Olivia Twist

by Lorie Langdon

  PRAISE FOR OLIVIA TWIST

  “A brilliant reimagining of Oliver Twist! The prologue hooked me immediately. Langdon deftly plunges the reader into Dickens’s world of loveable orphans fighting to survive on the darker streets of London. Their plight is set in stark contrast to the sumptuous backdrop of Victorian England’s high society. Olivia Twist deals with treachery in both worlds and proves a spirited heroine worthy of admiration, while Dodger is the perfect bad boy hero. Sigh, I’ve fallen in love.”

  —KATHLEEN BALDWIN, bestselling author of A School for Unusual Girls

  “Captivating from the very first page to the very last! Olivia Twist is an enchanting story, brimming with eclectic characters, intrigue, and a romance that is certain to leave you weak at the knees. Not to be missed!”

  —JEN TURANO, USA Today bestselling author

  “When I learned Lorie Langdon made a foray into historical romance, I couldn’t wait to get my hands on this book. And she didn’t disappoint. Langdon expertly balances historical detailing and plot, the voice sparkles, and the characters were so endearing, I couldn’t wait to escape into this book each night. Lively and transportive, Olivia Twist is a romantic and clever take on a classic that will leave readers yearning for more from this author.”

  —HEATHER WEBB, author of Last Christmas in Paris

  “Delectable romance, spine-tingling danger, and an indomitable female lead make Lorie Langdon’s Olivia Twist an addictively exquisite romp. One that kept me up far past midnight!”

  —MARY WEBER, author of the Storm Siren trilogy and The Evaporation of Sofi Snow

  OTHER BOOKS BY LORIE LANGDON

  Doon Novels (with Carey Corp)

  Doon (book one)

  Destined for Doon (book two)

  Shades of Doon (book three)

  Forever Doon (book four)

  Gilt Hollow

  BLINK

  Olivia Twist

  Copyright © 2018 by Lorie Moeggenberg

  This title is also available as a Blink ebook.

  Requests for information should be addressed to:

  Blink, 3900 Sparks Dr. SE, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49546

  Epub Edition January 2018 9780310763475

  ISBN 978-0-310-76341-3

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Any Internet addresses (websites, blogs, etc.) and telephone numbers in this book are offered as a resource. They are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsement by the publisher, nor does the publisher vouch for the content of these sites and numbers for the life of this book.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Cover design: Kirk DouPonce

  Interior design: Denise Froehlich

  Printed in the United States of America

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  For Tom—

  Because you would do anything for me, even fisticuffs.

  CONTENTS

  Praise for Olivia Twist

  Other Books by Lorie Langdon

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  PROLOGUE

  1841

  Holborn, London

  For long minutes, there was considerable doubt as to whether the child would survive to bear a name at all. Although being born in a workhouse was not the most fortunate of circumstances, in this child’s case the alternative would have made for a much different story; likely a very short one.

  Extended moments passed as the babe lay on a thin, flocked mattress, struggling to find that first, essential, life-giving breath while the parish surgeon warmed his hands by the meager fire and the nurse slipped into a dark corner to find fortification within a tiny green bottle.

  Oblivious to the disinterest of those gathered in the room, the baby gasped and proceeded to declare, to anyone within hearing distance, her choice to live.

  Her mother, on the other hand, lifted her head and croaked, “Let me see it, so I may die.”

  The surgeon rose from his position by the fire and hovered over the woman. “Oh, Miss, you must not talk like that.”

  The nurse tucked her bottle away and approached. “Lor’, no, there’s a dear young lamb ’ere. And there’s a place in the werk ’ouse for ye both.”

  Apparently, her prospects held little appeal, because the young mother gave her head a weak shake and held out her hands toward the child. The surgeon placed the babe in her arms, and the mother pressed her cold lips to the baby’s downy fluff in a lingering kiss before falling back with a gasp, gone from this world.

  “Ah, poor dear!” The nurse took a quick taste from her green bottle before scooping up the child.

  “The baby’s frail and likely to give you some trouble,” the surgeon said, slipping on his gloves with great consideration. “No need to call for me. Just give it some gruel. That ought to strengthen it up.” He paused to take a long look at the young mother resting in repose, the graceful arches of her dark-gold brows and the sweep of her curls across the pillow. “She was a lovely girl. Where did she come from?”

  “She was brought in last night,” the old nurse replied as she juggled the squirming child in one arm while digging in her pocket with the other. “The overseer found ’er in the street. Likely she’d walked some distance. ’Er shoes were wore to the nub. But where she came from, no one knows.”

  The surgeon leaned over the body and lifted her left hand. “Ah, no wedding ring.” He stared thoughtfully for a long moment. “Nurse, raise this one as a boy.”

  The old woman’s arm froze mid-swig. “Sir? But she be a female.”

  “Give her a fighting chance. If she grows up to look anything like her mother, the horrors she’ll be subjected to”—he straightened and looked the nurse in the eye—“will be unimaginable. Tell everyone she’s a male child.” Stuffing on his hat, the surgeon turned and walked out into the night to find his dinner.

  The old nurse sank into the chair by the fire and proceeded to dress the infant, contemplating the seven babes of her own, five of which she’d held as they died. This world was hard enough for any child, let alone an orphaned baby girl. With a damp smile at the babe’s perfect head covered in golden curls, she watched it twisting and rooting in her lap.

  “Yer a feisty one, me beaut,” the nurse whispered in conspiracy as she cupped a tiny balled fist in her workworn hand. “That trait will serve ye well. But yer goin’ to need more to make it.” The old woman’s eyes clouded with the image of her firstborn child, a son with hair the color of harvest wheat who’d passed before his second birthday. Mayhap the name would bring this one better fortune.

  A single f
at tear fell and splashed against the baby’s round cheek, startling both woman and babe. Leaning down, she spoke into the pink seashell ear, “I’ll no’ let ye perish this time, my little Oliver Twist.”

  CHAPTER 1

  Eighteen years later

  Grosvenor Square, London

  The Platts’ Annual Autumn Dinner Party

  The sounds of clinking china and animated chatter faded as Olivia’s cheeks warmed, and the rhubarb tart she’d consumed moments before threatened to disembark. And yet, she continued to stare. The gentleman in question raised his glass in salute, sharp blue eyes glittering as they locked on her face. His lips tilted, and the smile swept through her as a spirit might pass through one’s body, leaving her breathless.

  The young man’s uncommon good looks assured she would have remembered if they had met before. So why then did the planes of his face, the way he flicked his dark hair out of his eyes, and the restless tap of his fingers against his thigh send jitters of recognition through her chest?

  Olivia took a step forward, her gaze never wavered. Energy radiated around him, as if it took every ounce of his self-control to remain still. He tugged at the velvet lapel of his forest-green jacket and then shoved his hand into the pocket of his trousers as he spoke to his companion. Olivia’s heart skipped a beat and then raced forward, a memory just beyond her grasp swirling through her mind.

  “Olivia! Look who I’ve found lingering by the warm punch.” A familiar voice cut through the line of Olivia’s thoughts, knotting them into a jumbled mess. She tore her gaze away from the gentleman across the room to find her cousin, Violet, approaching on the lanky arm of Maxwell Grimwig. Violet tucked a stray crimson curl behind her ear, her lips forming words that to Olivia sounded like gibberish. With a lurch, the room tipped and slid away from Olivia’s feet, and she grasped Maxwell’s jacket sleeve for leverage.

  “Miss Brownlow!” Maxwell exclaimed as he took her by the shoulders and steered her to a nearby chair.

  “Good heavens, should I get the smelling salts?” Violet’s ruffled kerchief smacked Olivia in the face like a lavender-scented laundry bat.

  With an exasperated yank, she captured the offensive cloth from her cousin’s hand and fixed her with a death glare. “Not hardly.” Fainting was not something Olivia made a habit of, and she wasn’t about to start now.

  “No need to get testy. I was simply attempting to revive you.” Violet pouted, bending to peer into Olivia’s face, as if searching for signs of a fatal malady. “I believe I warned you against that fourth tart.”

  “I’m perfectly fine.” She huffed out a sigh and then softened her tone. “I promise.” Since Olivia had no mother yet living, Violet had a tendency toward over protection. Most times, Olivia found her friend’s cossetting lovable, but when she dared a surreptitious peek over Violet’s chartreuse-clad shoulder, and saw the mysterious gentleman had moved on, her frustration spiked.

  “You don’t look fine,” Vi proclaimed, hands gripping her corseted waist.

  Olivia narrowed her eyes at her closest friend, noting the yellowish tinge underlying her rosy, freckled cheeks. There was no getting around it; the ghastly lime gown would have to be tossed at the first opportunity. Violet was a master at choosing shades to best complement Olivia’s caramel-colored hair and odd, yellowish eyes, but when it came to her own vivid coloring, she seemed at a loss.

  Olivia rose to her feet and smoothed her gold-and-cream-striped skirt. “In any case, the tarts were worth it. They were truly the best I’ve had all year.”

  Violet giggled. For Olivia, the food was the main attraction at every party—at least that’s what she led others to believe. In truth, she would swim the length of the Thames for a slice of chocolate cake, but her ultimate goal at these events had little to do with her culinary obsessions.

  “Miss Brownlow,” Maxwell panted as he rushed to Olivia’s side, sweat beads dotting his hawkish nose. “I brought you refreshment.”

  Olivia accepted the warm mug as a bell tinkled, announcing dinner. “Why, thank you, Mr. Grimwig.” She took a small sip and lowered her lashes. “I am much restored.”

  The sharp slopes of his cheekbones glowed. “May I escort you to the dining room, Miss Brownlow?”

  “Of course, Maxwell.” She’d known Maxwell Grimwig for ages, therefore his neck only reddened slightly at her breech in proper address. Olivia detested the formal nature of dinner parties. She’d much rather meet with friends in a more casual setting. A picnic under the trees with her pup by her side, an intimate tea where no one counted the number of cakes she consumed, or a friendly game of cricket would all be preferable. Although these large social gatherings did have their advantages.

  Olivia rose and placed a hand on her friend’s offered elbow. “Max, are you acquainted with that gentleman in the forest green coat?” She craned her neck as she searched the departing crowd for the dark-haired man, and spotted him walking the young Widow Thesing through the doorway. “Just there.” Olivia stood on her toes and pointed.

  With a squeak, Violet grabbed Olivia’s hand and yanked it down. “Olivia! He might see you,” she hissed in outrage.

  Olivia recovered her hand from Violet’s lethal grip and then shrugged a shoulder as she arched a brow at Max. “Well?”

  “Yes, I … er … believe that is Jack MacCarron.” Max stuck a finger between his throat and his collar.

  “I’ve never heard of him.” Violet, who prided herself on knowing everyone who was anyone, peered across the room searching for the gentleman in question.

  “That may be because he is fairly new to society. Moved here from Ireland a couple years back, I believe.” Maxwell glanced around as the last few stragglers filed out of the room, and then sank down onto a chair and motioned the girls to sit on a brocade sofa across from him. “The circumstances were quite extraordinary, I hear.”

  Loving nothing more than a good story, Olivia perched on the edge of the divan beside Violet as Max pitched his voice in a whisper. “Jack’s aunt took him in after his parents were found murdered—his mother stabbed to death and his father shot in the head.”

  Olivia arched back, chills running down her spine. “Truly?”

  Maxwell’s lips thinned as he waggled his caterpillar-like eyebrows. “As it may be believed, young Jack was nothing more than a half-wild ruffian when he showed up on his aunt’s doorstep. Took her years to civilize him.”

  “Who is his aunt?” Violet whispered, gripping Olivia’s arm.

  “The old Widow March.”

  Olivia exchanged a wide-eyed glance with Violet. Lois March had a reputation for being eccentric. Everyone said she had lost her mind when her husband of forty-five years passed on, but Violet, having been acquainted with the woman since infancy, claimed she hadn’t had much of a mind to lose.

  Olivia leaned in and cupped her hand around the side of her mouth. “I’ve heard it said the Widow March buries something in her back garden at the light of every full moon. What do you suppose it could be?”

  “I’ve heard ’tis the bones o’ dead children,” whispered a melodic, Irish brogue, so close the tiny hairs by Olivia’s ear stirred. With a gasp, she rotated in her seat and almost collided with a solid shoulder covered in forest-green broadcloth. The gentleman in question leaned down, as if in conspiracy, a grin tilting his mouth, his blue eyes as frosty as a December morning.

  Olivia shot to her feet and Mr. MacCarron straightened, his smile broadening.

  Her cheeks burned as she stared up into a face that made her heart leap into her throat, but with a determined swallow she propped a hand on her hip and demanded, “Has anyone ever taught you that it’s impolite to eavesdrop?”

  “Has anyone ever told ye that it’s cruel to gossip?” Jack MacCarron’s smile never wavered, but something in his gaze forced Olivia back a step.

  “Now, MacCarron, we were just having a bit of fun. No need to take offense.” Maxwell’s voice shook only slightly as he moved to Olivia’s side.

&n
bsp; “None taken.” Jack’s eyes narrowed dangerously on Olivia for several beats, dredging up fears she thought she’d long outgrown. Something about the curve of his mouth, the shape of his face drew her back into her long years of destitution—begging on the streets, robbing to survive—but such a connection was impossible.

  He took a step forward. “I don’t believe we have met.” Olivia suppressed the urge to flee.

  “My apologies,” Maxwell said. “Allow me.”

  After a rather stilted round of introductions, Jack retrieved a woman’s reticule—presumably the reason he had returned to the drawing room—and made his exit. Shaking off her recollections, Olivia watched his broad back until he disappeared, and then turned to find her best friend, lips parted, staring at the now empty doorway.

  Despite the rainbows and butterflies reflected in Violet’s gaze, the knot in Olivia’s gut had little to do with romantic dreams and everything to do with a growing awareness rising within. Jack MacCarron was indeed no stranger to her.

  Olivia glided down the dark corridor, slinking from shadow to shadow in a dance she’d performed more times than she cared to number. Her excuse for trespassing in the living quarters of the Platts’ home held validity—this time. Presumably, she’d left the party to “lie down.”

  She could not believe she’d almost fainted. Her momentary weakness made her stomach clench with disgust. But Max Grimwig had come to her rescue in his sweet, bumbling way. His proposal was forthcoming any day now, and although she viewed him as no more than a friend, her uncle’s declining health and dwindling finances assured her swift, if not enthusiastic, acceptance. She ignored the cold that spread through her chest at the thought of marrying. Eighteen was an acceptable age to become a wife, but for Olivia it signified responsibilities she had no inclination to take on, and more remarkably, it meant the end of her freedom.