Monks? The same Monks who was tormenting Brit and the others?
“I tried to buy the locket myself, but I couldn’t meet Monks’s price. So when he left, I followed him and listened as he boasted to his mate about the locket leading him to his long-lost sibling.” He swallowed, and his right hand clenched into a fist. When he spoke again, his voice was strained. “He seemed extremely put out that his father had a child with the woman in the locket.”
Olivia felt the blood drain from her body by slow degrees. “My mother …”
Jack’s unguarded gaze met hers, the corners of his eyes wrinkling with apprehension. “He’s planning to use the locket to track you down. For what purpose, I don’t know, but it isn’t good.”
Olivia felt herself sway. She had a half brother she’d known nothing about.
Jack was across the room in two strides, an expression of alarm clouding his face. He took her by the shoulders and pulled her against him, wrapping his strong arms around her. “There’s more, I’m afraid. I know him. We have a past history.”
Barely registering his words, Olivia pulled back and asked, “What’s his name? What’s my brother’s real name?”
“Edward Leeford.”
“That’s my father’s surname. Monks is his blood son with another woman?”
Jack nodded, then he searched her face; satisfied with what he saw, he said, “Edward was a crime lord who took power a year or so after you went to live with your uncle. He vamped off all the gangs. Fagin was terrified of him. Gave him fifty percent of everything we earned. If Leeford even suspected the old man was holding out on him, he’d beat him or one of us. But he got greedy and began sending us on missions of his own. Risky ventures for big scores.”
Her brain whirling, she stepped back from Jack and faced the window. Moonlight splashed over the perfect hedges of the garden, its brilliance reflecting on a koi pond surrounded by stone benches. Almost too perfect to be real. All these years she’d longed to have a family. She loved her uncle, but whenever she saw a mother and father playing with their children in the park or walking hand in hand, her heart splintered with grief.
Brother. She had a brother.
She spun to face Jack, who stood with both his hands shoved into his pockets. “Are you certain he isn’t trying to find me so we can meet? Have a relationship?”
“I’m sorry, love, but of that, I’m certain. What I don’t know is why he’s looking for you.”
Suddenly cold washed down Olivia’s back. The boys. Monks had been stalking them for weeks, and if he followed the locket … “Jack, I need your help.”
His eyes locked on hers with heated intensity. “Anything.”
A cheer sounded from down the hall, signaling they were out of time.
She quickly told him about the Hill Orphans, why she’d had to sell the locket, and her concerns regarding Monks, then moved to the door. “Meet me tonight at Golden Square. Midnight.”
His lips compressed, his brows lifting into his hair. “I believe I’ve been trying to make that arrangement for nigh on a week.”
Loud conversation and laughter floated through the walls. “You said anything. Now give me the key.”
He produced the key and set it in her palm, his large hand engulfing hers in a light embrace. “Do you believe me then? That I didn’t abandon you?”
She blinked at their joined fingers, his touch buzzing through her veins. “I’ll speak to my uncle.”
He released her, and with a bow of his head stepped away from the door. “Tonight, then.”
Olivia returned to the party. Jack did not. She kept up polite conversation for a few moments for the sake of appearances, and then, claiming a headache, left early. The entire cab ride home, one thought played over and over in her mind: Monks, the terror of the London streets, was her brother, and he was coming after her.
CHAPTER 11
I hate that blasted getup,” Jack grumbled, shooting Olivia a glare. “It’s hard enough to reconcile my memories of you and Oliver without seeing you dressed like an overgrown bag-snatcher.” Tucking a large black umbrella under his right arm, he shoved both hands into his pockets, and focused on the cobbles at his feet as if they might contain the answers of the universe.
Olivia almost laughed at the way he wrinkled his nose like a petulant child. “What would you suggest as an alternate disguise? No, wait, let me guess.” Olivia shifted Bram’s leash to her other hand and then tapped her finger against her lips, pretending to think. “Perhaps the blousy dress of a milkmaid?”
When he didn’t respond, she went on. “Oh, I know! I saw a perfectly garish frock in Paul’s Pawnbroker Shop. Purple silk edged with a profusion of black feathers. I believe I could pass for a lightskirt if I set my mind to it.” She skipped ahead of him and gave an exaggerated sway to her hips.
Jack jogged up beside her and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Stop that, before you attract attention.”
The streets were deserted, besides the stray drunk or homeless wanderer. But when he pulled his hand back like it burned, she refrained from pointing that out. A bubble of hurt swelled in Olivia’s chest, dampening the elation she’d felt since Jack agreed to help. She realized now that she had no knowledge of his motivations.
When she’d returned home from the party, her uncle had been tucked into bed, but still awake. She’d asked him about the missing wallet all those years ago, and reluctantly he’d admitted Dodger’s role in returning it and leading him to the courthouse where she was being sentenced. When she’d questioned him about Jack checking on her afterward, her uncle said he couldn’t recall such a conversation.
But the more she thought about it, the more she felt he hadn’t divulged the full truth. Growing up, he’d told her many times that he wished for her to have a clean slate; a fresh start as Miss Olivia Brownlow. When she would talk of her old life, Uncle encouraged her to think of her past as a nightmare; the less one spoke of it, the quicker it faded away.
“Tell me what you know about your parents,” Jack requested, still staring straight ahead.
His words reminded her they had bigger problems to solve than sorting out their twisted past. Olivia took a deep breath and dove into her tragic tale. “This is all second-hand knowledge, from my uncle’s point of view, you understand.”
At Jack’s nod, she continued. “My father’s name was Edwin Leeford. He was a widower, an industrialist, and an inventor with a reputation for being brilliant but eccentric. When he met my mother, he pursued her with singular focus. His charm and persistence proved to be irresistible to her and they fell in love, but her parents would not approve the match. They felt that despite his success, he was not of respectable stock, and therefore not good enough for their daughter.”
Brom stopped to sniff a discarded paper sack, jerking Olivia to an abrupt halt. Jack stepped close, took Brom’s leash, and they walked on.
“Continue, please.”
Olivia sorted through all the snippets of information she’d gained of her parents over the years and worked to put them in logical order. “My mother ran away with my father and they eloped in Scotland. My grandparents disowned her, refusing to even acknowledge her existence when someone mentioned her name. After they passed away, my uncle came into possession of a letter my mother had written to her parents several years after the elopement, begging for their help. She wrote of my father’s personality taking a drastic turn, that he’d become obsessed with proper society not accepting him and took it out on her. He became abusive. And she was with child.”
Olivia peeked over at Jack, but his profile remained stoic. “The best we can piece together is that she feared for my life, so she ran. We can’t be sure why she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring at the time of my birth and” —Olivia swallowed—“her death.”
“Have you ever seen that letter?”
Olivia thought back and realized she hadn’t. She only knew what her uncle had told her was written in it. “No, but I think I need to.”
“Where does your half brother fit into all this?”
“I can only assume he was a product of my father’s first marriage. I had no awareness of his existence until you spoke of him last night.”
Jack seemed to consider this and then said, “He’s a few years my senior, so he’s in his mid to late twenties. Logically, it would follow that he did something to fall out of your father’s good graces before you were born. Perhaps there’s an inheritance he’s looking to gain, but being the eldest, and a son, he should have first rights to it.”
Olivia had no response to this conclusion. Her parents’ tragedy still festered like an open wound, and she was too close to view it objectively. Her father had been abusive, and possibly insane. She doubted the existence of any inheritance at all.
Jack began to walk faster, forcing Olivia to jog to keep up. His profile was set like fired clay, but his thumb ran frantically over his fingers. When she caught up to him, she grasped the edge of his jacket. “Hey, stop.”
He did, but when he turned, his eyes were focused above her head.
“What’s going on with you? You won’t even look at me.”
His gaze lowered to her then, though his eyes narrowed in contemplation. “It confounds me how you’ve gotten away with this disguise for even one night.”
Olivia quirked her lips, but before she could form a reply he handed her his umbrella, which turned out to be far sturdier than her frilly parasols. Then, he crossed the street and entered a squat corner tavern.
Olivia followed but paused at the door as Brom tugged on his leash. Olivia released him, knowing he wouldn’t go far, then walked into the pub, her boots slipping on the sanded floor. She gained her balance and hung back in the doorway. The air, tainted with sour ale and years of snuff ground into every surface, brought unpleasant memories of Bumble the beadle’s office at the workhouse. One visit to that chamber and you’d never want to go back.
Shaking off memories of the switch against her skin, Olivia took in the rest of the main room. The ceiling was low and bulged with a water-stained, patterned paper that peeled in strips. Faded, old-fashioned paintings hung on the walls. The nearest was of Queen Caroline, appearing severely put out in an enormous hat and feathers as she overlooked a shining Blackfriars Bridge.
A handful of patrons sat scattered at different tables nursing a tumbler of grog or snifter of amber whiskey. An old codger, his silver hair tied in a tail of the antiquated style, raised clouded eyes. Olivia tugged her cap lower, stiffened her spine, and shifted her gaze to where Jack squatted in front of the large hearth.
As she watched, he rose and wove his way through the round tables, his right fist closed tight, and exited the building. Olivia followed him outside and took a long draw of the crisp night air before asking, “What is it you’re doing, exactly?”
“Come with me,” he instructed as he rounded the corner and ducked into a narrow, cobblestoned alley.
Apprehension crawled across her shoulders as she walked into the dead-end passage. These dark, shadowed places were deathtraps she normally avoided at all costs. Overhead, silhouettes of outdoor staircases hung like hulking, black spiders, further tightening the space. A cool wind pushed against her back, fluttering the strands of her wig. She trailed the dark outline of Jack’s broad shoulders and battered top hat with an acute sense of déjà vu. Following the Dodger on adventures through the streets of London had caused her no end of trepidation, but she’d never once turned back.
The rhythmic click of claws against stone announced Brom’s arrival, forcing her back into the present. Jack stopped, turned around, and pushed up the brim of his hat. The moment Olivia paused, her loyal pet sat, his warmth pressed against her leg, one paw resting on the top of her boot.
“Jack, what’s this all about?”
Instead of answering, he stepped up to her, took the umbrella and burlap sack containing food for the boys out of her hands and set them on the ground. With brow furrowed in concentration, he moved in close. So close she could smell the scent of his skin as he brushed the brown hair away from her face. Then he reached up and drew a finger along the right side of her jaw. She gave a start.
“Stand still,” he ordered gently before he traced a line under her cheek, his touch feather light.
Stunned, Olivia watched as he dipped his pointer finger into the black soot in his other palm, and then traced the ashes across her upper lip. The sharp scent of cinders tickled her nose and she swallowed a sneeze. Her eyes flickered to Jack’s in question.
“The dirt you smudge on your cheeks isn’t enough to disguise the delicate line of your jaw.” His low voice rumbled through her spine as he continued to “draw” whiskers onto her face with short stippling motions.
His full lips tilted in an ironic expression. “Or that pert little chin.”
She blinked up at him, and he was Dodger again. The rough-and-tumble street kid with the heart of gold. The boy who did everything within his power to protect his crew. She swallowed the burning in her throat and whispered, “I never thanked you for taking care of me … when we were kids.”
His gaze darted down to his open hand, where he swirled the dark soot against his skin. “It was nothing,” he muttered. Perhaps it was the angle of the moonlight, but she could’ve sworn his neck turned red.
As he began to work on the left side of her face, he stepped close, his arm brushing hers. His finger traced the sensitive skin beneath her jaw, and Olivia’s heart raced like a runaway coach. She inhaled his enticing scent and closed her eyes. She only hoped he couldn’t feel the heat of her flushed cheeks or see the frantic beat of her pulse beneath her skin.
When she dared glance back at him, their eyes locked for one heartbeat. Two. Three …
Did he feel what she felt? This visceral connection?
He cleared his throat, leaned back, and assessed her with a critical eye. “Much better. You should do this every time you’re in disguise.”
Instinctively, Olivia reached up to touch her cheek.
“Ach!” Jack captured her hand and held it away from her face. “You’ll smudge my masterpiece.”
He grinned, and she grinned back. His gaze shifted to her mouth. Then with a shake of his head, he dropped her hand. “Whatever you do, do not smile.”
Olivia felt her face fall at his harsh words. But as he stepped around her and swiped his palms together, ash falling in a cloud to the ground, she heard him mumble, “Those dimples could kill a man.”
With a chuckle, she snatched up her sack and practically skipped back out to the street.
As they neared the river, its eternal reek caused Olivia to endeavor to inhale through her mouth. A lone ferry whistle echoed through the fog, signaling the one o’clock boat, the last of the night, leaving from Warren’s Blacking Factory. This was much earlier than Olivia usually dared venture out on her own.
As if to illustrate her point, a group of men exited Warren’s, their boasting laughter preceding them down the sidewalk. Their clothes were stained such a flat, unrelenting black that the white of their faces appeared disembodied until they stepped into one of the sparse pools of lamplight.
Jack handed Olivia Brom’s leash and then casually moved a hand inside his jacket, where she suspected he would have one of several knives. Olivia preferred not to carry weapons. Having no training to wield them, she relied on her intellect to get her out of sticky situations. Well, that and the mass of fur and muscle by her side.
The men drew closer, and from what Olivia could make out, their exuberance was in anticipation of a visit to the Golden Crown, a tavern known for their strong ale and pretty serving wenches. They seemed harmless enough, and Olivia knew how to go unnoticed. Keeping a firm hold on Brom’s leash, she tugged her hat down and hunched her shoulders. Brom would follow her lead, unless someone gave him reason not to.
As the men approached, Olivia drifted toward the street to give them a wide berth. Jack, she noticed at the last second, moved around the group in the
opposite direction, toward the river side of the path. Keeping her eyes fixed ahead, she calculated how much longer it would take to get to the Hill. She gasped when a thick arm blocked her path.
“I was talkin’ to you, boy. Think yer too good for me or somethin’?” Olivia took a step back and followed the line of the burly arm to a face covered in orange muttonchops. Brom snarled, but Olivia gave his leash a quick yank to quiet him.
“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t hear you.” Olivia dipped her head in a deferential nod.
“What are ye doin’ out so late? Don’cha know there’s a price for young ones like you?”
Olivia glanced around, noticing she was surrounded on three sides by men reeking of acrid, tar-like polish. She coughed as the smell stung the back of her throat. A warning rumble began in Brom’s chest.
“Leave the boy. We’ve other business to attend to,” one of the men suggested.
Gloved fingers reached out and grasped her face, tilting it up to the lamplight, and the stench of pitch almost made her gag. “Look at those eyes … like gold coins, and that delicate nose. I’m thinkin’ old Kutzle would pay a pretty penny for a girly boy like this.”
“Aye, or mayhaps enough credit to earn us all a night in heaven!” one of them shouted. All the men chortled in agreement.
With her heart pounding in her ears, Olivia jerked her face out of the man’s hand and let go of Brom’s leash. He snarled and leapt toward the bloke who’d touched her, knocking him to the ground. Olivia turned to run and crashed directly into a hard chest.
Almost blind with panic, it took her a moment to realize it was Jack who grasped her arms and steered her behind him.
“This boy’s under my protection. Leave him be.” Jack’s steely voice gave the men pause.
They seemed to freeze for a moment, before glancing at one another in question. As Brom returned to her side, Olivia prayed they would move on. There were four rough-looking factory workers, against one man, a girl, and her dog.
Muttonchops, back on his feet, clutched a bleeding wound on his arm and moved to the front of the group. “I’ve lost blood for this boy. Now, I’ll ’ave him.”
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