Then fifteen other voices chimed in agreement. Boys jumped to their feet, pumping their little fists in the air, sending Brom to scurry away from the hubbub.
“Quiet now, boys,” Olivia commanded as she moved in front of the fire. “No need for a riot. I agree with Brit.” The boys calmed. “Brit, what’d you say this bludger’s name is?”
“He goes by Monks.”
“Monks,” she repeated, wondering where she’d heard that name before.
She was still repeating it when she waved goodbye to the boys and started home.
Turning onto Pall Mall, her feet aching and eyes drooping, she counted the fourth booming chime of Big Ben in the distance. Her eyes widened as the memory snapped into place. In the pawnshop, that bald ruffian Critch had said something about needing protection from Monks.
“Come on, Brom,” Olivia whispered, yanking him away from a pile of horse manure in the street, and picking up her pace. “Mrs. Foster will be out of bed soon.”
Before she’d left the Hill, Olivia had pulled Brit and Archie aside, giving them half of the cash she’d taken from Dodger, with instructions to purchase clothing, boots, and blankets in preparation for winter. She’d planned to give them the entire amount, she trusted them enough, but after hearing about this Monks character, she knew copious amounts of cash flow could draw unwanted attention.
Olivia breathed a sigh of relief as they approached the dark townhome. Four in the morning was cutting it too close for comfort. Rounding the corner of the house, they entered the back garden and shimmied behind the bushes. Olivia froze. The pantry window, which she’d left cracked, stood wide open. Her pulse jumped to double time as she boosted Brom into the house, climbed inside, and quietly shut the window behind her. Had Mrs. Foster found her missing and left the window open in warning? Considering the healthy dose of laudanum Olivia had slipped into the woman’s tea, it seemed unlikely.
She removed Brom’s leash, letting him find his own way to bed, and then removed her boots and tiptoed through the quiet house. Running her fingers along the wall to guide her through the pitch-dark hallway, Olivia finally made it to the sanctity of her room. She shut the door softly behind her and moved to light a single candle. As the flame grew, Olivia moved to sit on the bed and then jumped back up with a gasp.
Perched on the middle of her snowy coverlet, the green silk ribbons tied in a deft bow, sat her missing cap. The one Jack had removed from her head that very morning.
CHAPTER 4
Francesca Lancaster swept into the Cramsteads’ drawing room as if she were taking tea with Queen Victoria. Her black curls bounced becomingly against blue silkclad shoulders, and Olivia wondered, not for the first time, how the sausage-shaped ringlets stayed so springy. The distinct fragrance of roses and lilacs tickled Olivia’s nose as her cousin flounced into the chair beside her.
“Hullo, my darlings.” Francesca tilted her head in greeting, sending the feathers, lace, and gewgaws adorning her enormous hat into a riotous dance. Olivia suppressed the urge to throw her arms over the tea and cakes for their protection.
She hadn’t realized she was leaning forward and staring into the forest atop her cousin’s head until Violet grabbed her arm and yanked her back into her seat. Olivia sat back, her eyes still glued to the woodland scene. “Good gracious. Is that a stuffed owl?”
“What a lovely fascinator, Francesca. Is it new?” Violet crooned, talking over Olivia’s question and shooting her a silencing glare.
“Oh, yes! Isn’t it divine?” Francesca settled her skirts around her chair and then touched the hat reverently. “Madam Fanchon says they are all the rage in Paris.”
“I’ll bet,” Olivia muttered, earning a swift kick from Violet’s pointy boot. She shifted her legs out of range, arched an eyebrow at her good friend, and saw the corner of Violet’s mouth twitching. Violet and Francesca’s mothers were sisters, while Olivia was a cousin on her mother’s side. As a result, she endured Francesca for Vi’s sake. But when the girl showed up wearing hats the size of a small village—that likely cost enough to feed one—Olivia’s tolerance strained its boundaries.
Violet poured as Francesca rattled on about the wonders of her dressmaker. Like a hawk sensing prey, Fran turned her assessing stare on Olivia. “You must accompany me to Madame Fanchon’s shop this afternoon, Olivia. The woman can do miracles with even the dullest coloring.”
Ignoring her cousin’s not so veiled insult, Olivia glanced down at her pale yellow frock without much interest. As with all her dresses, Vi had helped her make the selection, and it suited her as well as any other. Image was important to her uncle, or she’d likely be wearing the same three dresses in perpetual rotation.
“You ought to wear colors that play down that ghastly tint to your skin.” Francesca’s eyes swept over Olivia’s face and neck. It was true that Olivia loved the sun, its warmth too delicious to resist. “I mean really, Olivia, you ought to use a parasol. You look as if you have been working alongside the gardener!”
Francesca paused in her tirade to nibble a pink-frosted petit four, and all Olivia could think about was how Chip’s face would look if she managed to smuggle some of the square-shaped cakes to the Hill. But there weren’t enough for each of the children, and in any case they’d be smashed beyond recognition if she stuffed the remainder in her small reticule. But if she stopped off at the kitchen before she left, perhaps they would have enough.
“Olivia Brownlow! Are you listening to me?” Francesca demanded as she set her cup on the saucer with a resounding clink.
Olivia blinked at her cousin and dropped her hand from the egg-shaped locket around her neck, not wishing Fran to notice her nervous tic. “Of course, Fran. I’ll accompany you to your modiste. I haven’t purchased a formal gown in ages. In fact, I’m in need of something to wear to the Grimwigs’ ball.”
“Well, that doesn’t give us much time, does it? The ball is in less than a fortnight.” Francesca tapped a fingernail against her lips. “But I’m certain Madam can come up with something suitable, even if it is not custom.”
That settled, the conversation shifted to various subjects that didn’t involve Olivia’s inadequacies as a properly turned-out lady. Topics that only required her occasional nod or monosyllable agreement, until a single word pulled at her attention.
“… MacCarron.”
Olivia froze, the dollop of Devonshire cream meant for her scone landing on her plate with a plop. She’d been unable to get more than a few hours’ sleep since he’d snuck into her room and deposited the cap on her bed. Her trepidation forced her up multiple times during the night to ensure the window and door were locked tight.
Francesca’s face flooded with color as she continued, “He’s quite glorious. And those eyes! Good gracious, he stares as if he can see one’s deepest, darkest secrets.” The throaty giggle that followed scraped across Olivia’s brain like a knife against china.
“Last week at the Dells’ musicale he shed his coat, took the stage, and played the most haunting melody on the violin.” Francesca propped her chin on her fist with a heavy sigh. “I thought I would swoon at the sight of his strong hands so expertly manipulating that delicate instrument.”
Olivia choked, almost spewing the tea from her nose. After several moments of Vi pounding her on the back with enthusiasm, Olivia regained her ability to breathe. Dodger’s skills with a beat-up fiddle had driven away the cold and boredom many nights on the Hill, but Francesca’s recollection implied quite a different type of warming.
“Honestly, Fran!” Violet exclaimed, her freckled cheeks flushed red. “Mr. MacCarron is quite handsome, but … but … he is not in the least suitable,” she sputtered. Olivia had to agree, considering what she knew of Jack’s background and his current penchant for attending high society events with the sole purpose of robbing the family blind.
“Don’t be such a prude.” Francesca waved her hand as if dismissing her cousin’s concern. “Whoever said what I have in mind is suitable?�
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“How perfectly revolting,” Olivia remarked in her most blasé tone.
Francesca narrowed her gaze at Olivia in challenge. “You’ve never thought about a dalliance with anyone? Isn’t there some gentleman who makes your blood boil? A man who could compel you to throw caution to the wind?”
Violet, her eyes wide as green saucers, sat straight up in her chair.
Olivia met Francesca’s stare. “I am not dead, Fran. But there is such a thing as duty. Not to mention morality—”
“You can’t tell me,” Francesca’s words trampled over Olivia’s, “that flop Grimwig makes butterflies dance in your belly?”
Memories of the one disappointing kiss she’d shared with Maxwell filled Olivia’s mind, followed swiftly by visions of Jack’s warm body surrounding hers in the alley. An odd heat spread low in her stomach as she recalled how close his lips had come to hers. Olivia cleared her throat. “It’s nearly four. Oughtn’t we be off to Madam Fanchon’s?”
A tiny smile curved the corners of Francesca’s mouth. “Of course. I want to commission a gown that will ensure Mr. MacCarron’s unrelenting attention.”
Olivia set her napkin on the table and stood abruptly, prompting her cousins to follow suit. But Francesca wasn’t finished. “He simply could not take his eyes from me at the musicale.”
Ha! Her jewels, more like. Francesca never left the house without some form of extravagant bauble. The sapphire earbobs she wore now would be worth her life to someone like Dodger. But a tiny doubt niggled through her mind; Jack would be drawn to the challenge her gorgeous, well-to-do cousin presented.
And there is no earthly reason why I should care, Olivia chastised herself.
It was a fool’s errand, and Jack could freely admit that he was the fool. He knew little of soliciting acquaintances or courtship rules, and even less about phony ones. But here he was, strolling—or limping, as the case may be—down New Bond Street, toward Cavendish Square, a calling card tucked in his pocket. Clyde, God bless him, had come up with one of Mr. March’s tall, black umbrellas. The old brolly allowed Jack to lean upon it as he hobbled, affording him a modicum of dignity.
The heart of Mayfair pulsed with energy. A rare afternoon of sunshine had turned New Bond Street into a crush as hundreds of the wealthiest people in London ambled with languorous, sophisticated grace down the main thoroughfare past decorated shop windows, searching for a place to part with their money. The street thug in him reared his ugly head, happy to oblige, but the gentleman Jack MacCarron limped on.
Snippets of Chopin flooded from the open doors of an upscale dining room, where the scents of rich sauces and slow-roasted chops made Jack’s mouth water. Men in high hats and tailed coats escorted their women, tempting them with all manner of luxuries from rich chocolate to the latest bonnet style to glittering jewels. Clusters of ladies in water-colored silks twirled parasols and gossiped behind gloved hands. A girl with familiar honey-colored hair, wearing a jade-green frock, strolled down the other side of the street with lively grace. But as she drew closer, Jack could see that it was not the woman he sought.
Lois had not believed his concocted story of a street robbery. Jack was unsure if she thought him incapable of being accosted in his own element or if she’d read the subterfuge on his face, but the shadow of distrust that lingered in the woman’s faded blue eyes stabbed him in the heart. True, the Platt bracelet brought a larger advance than anything they’d attempted to hock thus far, but Jack would never swindle Lois. She’d been far too good to him.
The scents of fresh biscuits and sugared fruit tarts filled the air as Jack approached the striped awning of a teashop. On such a beautiful day, the windows were thrown wide and the tables were filled with women wearing all manner of extravagantly trimmed hats. Eyes followed him, and he endeavored to straighten his stride as he touched the brim of his top hat and nodded to a group of posh young ladies. He was rewarded with blushes and giggles, a reaction that never got old. Jack felt his chest puff, and the ache in his leg faded just a bit. Living on the streets, dignified women looked through him on the daily. All it had taken for them to see him was a well-fabricated lineage, the right clothes and manner, and suddenly their doors—and safes full of valuables—were wide open to him. And in many cases, their regard.
His new way of life was in mortal danger, however, because of one fearless girl: Miss Olivia Brownlow. Admittedly, sneaking into her home in the dead of night just to deliver an enjoyable little scare had been all kinds of madness, but finding her bed empty drove him to distraction. Questions had circled his mind ever since. Where could she have gone? And had she been alone?
That lovely little thief had thwarted him, yet again. So he’d decided that if he could not get to her his way, he would play the toff, as he’d become so blasted good at.
Turning onto Oxford Street, Jack quickened his pace. Grinding his teeth against the pain, he envisioned the confrontation to come. He would find out exactly what the girl knew about his past life and regain his capital, or she would not enjoy the consequences. A tremor beneath his fingers alerted him to loosen his grip on the umbrella handle he clutched in a death grip.
Steady on, Jack.
He took a deep breath and focused outside himself. As he exhaled, he noticed the shadowy patterns on the sidewalk, created by the sun shining through the shifting leaves. A lady and her two daughters approached, their skirts sweeping against the cobblestones like a thousand whispers. Jack tipped his hat, his shoulder muscles unclenching as he relaxed into an easier stride. The townhomes in this section of the city were more narrow and less grand than in St. James, with a few small businesses sprinkled in amongst the residences. The occasional carriage rumbled past, but overall, Cavendish Square seemed a peaceful little quarter.
After finding the correct number on the neat, brick brownstone, Jack walked carefully up the steps to the cheery blue door and engaged the knocker. As he heard footfalls approaching, he dug out the calling card in his jacket pocket. A stately man opened the door and inclined his head. “May I help you, sir?”
“Is Miss Brownlow at home?” Jack inquired, fairly certain that if the girl was at home, she would not be at home for him.
“Why, no, sir—”
Unwilling to take no for an answer, Jack thrust his card at the butler and stepped into the entryway, forcing the man to take a step back. “I’ll wait.” He swept off his hat and pressed it into the wide-eyed codger’s chest.
“Sir, I have no inclination when the lady will return. But I would be glad to pass along your card.” He clutched the rectangle of paper, holding it between them like a tiny shield.
“That’s quite all right.” Jack stepped farther into the house and turned toward the open doorway of a sunny room, decorated in shades of yellow, gold, and white. “The drawing room, I presume?” Jack glanced over his shoulder to see the butler’s tight nod. “I’ll be comfortable here.”
“Yes, sir.” The butler shot him a glare before he turned his back and stomped down the hall. Jack imagined the old man was likely off to shred his hat in the meat grinder.
Hats were replaceable. With a shrug, Jack moved across the room to the front windows. The overstuffed chairs called to him, but if he sat, he was unsure he could get back to his feet without the pain showing on his face, and he refused to give her the satisfaction. Turning away from the window, he wondered if the hell-beast was in the house or if she took him everywhere she went.
As he perused the comfortable elegance of the room, he was drawn to a portrait hanging over the unlit fireplace. At first, Jack assumed it was Miss Brownlow—waves of dark-gold hair swept up from the graceful bones of her face, mischievous eyes the color of bronze in the sun. But no, the chin was a bit weaker, the smile too demure, the lips not quite as full. He moved closer.
Olivia Brownlow was a mystery. Without doubt, she was beautiful—even more so than the woman in the painting. But it was more than her beauty that drew him like a moth to a blasted flame. There was
something about her that brought out a fierce side of him, something primitive that made him want to throttle her one minute and protect her the next. In the pawnshop with Critch hovering over her, it had taken every bit of Jack’s self-control not to rush the bloke and knock him out cold.
A rhythmic clicking caused him to spin away from the painting. The devil-dog sat in the doorway, tongue lolling out of his large, triangular head. “Ho, Brom. Back for seconds, eh?”
The mutt stood, trotted over to Jack, and sniffed his pant leg in the precise spot where he’d sunk his teeth into his flesh.
Jack stiffened, but Brom gave him a sheepish look and licked his trousers, leaving an enormous wet spot behind. “So you want to make up, do you?” Jack arched a brow at the dog’s huge, liquid eyes. “I’m not sure I’m ready to forgive and forget.”
The sound of male laughter echoed toward him, and Jack’s head snapped up. Giving Brom a pat, Jack moved to position himself so he could see the entryway. An older gentleman, stooped over a cane and wearing a house robe, faced a tall, stringy man whom Jack recognized from the Platts’ dinner party. Maxwell Grimwig, the bloke who’d introduced him to Miss Brownlow. Jack stood as still as a statue, listening.
“Max, my boy, I knew you would come through. Olivia is like a daughter to me, and I will see her happy and settled. Thank you for giving me that peace of mind.” The old man choked, and then coughed so hard it sounded like he might break a bone.
“Mr. Brownlow, can I get you anything?” Maxwell patted the old gentleman on the back, quite unhelpfully, until the butler entered and handed Mr. Brownlow a cup of steaming liquid.
After taking a restorative drink and wiping the moisture from his eyes, Mr. Brownlow said, “I am fine.”
“Sir, be assured I will be the best husband in the world to your niece. I’ve cared for her for a long time.”
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