Olivia Twist

by Lorie Langdon

  CHAPTER 3

  Heat flooded Olivia’s veins, and her vision dimmed, causing her to grip the rough brick wall at her back. Jack hovered over her. Too close. She caught the sweetness of apples on his breath as he leaned in, and her skin tingled in response to the movement. All they would need to do was turn their heads a fraction and their lips would meet. Anticipation sparked down her spine. But when several moments passed and he didn’t move to touch her, a realization hit Olivia like a bucket full of icy water.

  He’s playing with me!

  He hovered, waiting and ready to pounce as soon as she took the bait. As soon as she made the first move. Just like one of his marks.

  Steeling her spine, Olivia turned her head toward him and moved a hand beneath his coat with deliberate slowness. She grasped the solid heat of his waist. “Perhaps …” she breathed into his ear.

  He cocked his head, and when their eyes met, the ferocity in his blue gaze almost caused her to lose her nerve. Ignoring the twisting in her gut, she leaned in close, her mouth a hairsbreadth from his as she dipped her hand into the warmth of his pocket. “… I could refresh your memory.”

  He drew in a sharp breath and lowered his mouth to hers. But in that moment, Olivia ducked under his arm. She skipped away, waving the thick roll of pound notes she’d just pulled from his waistcoat.

  Jack’s eyes flared. “What the devil—” His expression turned dark, and he stalked toward her.

  Olivia’s fingers numbed, and she almost dropped her prize. She hadn’t thought her plan through. There was no way she could outrun him in her blasted skirts. Jack advanced, his face set in hard, angry lines. She backed away, searching the alley for some kind of weapon. With a snarl, Brom leapt forward and sank his teeth into Jack’s thigh.

  He yelped and grabbed Brom’s muzzle, trying to pry the animal off his flesh. “Call off your beast, or I swear I’ll …”

  “Brom, come!” The dog unclamped his jaws, narrowly avoiding a swipe of Jack’s fist, and ran to her side.

  Olivia glanced around the corner. Her path clear, she backed up several quick steps.

  “Stop!” He tried to follow, but only succeeded in limping forward before reaching down to clutch his injured leg. “Dammit!”

  Olivia shot Jack a triumphant grin, spun on her heel, and ran down the alley before she changed her mind and helped the bloomin’ git.

  Jack slammed into the townhouse, the door banging against the jam so hard a china plate slid from the wall and crashed to the floor.

  “Mister MacCarron.” Clyde, the March family’s butler, hobbled into the room, his stiff legs only able to carry him a few inches at a time. “Are you quite all right, sir?”

  Remorse flared in Jack’s chest, and he turned to gather the pieces of the shattered plate. “I’ve got it, Clyde.” Jack bit the inside of his cheek, the pain in his leg flaring as he straightened and turned to face the old man. “But Lois won’t be too pleased, eh?”

  Clyde returned Jack’s smile with a gap-toothed one of his own. “No worries, Mister MacCarron. I’ll replace it straight away with another plate.” He leaned in, and said in conspiracy, “She’ll be none the wiser.”

  “That’s a good man.” Jack gave the butler’s rail-thin arm a pat as he moved toward the stairs, concentrating hard on not limping. “And for the last time, call me Jack,” he instructed over his shoulder before he mounted the first step.

  “Yes, sir, Mister Jack.”

  Jack shook his head in bewilderment as he watched the butler shuffle out of the foyer. Upon his death, Lois March’s husband left her with nothing but a household to run and debilitating gambling debts; and when the funds inevitably dried up, Clyde had been the only servant to stick around. As a result, the butler had witnessed Jack’s transformation from street urchin to gentleman, making him very well aware Jack possessed no lineage, and that, in fact, he was no better than Clyde himself. Nevertheless, the old man insisted on treating him like bloomin’ royalty—which only confirmed Jack’s theory that people see what they choose to see.

  And it would seem quite a few people wish to see you.

  The words echoed in his head as he leaned heavily on the banister, ascending one slow step at a time. What did Olivia Brownlow want from him, anyway? Just the thought of the girl made his blood boil. He never lost control. It was the first rule one learned on the streets—fail to restrain your emotions, and the desperation takes over. But, blast, if he hadn’t almost kissed her on one of those same streets, his muscles shaking with the effort not to touch her.

  Jack paused on the stairs, took a deep, mind-clearing breath, and dug his hand into his jacket pocket, pulling out the lacy bit of fluff and ribbons he’d taken off her head. Suppressing a growl, he shoved the delicate cap back into his pocket. He couldn’t allow himself to care about the girl. She knew too much, and he needed to find out what she planned to do about it.

  “Well, if it isn’t the favored nephew. Been hitting the bottle early today, Jack?”

  Oh, good grief. Jack resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he gripped the newel post and pulled himself up the last step, meeting the calculating gaze of Christopher March, Lois’s grandson. Also known as a royal pain in his bum.

  Crossing the few feet that separated them, Jack ignored the sharp ache in his leg and stopped in front of the tall, thin gentleman. “When did ye get into town, Topher?” Jack crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the banister, just remembering to turn on his Irish brogue. “And more importantly, when do ye plan to leave?” Topher divided his time between Oxford and his mother’s home in Hampshire, with the occasional perfunctory visit with his grandmother. But now that he’d finished his university studies, Jack feared the prat would become a more permanent fixture in his life.

  Topher shoved his hands into his pockets, lips curving up at the corners, his gray eyes as flat as coins. “Sorry to disappoint, old man, but I’m here for the winter season. Mum and Gran think ’tis high time I selected a bride.” He arched a pale brow. “You know, to produce an heir and all that.”

  Christopher never let an opportunity pass to rub in the fact that he was the sole heir for both sides of his family. His father, Lois’s only child, had passed years ago, and Topher had no other siblings, making him his mother’s heir as well. Little did he know the fortune he’d be inheriting from his grandmother Lois would be nonexistent without Jack’s nefarious skills.

  “Excellent. Best o’ luck with that.” Jack pushed off the banister and moved past Christopher, headed for a good soak to cleanse his wound and ease the throbbing ache in his leg. If I ever see that devil dog again …

  “Oh, and Jack?” Topher’s hand snaked out, catching Jack’s arm, causing him to flinch and spin, his fingers already gripping the hilt of his knife. Every nerve in his body urged him to return the unanticipated physical contact with deadly force. Luckily, his brain caught up before he could follow through and unsheathe his weapon. He forced the tension out of his shoulders and met Topher’s gaze with a lazy smirk. “Aye?”

  Topher had the intelligence to appear taken aback, but unfortunately that didn’t stop his next string of accusations. “It’s funny, but I was looking over some of Father’s papers and came across a record of the March ancestry.” Topher raised his chin, his usual unfounded confidence returning. “There’s no record of Gran Lois having any siblings.”

  The smile froze on Jack’s face, but he forced his next words to be light. “One would think”—Jack shrugged away from Topher’s grasp—“the heir to not one, but two bloody fortunes would have a better use for his time than trying to discredit his only cousin.”

  “I don’t trust you,” Topher hissed, his near-colorless eyes narrowing into slits.

  “Of course ye don’t. If you’re so worried, take it up with Auntie Lois.” He started back down the hall. “I’m sure she can clear the whole thing up for ye, laddie,” Jack added, laying the accent on thick.

  “Jaacckk!”

  “Speak o’ the
devil,” Jack muttered at the sound of Lois’s birdlike shriek. He picked up his pace, and fire shot up his leg. Now he’d have to come up with a plausible excuse for losing the advance money for the Platts’ bracelet, since the truth was too humiliating to repeat.

  Jack clenched his teeth. Olivia Brownlow was going to pay.

  Haze draped the skyline of the city like the oozing, yellow center of a stale egg. Peels of fog slithered and curled over the cobbles, striking at Olivia’s heels. She turned north, passing by the apartments of Furnival’s Inn on Holborn, her stride brisk and determined. The key to masquerading as a boy, besides the costume, boiled down to the walk—Brom’s leash in loose fingers, shoulders back, chin up, hat pulled low.

  When Olivia first began her nightly forays into the hells of London, her hair had proved the biggest challenge, but the heavy mass was now safely obscured in a net—obtained at an exorbitant price from a traveling theater company—covered by a short wig of muddy brown hair and topped with a newsboy cap for good measure. To complete her costume, she scooped dirt from her uncle’s garden and smeared it with abandon on her cheeks, nose, and chin.

  Grasping the top of her coat closed against a sudden damp chill, she turned up Chancery Lane, the lamps glowing dimmer and farther apart.

  “Hullo, boy … only a half crown for you!” The call came from a group of young women huddled in front of Krook’s Rag and Bone Shop. Olivia took them in with a glance: thick face paint, skirts tucked up to reveal dingy petticoats and torn stockings.

  Olivia grunted a firm no and crossed to the other side of the street, ignoring the insults and bawdy propositions that followed her rejection. Her stomach clenched in sympathy for these women, their dead eyes beyond desperation.

  But for the grace o’ God, there go I. The words of her old nurse popped into her mind, reminding her if it hadn’t been for the woman’s perseverance in raising her as a lad, Olivia’s fate may not have been different than the poor women peddling their wares for a pittance.

  The sack of stolen knickknacks clinked together as she shifted the weight onto her other shoulder, reminding her of her task. She hoped the dishes, random pieces of flatware, mother-of-pearl hand brush and, of course, her friend the silver toad would feed the children for at least a week. The bread, quarter wheel of cheese, and pears she’d nabbed from the pantry should help too. She didn’t dare take more, for fear of the quick accusations of their meticulous housekeeper, Mrs. Foster.

  With a deep breath, she ducked into the network of alleys that would take her to Saffron Hill. The irony that this dilapidated slum was where she’d lived with Dodger for those pivotal months in her youth was not lost on her. Olivia grinned as she recalled the look of outrage on Jack’s face that afternoon. Ah, revenge was sweet. The pound notes in her pocket were an unexpected boon, and would go far to prepare her boys for the winter months.

  As Olivia passed behind the old workhouse, she lifted a lavender-scented kerchief over her nose and mouth in an attempt to filter the foul air. She skirted a pile of sleeping bodies, empty bottles strewn around their nest, a black rat sniffing the discarded trash.

  Almost there.

  Brom pulled ahead, sensing the proximity of his friends. Olivia glanced behind her one last time to ensure no one paid any mind to a boy and his oversized dog. When they reached the barricaded doorway, Brom sniffed the opening and then hopped through the narrow gap in the boards. Olivia dropped her satchel inside first and squeezed in behind him. Muted light from two glassless windows illuminated the abandoned home as they navigated around piles of filth and broken floorboards to a ruined staircase, the bottom stairs ripped from their moorings. Olivia pulled down her kerchief, pursed her lips, and whistled a short tune into the quiet. A few bangs followed by footfalls racing across the upper floor preceded the appearance of a single candle flame. A small blond head jutted over the edge of the landing.

  “Ollie’s ’ere!”

  Olivia waved.

  “Chip, you’re supposed to ask for the password!” an older voice scolded before Archie’s freckled face appeared beside Chip.

  Olivia bit back a grin and nodded her agreement with Archie.

  “All right,” little Chip said in an exasperated tone. “Whot’s the password, then?”

  “Ichabod Crane,” Olivia pronounced with clarity. A favorite story, “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow,” spawned an inordinate amount of the boys’ passwords.

  “Get the board!” Archie ordered.

  With a flurry of bangs and chatter, a slab of wood no wider than Olivia’s shoulders lowered down the broken staircase. The moment the board connected with the floor, Brom scurried up. Olivia passed her knapsack to Archie before making her own ascent.

  Moments later, they all gathered around the fireplace, a nice blaze dispelling the chill in the barren room. Moving their pallets, half the children huddled around Brom, lavishing him with affection, while the other half crowded around Olivia. With the exception of Brit, who stood, arms crossed, legs braced wide as if on the deck of a rolling ship. The unofficial leader of the Hill Orphans, as they called themselves, Brit took his responsibility with proper seriousness. Olivia estimated the dark-haired boy at eleven or twelve years of age, but his height and almost regal bearing made him appear much older. His feet and fists were the size of a grown man’s, reminding Olivia of Brom when he was a pup, his huge paws portending his adult size. Tonight, she could see the weight of some unseen burden pushing down Brit’s shoulders, trouble haunting his dark eyes.

  Olivia lifted Chip’s warm weight from her lap and began removing food from her bag as the boys continued to chatter about their exploits of the previous week. Archie squatted beside her, took out his knife, and cut the pears into equal portions as Olivia did the same with the bread and cheese. After she’d finished distributing the meager meal, she took a portion to Brit, who now leaned against the window frame, gazing up at the stars.

  “What is it, Brit?” Olivia roughened her voice. Even though she suspected some of them guessed her secret, she kept up the pretense. Brit remained silent as she handed him the food, and she noted he’d grown again; the top of his head was even with her eyes.

  He finished off the food in two bites, leaned against the sill, and then traced a letter B on the frost-coated glass before wiping it clean and beginning on an R. Olivia’s chest ached as she stared at the brilliant boy’s profile, his jaw tight with anxiety. Leadership followed him, whether he chose it or not. He’d been born with that indescribable quality that drew others to him. Much like someone else she knew.

  Brit wiped away the last letter of his name and then looked down at his feet, his long, dark lashes brushing the apples of his cheeks. He worked so hard to hide his own needs, but for all his bravado, he was still a child. She longed to take him and all the others home, clean them up, feed them until they could eat no more, and tuck them into a row of cozy beds, just like Snow White and her tiny men. But her uncle had denied that request long ago. Perhaps he didn’t believe he had the funds, but she would do everything within her power to help these lost little boys.

  Olivia cleared her throat and punched Brit on the arm. “Talk, boy. I don’t have all night.”

  Brit responded with a wry half grin. “Where ye off to in such a hurry, Ollie? Have a fancy waitin’ for you?”

  “That hurts my heart, it does.” Olivia put a fist to her chest in mock outrage. “Do you think I’d put a lady before my dearest friends?”

  Brit chuckled at the floor and shook his head.

  “How has Chip’s cough been?”

  Brit’s mouth set in a grim line before he met her eyes and answered, “Improved. But sometimes when he sleeps, he sounds like he’s got chains rattlin’ in his chest.”

  Olivia glanced behind her at the child, his golden curls bouncing as he rode Brom’s back like a jockey on a racehorse. Brom rested his triangular head on his crossed paws and endured the humiliation admirably. Over a year ago, she’d been volunteering at St. Bart’s and me
t little Chip. Hacking and pale, he’d been crouched on the front steps of the hospital in tears. She’d stopped to speak to him, wishing to help anyway she could, when a tug on her shoulder made her spin around to find Archie nabbing her purse. Instead of calling for the beaks, she’d followed the thief covertly and discovered a group of boys residing by the docks, freezing and half starved. She’d returned that very night disguised as their benefactor; the working class young man, Ollie.

  Chip’s energy had returned since last she’d seen him, but he remained a bit pale. “Keep an eye on him, Brit. We may need to get him to a doctor.”

  “We don’t need the help of no blasted crow.” Brit crossed his arms tighter over his chest. Olivia had forgotten his deep aversion to doctors and wondered, not for the first time, what caused it.

  “What’s got you so riled up, anyway?”

  “Could be nothin’. There’s a new thug roughin’ up some of the street kids. Tryin’ to make a name for himself by takin’ what ain’t his. I heard he’s vamping on some of the orphan groups. Sending them on jobs and takin’ the loot.” Brit shrugged. “You know old Fawks?”

  She thought for a moment and then remembered the salty veteran missing his left hand. He told different stories about how he lost it every time someone asked. He’d worked the streets around St. Bart’s since she’d been part of Dodger’s gang.

  “Sure, distracts with his stump and robs with his right.”

  Brit captured his bottom lip between surprisingly straight teeth before continuing. “He was found murdered two nights past. Rumors have it, he wouldn’t give Monks a cut.”

  “Have you seen him around here?”

  “Not yet.” He turned to Olivia, eyes blazing. “And we better not. We don’t need no kidsman. I can protect this lot on my own!”

  All the playful chatter by the fireplace stopped. And Olivia turned to see the other boys watching them with wide eyes. Archie, who’d been sorting through the treasures in Olivia’s bag, shot to his feet. “Aye, we don’t!”