by Darcy Burke
Jasper shrugged. “That is my duty.”
“Yes, but you needn’t fill the role he’s created. His way is not the only way.”
Jasper knew that, but he’d grown up following the path of least resistance as a means of self-preservation. “You can’t assume that what you see on the outside is who I am on the inside. I thought you knew me better than that.”
“Oh, dear, I do.” She squeezed his hand. “But perhaps you need to let that person on the inside out a little more often.”
Jasper wasn’t sure he could do that. He’d let Olivia see more of him than anyone since Abigail. But to the world at large, he was Saxton. Heir to one of the oldest dukedoms in the realm and utterly above reproach. He had to maintain that façade lest anyone see straight through to the violence-loving ruiner of women beneath.
“I will try.”
Her bright blue eyes were wide with regret. “I’m so sorry. Will you forgive me, please?”
Jasper hugged her. “Of course.”
She patted his back and held him in a tight embrace for a long minute. When he sat back, she brushed at her eyes. “You’ve turned me into a watering pot.”
Jasper waited for her to regain her composure before continuing. “I’m afraid Olivia wasn’t completely honest with you. Do you have any idea who her mother was?”
Louisa shook her head. “All I have is a note from a woman named Fi. Olivia said she died last year.”
“And you didn’t think to ask anything else?”
Alarm began to register in Louisa’s gaze. “Olivia said they weren’t close. Most of her upbringing was by her foster mother in Devon.”
“Her mother was Fiona Scarlet. You’re familiar with that name, aren’t you?”
Jasper had learned that before Olivia was born, her mother had been one of the most celebrated actresses at Drury Lane. However, some disagreement between her and another actress had caused her to be sacked. After that, she’d fallen somewhat out of the public eye, except that she’d began to be known for her liaisons with titled gentleman such as Merry. Soon it became known that Mrs. Scarlet didn’t maintain monogamous relations with her lovers, and the rank of her clientele fell drastically. After a few years, her name had become a memory amongst most of the Upper Ten Thousand.
Louisa clasped her hands tightly together in her lap. “Yes. Is that…was she Olivia’s mother?”
“Yes.”
“Merry…” Louisa looked away. After a moment, she said in a strained voice, “I had no idea.”
“You can see why this is a problem. If I was able to discover this secret, only think of who else might know.”
Louisa returned her gaze to his. Unshed tears glistened in her eyes. “How did you find out?”
Jasper couldn’t tell her the entire truth. While he wanted there to be no lies between him and his aunt, he couldn’t bring himself to tell her he’d met Olivia before, that Olivia had tried to swindle him. That would remain a secret he would never share.
“She looked familiar to someone at the Faversham Ball.”
Louisa raised a hand to her gaping mouth. “Oh no, who?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m taking care of everything.” He still needed to talk with Prewitt, but planned to very soon.
She dropped her hand to her lap and blinked against her tears. “Jasper, I don’t want to lose her.”
Jasper took her hand and vowed not to let her fall into the crippling sadness that had claimed her after Merry died. “You won’t.”
“You’re such a dear, dear boy. I never should have kept the truth from you. Of course you would help me.” She shook her head as a tear fell down her cheek. She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. “See, an utter watering pot.”
Jasper rested his palms on his lap, suddenly restless to fix this problem as soon as possible. He’d run Prewitt to ground today and would then visit the Haymarket to ensure no one there breathed a word about Olivia West.
Once Louisa regained her composure, she shook her head. “I’ve been terribly selfish.” Her tone had recovered its strength and her gaze had turned determined. “I wanted so badly to have Merry’s daughter in my life, I didn’t think about the consequences to anyone, including Olivia. I’m not even sure she likes her new situation.”
“I’m confident she loves being here with you.” Not only did Jasper seek to soothe Louisa’s concerns, he knew it to be true.
“That may be. But I’m not certain she’s comfortable in Society.”
“It’s an adjustment for her.”
“Perhaps I’ll take her to York, to the dowager house at Merriweather Hall.” Louisa looked at the painting. “Yes, we’ll do that immediately.”
Jasper hated that idea, but recognized it was probably for the best—for everyone, not least of all him since he couldn’t keep from thinking of Olivia and wanting to touch her and kiss her and do all manner of inappropriate things to her. Yes, better for everyone if they went to York. “An excellent notion.”
Louisa’s eyes widened. “Oh! But then I shall miss your engagement, and I don’t want to do that. When will you be announcing?”
Jasper wished he knew. He supposed today’s tasks would take him closer to ensuring Louisa’s and Olivia’s well-being, but he still wasn’t ready to put a definitive timeframe on his betrothal. “Soon. But don’t let my engagement dictate your plans,” he added, somewhat half-heartedly.
“We’ll wait. You’re taking care of things with Olivia—and I trust you completely to do that.” She gave him a pointed look filled with warmth and love.
He couldn’t help but smile in return. “Thank you.”
Jasper left a few minutes later, glad the discussion with Louisa had gone so well. He only hoped the rest of his day followed suit.
THAT afternoon Olivia was spared having to lie to Louisa for the second day in a row. She’d planned to claim another headache in lieu of going to Lady Montrose’s for tea, but Louisa had been the one to beg off in order to take a restorative nap. Which had left Olivia free to visit Mrs. Pitt—her mother’s one-time dresser—to continue her investigation into her paternity.
The Strand was busy this afternoon as she made her way to Villiers Street where Mrs. Pitt supposedly resided. The woman was quite old. Olivia only hoped she still drew breath, because without her, she may never learn the truth. Of course, it was also possible Mrs. Pitt would be no help at all, but Olivia chose not to ponder that.
Mrs. Gifford’s shop was just ahead, but Olivia would turn from the Strand before she reached it. If she weren’t so intent on her purpose, she’d stop in to visit.
“Miss West?”
Olivia paused and raised her head. Mr. Gifford approached, a welcoming smile warming his thin face.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Gifford.”
“I’ve been hoping you’d come to see us. Mother and I have wondered after your welfare.”
“How thoughtful of you both.” Olivia itched to continue her journey, but also didn’t wish to be rude. “I’m on a rather quick errand here in the neighborhood. I should like to stop in and see your mother—and you, of course—for tea. Perhaps another day?”
“We’d be delighted. I’d be honored to walk with you, if that’s acceptable.”
She didn’t really want company, but perhaps his presence would soothe her nerves about the upcoming interview. “Certainly. I’m going to Villiers Street, there.” She pointed just ahead.
Mr. Gifford offered his arm. Olivia placed her hand on his sleeve and walked alongside him.
“How is it? Living with Lady Merriweather, I mean? Do you attend balls and routs and such?”
“Mmm, yes. It’s a bit overwhelming, to tell the truth. I adore Louisa, however, and so I’m willing to partake in the activities she enjoys.”
“I understand. I humor my mother in much the same way.”
Olivia wasn’t necessarily humoring Louisa. She didn’t dislike these events. No, she felt as if she didn’t really belong. Perha
ps her visit with Mrs. Pitt would change her perspective. Olivia dearly hoped it would.
They turned into Villiers Street. Olivia looked for the address—it would be on the same side of the street on which they walked. She scanned the buildings as they strolled.
“Do you mind my asking about your appointment?” he asked.
“Merely visiting an old friend.”
“Commendable of you to remember those of us from your former life.”
She didn’t know him well enough to predict whether he was being genuine, but couldn’t completely discount the odd lilt to his tone. “I have many dear friends who I shan’t forget regardless of my address.”
“It’s good to hear you say that. Can Mother and I expect you to call soon, then?”
“Of course. Thank you, Mr. Gifford.” Olivia withdrew her hand. He bowed to her, but didn’t immediately continue on his way. After an awkward moment, Olivia said, “Well, good day, then.”
“Oh.” He smiled crookedly. “Good day.” At last he ambled back toward The Strand.
Olivia exhaled before walking up the steps to the house and rapping on the door. She was answered by a portly woman of middle age with a kind, round face. “Yes?”
“I’m here to visit Mrs. Pitt.” Olivia offered a pleasant smile. “I understand she boards with you?”
She scanned Olivia, perhaps to determine her purpose. “You here to buy some scarves?”
“Scarves?”
“I suppose not, then. Does she know you?” A trace of skepticism crept into her tone.
Olivia thrilled to the fact that Mrs. Pitt was indeed still living at this address. “Not exactly. She knew my mother, and I was hoping to speak with her. My mother died last year, you see.”
The woman’s face softened. “My condolences. Of course, come inside. I’ll show you upstairs.”
The interior of the house was dim and smelled of fresh-baked pastry. Olivia’s mouth watered as she followed the landlady to the first floor. Yellowed paper with a leaf pattern peeled back from the wall where the stairs opened to a landing. The landlady led her across the small space to an open doorway. Inside, a small woman sat hunched over her knitting beside a window open to Villiers Street below.
“Mrs. Pitt, I’ve brought a visitor.” She looked inquiringly at Olivia.
“Miss Olivia West.”
The old woman’s head perked up, but she didn’t look in their direction. In fact, she looked at nothing. Her eyes were the dark cloudy gray of someone whose vision had succumbed to cataracts. “Who?” She spoke loudly as if her hearing were also impaired.
“Miss West. I believe you knew my mother, Fiona Scarlet.” Olivia blushed as she said this and sneaked a glance at the landlady to gauge her reaction. She was so used to people passing judgment based on her mother. However, the landlady’s face reflected nothing, giving Olivia to believe—thankfully—that she’d never heard of Fiona Scarlet.
Mrs. Pitt set her knitting in her lap. “Dear Fi. How is she, love?”
Olivia was careful to speak loudly and clearly. “I’m sorry to say she passed last year.”
“I’ll just leave you to visit.” The landlady retreated from the small chamber.
Mrs. Pitt’s mouth drooped. “’Tis a shame. Sit, love. I’d often wondered what happened to Fi’s child. Sent you off to live with her sister, isn’t that right?”
“Yes.” Olivia perched on a straight-backed chair, anticipation rushing through her at Mrs. Pitt’s obvious knowledge, at least of Olivia’s childhood. “I was hoping you could tell me about my mother, back when you dressed her, say twenty years ago or so.”
Mrs. Pitt chuckled as she picked up her knitting once more. Her fingers worked rapidly, weaving the yarn at a remarkable pace given her blindness. “Your mother was a popular actress. Well-liked by men, the object of jealousy for most women, particularly the other actresses.”
Olivia could think of no way to ease into her question and so she simply said, “I’ve come to ask about my father. I’m hoping you can help me determine his identity.”
“Your mother never told you?”
“No. I’d been given to believe he was my uncle, a vicar married to Fiona’s half-sister. However, I’ve recently learned another man, a viscount, may have been my father.”
The stitches mounted until Mrs. Pitt started another row. “Mmm. I take it neither one can confirm your paternity?”
Her insides clenched. “No.”
Mrs. Pitt’s needles clacked against one another. “Why do you think this viscount is your father?”
Olivia had come for information, but had the distinct impression she was now the one being interrogated. “His widow is quite certain. The viscount and I share specific traits. And my mother was in possession of a hand-painted gift from him.”
The ancient lifted a bony shoulder in a half-shrug. “It sounds as if you have your answer, then.”
“The vicar and I also share specific traits. My aunt is equally convinced he is my father. Did you meet either of those men?”
“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, wit
h 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.
Chapter Seventeen
“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.