowed his sister to choose her spouse. At least one of them would be happy.
The duke had demanded Jasper marry a woman bearing his approval within one year. And the year was almost up. Jasper needed to declare his intentions soon, before the duke organized a marital situation on his own. He wouldn’t put it past his father to concoct some sort of compromise to ensure Jasper married someone ‘appropriate.’
“The choice is mine.” For now.
She pursed her lips while her eyes found the broad shoulders of the duke across the room. His back to them, he stood before the windows facing Grosvenor Square talking with the prime minister and the Earl of Witton.