“Those prats jumped me from behind and you know it! Let ’em come at me fair and see what happens to ’em,” Archie snarled, rising on his toes to get in Brit’s face.
Olivia jumped up and positioned herself between the two boys. “That’s enough!” She put a hand on both of their chests and shoved. “Monks can’t be everywhere at once. We’ve just got to outsmart him.”
“Outsmart him, how?” Brit asked as he shot Archie a glare.
Olivia shoved a finger under her hat and covertly scratched beneath her wig. “I haven’t figured that out quite yet.” There was honor amongst thieves, a code that they all lived by: your score, your prize. Those who broke the code were brought down quickly. All except this Monks character.
Needing time to think, she opened her bag and let the boys converge on the apples and fresh bread inside. She’d brought the rest of Jack’s money with her, but she was having second thoughts about giving it to the boys. She told herself that reluctance had absolutely nothing to do with Jack’s heartfelt plea on the dance floor, or the amazing feeling of his lips on hers. Damn his blue eyes, anyway.
When they finished eating, she motioned for Brit and Archie to follow her to the far side of the room. “Does Monks know about this place?” she whispered.
“No. And he ain’t goin’ to find out, neither,” Archie insisted, throwing a look at Brit. “We’d do anything to keep this place secret. All the boys know it.”
“It’s true, Ollie. A couple of us slept in the street a few nights back, to throw Monks’s bludgers off the trail.” Brit shook his head, the corners of his mouth turned down in a deep frown. “But he’s getting closer, I can feel it.”
“Brit.” Olivia put a hand on his broad shoulder. He appeared to have grown another inch in the last week; the ragged hem of his trousers barely covered his calves. “You know you can’t protect them all. You’ve trained them well. You have to trust they can take care of themselves.”
Brit met her searching gaze. “I’ve forbidden Chip and the younger boys from working the streets. I try to take ’em for an outing once a day, to tire ’em out. But I can’t stand the thought of any of them …” His mouth clamped shut, and a muscle worked in his jaw as he turned away to face the window.
Olivia exchanged a knowing glance with Archie. Suppressing the urge to pull the boy into a hug, she settled for roughing up his shock of red-orange hair and sent him to check on Chip.
She moved to lean against the window frame, opposite Brit. A weak stream of moonlight highlighted the shadows under his eyes, making him appear years older. He looked as if he might implode at any moment, but Olivia knew a way that she might reassure him that he wasn’t alone. Lowering her voice to a whisper, she asked, “Do any of the other boys know … that I’m a girl?”
Brit’s lips compressed as he tried unsuccessfully to hide a grin. He’d confronted her about her ruse less than a week ago, and she’d admitted to him she was female, but hadn’t shared any further details about her life.
“Hey.” When he looked at her, she pushed the dirty brown wig off her forehead. Then with a full, dimpled grin, she gave him a saucy wink.
Brit’s reaction was instantaneous. He laughed—something she hadn’t heard him do in weeks. The grin on his face was a beautiful sight to behold. “Stop, Ollie. What if they see you?”
Olivia tugged her wig back into place. “It’s time I shared the truth with you. My real name is Olivia Brownlow. You can find me anytime, night or day, at Number Four, Cavendish Square. If you ever need me, send word, and I’ll get to you as quickly as I can.”
Brit’s wide brown eyes blinked repeatedly. “Yer a proper lady?”
“Shh!” Olivia glanced over her shoulder at the other children, but no one seemed to notice Brit’s outburst. “Yes, that is true. But I was once just like you, living on the streets, until providence intervened and my uncle took me in.”
He narrowed his eyes at her and accused in a harsh whisper, “You’re a lady, living in a proper house! I ain’t gonna show up on your doorstep in me filthy coat and short pants, like some stinkin’ beggar.”
“I don’t give a fig about that. Nothing has changed. I’m still the same old Ollie.” When his skeptical expression didn’t change, she captured his gaze and lifted her chin. “You’ve seen me fight. I can hold my own.”
Brit tore his eyes from hers and stared down at his foot as he moved the toe of his shoe through a layer of grime on the hardwood floor.
Olivia waited, holding her breath, until he lifted his head with a grin.
“You’re a right brawler.” He shrugged a shoulder. “For a lady.”
She punched his arm, hard. “For anyone!”
“Yeah, all right. I’ll give you that.” He rubbed his bicep where she’d hit him. “So, what’s the plan?”
Olivia pulled the rest of Jack’s money from her pocket. The boy’s eyes grew huge as she handed it to him. “Only use this a little at a time. Finish getting supplies for winter and add to the food supply where needed. When you work, go out together. Send two groups of three, preferably with you or Arch in one of the groups, and stay within shouting distance of each other.”
Brit nodded solemnly as he folded the money and tucked it into his pocket.
“And for saint’s sake, get yourself some blasted trousers that fit.”
Jack hiked the few blocks to Cavendish Square in a down-pour. Even with his collar turned up and hat pulled low, icy water found its way down his neck. Big Ben’s resonating clang sounded once in the distance and he picked up his pace, his boots squeaking and splashing as he traversed the deserted walk.
At the risk of his good home and occupation, that morning after church services, he had confided in Lois the truth of the lost advance money. After several long and humiliating minutes of her cackling laughter, she had asked him what he planned to do about it. When he’d reminded her that day’s sermon had been about forgiveness, all he’d received was an icy glare. So here he was dressed in black from head to toe, like some villain in a penny dreadful.
Jack stopped under the canopy of a dripping tree. Number Four Cavendish Square was dark as pitch, intermittent flashes of lightning illuminating the blank windows like ghoulish eyes. The conditions were not ideal for a nocturnal jaunt, but if he hoped to get his money back and solve the mystery of Miss Brownlow, he would need to take her by surprise.
As if by some invisible signal, the rain stopped and a series of soft sounds echoed through the night. Smoky fog rose from the cobbles like steam as Jack crossed the street, hopped over the front gate, and ducked behind a hedge. The scents of wet leaves and dirt mixed with something musky and less pleasant. Through the branches, he could make out patchy black-and-brown fur. Brom.
Dragging a hand over his face, Jack counted to ten in his head and then peered around the hedge. A dark-haired youth with a sack slung over his back led Brom on a leash down the street. What the devil? Or rightly, who the devil? Why would a servant take the dog out in the middle of the night?
After giving the lad a head start, Jack followed at a distance. He’d planned to tail Olivia to her destination, but instead, he’d get what information he could from the boy before heading back to climb the trellis outside Olivia’s window. The thought of finding her sleep-mussed and snuggled into her bed heated his blood and quickened his step.
They neared a tree-lined park at the end of the square, and Jack picked up his pace. The wound in his leg gave a pull and twinge, which he ignored. As he closed the distance between himself and the boy to a few yards, Brom dug in his feet and swung his massive head in Jack’s direction. The boy scolded the dog and tugged on his leash, but Brom spun, bearing his teeth with a menacing growl.
Jack walked straight at the dog and pulled his hat from his head. He’d made peace with the beast—he just hoped Brom felt the same way. As he entered the light of a streetlamp, Brom’s posture relaxed and his tongue lolled out of his head. Jack took a few cautious steps before the boy made an odd, high
-pitched squeak. Jack’s gaze jerked up to a face that struck him as familiar. Before he could figure out why, the lad made an inarticulate command, yanked the leash, and ran.
Saints. If there wasn’t so much at stake, he’d let the kid go, but instinct spurred him to give chase. Smashing through the underbrush and dodging branches, he came out in an open space, winding paths intersecting at a circular fountain. Ahead, the boy skirted the fountain and then deftly jumped over a stone bench. Jack ran faster, pushing through the burning pain in his thigh. His greatcoat flapping behind him like a giant bird, he made a flying leap and tackled the lad to the ground. They landed in the wet grass and rolled. As soon as they stopped, the boy scrambled away from him on all fours, quick as a flash.
“Oh no, you don’t!” Jack caught a flailing arm in one hand, and then clamped his other on a thrashing leg and flipped the boy onto his back. Crawling, he knelt on hands and knees over the boy. “I’ll not hurt you, kid—” His voice stuck in his throat. Hat gone, a brown wig sat askew, revealing strands of dark-gold hair escaping a net. Jack’s gaze flicked to the boy’s face. Narrowed and shooting fire, were a pair of very fine honey-colored eyes.
“Olivia? What the devil do you think you’re doing?” Jack demanded.
“That’s none of your concern! Now, let me go!” She kicked out with both legs, and he swiveled, narrowly avoiding a boot to the ribs.
“Damn it, Olivia. Hold still or I’ll lie full on top of you!”
That stopped her. She panted beneath him, her lips pressed into a stubborn line, her curves imperceptible in the ragged boy clothes. Jack hovered over her and stared at her face as the clouds shifted past the moon. Streaks of dirt covered her creamy cheeks, and the short wig framed her face in a way that sparked a long-buried memory he’d been trying to kindle for weeks—a memory of a boy who followed him everywhere and looked at him with the hope of the world in his eyes.
Jack released her as if she’d burned him and leaned back on his haunches. She sat up, but neither one of them spoke. Their gazes locked. The answer to why Olivia knew his true identity hit him like a punch to the throat. Visions of a little curly-haired boy with an angelic, dimpled smile transposed over the girl who sat before him now. “Ollie?” He almost choked on the word.
She nodded, and he knew it must be true. But his brain battled against his gut, questioning which identity was real—the little orphan boy he’d taken under his wing or the society miss who was undoubtedly female. The female he’d kissed until neither one of them could breathe.
For a moment, Jack thought he might cast up his dinner.
The creature before him nodded again. “Aye, Dodger, it’s me.”
Brom, who’d stayed in the periphery of his vision, but, thank God, hadn’t intervened, gave his hand a thorough lick. But Jack couldn’t move. An inferno sparked inside his chest. Olivia Brownlow and Oliver Twist were one and the same? The ball of fiery rage dropped into his core and he shot to his feet, his hands curling into fists.
She scrambled to her feet and backed up, but before she could run, he stalked toward her and grabbed her arm. “Who the hell are you underneath all the lies?”
She tilted her little round chin and met his gaze, her gold eyes shimmering. “I could ask you the same question.”
Blast if she didn’t have a point. He certainly wasn’t who he’d been all those years ago either—his toff mask in place on the daily.
His voice softened as he asked, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why should I?” Her countenance hardened with anger and perhaps hurt. “You left me, Dodger! Or don’t you remember?”
“Ho, there! Lad, do you need assistance?”
Jack dropped her arm and stepped away as a constable strolled toward them, his night club drawn.
“No, sir,” Olivia answered in a deep tone of voice Jack didn’t recognize. She plucked up her hat and shoved it on her head, then hoisted the bulging sack over one shoulder, her scorching gaze searing into his. “This toff and I were ’aving a difference of opinion, but we’re finished.”
Her emphasis on the word finished was not lost on Jack. The copper moved between them in a threatening manner. For a heartbeat, Jack debated taking him down, gripping Olivia by the shoulders and shaking answers out of her, but the unpleasant emotions churning his stomach drained him of his anger. Without another word, he turned on his heel and stalked away.
Finished, indeed.
Not bloomin’ likely.
CHAPTER 8
Olivia twirled her spoon through the dollop of cream atop her soup, creating a swirl of white in the burnt orange. An earthy tang of nutmeg with a hint of cinnamon tickled her nose, but she had no inclination to lift the spoon to her lips. Four days had passed since Jack discovered her identity. That night, in the moonlit park, she’d read his handsome face like a tragic story. The shock and anger were understandable, but when his lips distorted as if something horrid had passed beneath his nose, it had felt like a kick to the belly, a shot at her most vulnerable place—the fear that she didn’t fit in. Anywhere.
She propped her chin on her fist and watched the cream completely dissolve into the steaming soup. Jack hadn’t attended the Dunfords’ soiree the previous night, and according to Christopher March, no one had seen him for days.
But Jack wasn’t the worst of her troubles. The night before last, a couple of goons had followed Brit and Archie back to the hideout on Saffron Hill. They’d demanded a payoff, threatening to disclose the orphans’ location to Monks if none was received. Their silence had cost over half of the cash she’d given to Brit for winter supplies, leaving nothing left to purchase the clothing the boys needed. Or for the doctor little Chip required to treat a sudden fever spike.
“Do you expect to divine some great secret from your soup, my dear? I’ve finished mine and, although it was quite delicious, there are no surprises hidden within.” Uncle Brownlow picked up his bowl and brought it close to one wide eye and then the other.
Olivia chuckled at his antics, her heart squeezing in her chest. The day she’d robbed her uncle on the street had been the best of her life. He’d seen something in her eyes that fateful day—something of himself, perhaps—and had followed her to the courthouse, where he’d witnessed her faint when the magistrate sentenced her to death. Hours later, after her uncle had bartered to clear her name with a bottle of aged Scotch and a box of costly cigars, she’d awoken in a fresh night rail, surrounded by clean linens and the scent of lemons …
Ollie glanced down at the soft white gown covering her from neck to wrist, sat up, and screamed.
“Oh my, no.” The woman beside the bed patted her back. “We’ll have none of that now.”
But Ollie could not stop the blind panic from rising in her throat and blasting out of her mouth. No one could know her secret. Her old nurse had told her in vivid, terrifying detail what would happen should anyone find out the truth. Being a male orphan was hard enough, but females suffered a far worse fate … especially lovely ones. At least that’s what nurse had said. And Ollie had believed every word.
Scooting to the other side of the bed, she jumped to the floor and ran toward the door, grabbing for the handle just as it opened. The toff she’d robbed barreled into the room, caught her by the arms, and held her tight. “What is the meaning of this?” he thundered.
Ollie swallowed her screams, and the tears took over, streaming down her face in great rivers. Could this man, with eyes so like her own, harm her? She wanted to believe she was safe in this clean, beautiful place. But at what price?
So much kindness shone from Mr. Brownlow’s face, that when he pulled her to him and wrapped his arms around her, she sagged against his sturdy frame, her entire body shaking with sobs.
“Shhh, it’s quite all right now,” he soothed, stroking her short curls. “I have some important questions for you, but you cannot answer them if you are crying, can you?” He pulled back and smiled.
Ollie shook her head as she met his gaze,
sniffling up her tears.
“Now then, what is all this screaming about?” The man led her back to the bed.
Like a wrung-out ragdoll, she climbed under the covers and let the maid wipe her face. Mr. Brownlow pulled a chair up and sat looking at his folded hands. It was several minutes before Ollie realized he waited for her answer.
“I-I am sorry, s-sir.” Her speech broke on the sobs shuddering through her chest. “N-no one knows I-I’m a g-girl.” She took a steadying breath before continuing in a whisper, “At least they didn’t.”
“I see.” The man gave her a small smile, but his eyes were sad. “Your fear is understandable. But you need to know something.” Slowly, as if her bones were made of the finest porcelain, he took her hand in his and met her gaze. “I will never allow anyone to harm you. Ever.”
The man’s lined face swam before Ollie’s eyes, and a tiny spark of hope leapt within her.
“In fact, I believe you and your friend robbed me for a reason. That God brought you to me after all these years.”
She wasn’t sure, but she thought she saw his chin tremble.
“When Nanny took your clothes to the laundry, she found this …”
Her breath caught as he lifted a golden chain from his pocket—Ollie’s only possession, her mother’s locket. Her old nurse had found it on her mother’s body and saved it for her until she was old enough to keep it herself.
She reached out and Mr. Brownlow set the necklace in her hand, where her fingers closed around the oval, a perfect fit in the hollow of her fist. “I don’t understand.” What could her locket have to do with God wanting her to rob this man?
Mr. Brownlow leaned forward. “Do you know whose locket this was, my dear?”
“Yes. It was my mother’s.”
The old man’s eyes closed and tears leaked onto his weathered cheeks. When he looked at her again, his smile was wide. “Her name was Agnes Fleming, and she was my niece. My beloved sister’s daughter. Which makes you my great-niece.”
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