Jack pushed the hat back on his head and met the man’s glare with one of his own. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way.” He stepped into the slightly taller man’s space and growled, “You choose.”
Then, as if by some invisible signal, Jack moved like lightning. He tossed his umbrella up, caught it in his right hand, and slammed the handle into Muttonchop’s chin with a loud crack. The man’s head flew back as he crumpled to the ground, out cold. But Jack didn’t stop. He punched the ruffian to his left in the mouth, and then twirled the brolly into his other hand, spun in a half circle, and rammed it into another man’s gut. Brom jumped into the fray. Hackles raised and jaws snapping, he forced one of the men out into the street.
Jack faced the last man and brandished the pointed end of the umbrella like a sword. The man backed away, wide-eyed, then turned tail and ran.
The one Jack had hit in the stomach straightened and hurtled in Jack’s direction.
“Watch out!” Olivia screamed.
He landed a blow to Jack’s kidney before Jack whirled on his heel, his coattails flying in a wide arc. Using his momentum, he clutched the man by the throat and lowered to one knee, slamming the man into the ground with so much force that his head smacked loudly against the cobbles. Jack stood and pressed the umbrella handle against the man’s throat. Afraid his skull had fractured, Olivia cautiously moved closer, but he groaned and rolled onto his side, only a slight trickle of blood staining his light hair.
Olivia just stared at the ruffians laid out around them. Like a dancer in a macabre play of death, Jack had defeated four powerful men with his fists and … a brolly?
“Let’s go,” he ordered.
Brom at her heels, Olivia clapped a hand on her cap and ran, cringing as icy water splashed into the holes in her shoes. They didn’t slow until they reached the Temple Bar arch and the gloom of Fleet Street. She glanced over her shoulder more than once, staring into the shadows to make sure they weren’t followed.
As they turned onto Chancery Lane, a chill wind blew against Olivia’s face, and she clutched the collar of her coat tightly around her neck, her eyes flicking to the man beside her. The strong nose was familiar, the midnight hair resting against his neck as it had always been, but it would seem this Jack had become someone very different from the charming pickpocket she had once known.
The farther they walked in silence, the stronger her curiosity became. She needed answers. “How did you do that?”
“Do what?” Jack shrugged as if he’d just tied a neckcloth, instead of mopping the street with four grown men.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about! You took out those factory workers like they were featherweights. Since when do you know how to do that?”
They rounded a corner, and Jack’s umbrella clattered to the ground as he pushed Olivia into a darkened doorway. His face a hairsbreadth from hers as he hissed, “Since the Dodger was forced to become a street lord just to survive. Since every gang in bloomin’ Holborn looked to me for protection from your blasted brother. Since my fists, and whatever makeshift weapon I could get my hands on, were the only things standing between me and a slow, painful death.” His palm smacked the wooden doorframe at her back, making her jump. “You think I chose to become this … this bloody bludger?”
Olivia met his eyes, something tortured and wild lurking in their depths. She could taste apples and spice as his panting breaths blew against her mouth. His body was so close it stole her words, her very thoughts.
When the tense silence between them became unbearable, she whispered, “I … I’m sorry.” She wasn’t sure what she was apologizing for, except perhaps that she’d escaped that life and he had not.
Jack’s shoulders slumped as if the air had been knocked out of him, and he closed his eyes. Without volition, her hand lifted to his cheek, cradling the rough stubble along his jawline. “It’s all right, Jack. You did what you had to do. As we both always have.”
His eyes opened, spikey lashes a dark shadow against his skin, his expression completely unguarded. The hurt and fear, the resolve, and the need she read there made it clear this boy was no danger to her. The pad of her thumb brushed his cheekbone and she lifted on her toes, drawn to his lips. He leaned toward her, his eyes sweeping her face, and then he jerked back. Confusion flashed in his eyes before his countenance locked tight, closing her out.
“It’s getting late.” He stepped out of the doorway and clucked to Brom, who was sniffing around a nearby lamp pole.
Cheeks burning, she hefted her satchel back onto her shoulder. Something dark lurked just beneath Jack’s surface and she’d seen it emerge tonight. Part of her wanted to dig deeper, help him exorcise his demons, but then she glanced down at her naked ring finger. She pushed out a sigh. Perhaps it would help if she tied a string there to remind her she was an engaged woman.
Jack followed Olivia and Brom into a dilapidated building, barely able to squeeze through the boards nailed to the window. The first level of the hovel was one open room, empty save for piles of refuse and several massive holes in the floor. A large rodent scurried across their path and down into one of the pits. Jack suppressed a shudder as his boot crunched a large bug, and memories took him back to a similar flea-ridden dump he’d huddled in for a few very long months before Fagin took him into his gang.
Olivia whistled, and feet pounded across the ceiling above their heads. A curly blond head appeared above them, a single candle clutched in his fist.
“Ollie! Yer early!”
Olivia grinned and waved up at the child as an unmistakable clearing of a throat sounded.
“Sorry. Whot’s the password?”
“Katrina Van Tassel,” Olivia answered in a jarringly rough voice.
Jack recognized the password as the coquette from “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow,” and as he watched the giant mutt, Brom, run up a narrow board that had just been lowered from the opening in the ceiling, he felt a bit of the darkness lift from his heart. He’d never put it together before, but Olivia had chosen to name her beloved pet after the character Brom Bones, likely because she didn’t subscribe to the widely held view of Brom as the villain of the story.
Looking past her ratty wig and ash-smudged cheeks, he met her honeyed gaze and his heart gave a squeeze. This girl insisted on seeing the best in everyone, even in the fictional world. Perhaps this explained a bit of her tolerance for him.
Their eyes locked for a moment, and then she motioned for him to follow her up the slender ramp. “I’ve brought a friend,” she announced as she reached the landing.
Jack walked quickly up the slope, his days of scaling the rooftops and hidey-holes of London a physical memory not easily forgotten. Stepping into the upper room, he was met by eighteen pairs of wide eyes—if he counted correctly. He scanned the little faces, most of them open with curiosity. Until he reached a tall boy, arms crossed over his chest, feet spread wide, his dark eyes narrowed, chin lifted in challenge. This had to be Brit.
“Everyone, this is Jack. He’s a good chum and he’d like to help.” Olivia met Brit’s gaze, mirrored his stance, and spoke her next words with deliberation. “You can trust him.”
As if she’d uttered the magic code, Jack was surrounded and tugged over to the one fireplace in the open room, little hands grasping his fingers and his clothes. One of his knives appeared in a boy’s hand and Jack snatched it back, making note to take stock of his pockets before he left. They led him through a path of pallets scattered on the floor, chattering like a nest of mice.
“How do ye know Ollie?”
“Have you gots kids?”
“How old are you?”
“Do you live wit’ Ollie?”
At that, Jack met Olivia’s amused gaze and arched a brow. She laughed and shrugged before kneeling to dig into the bag she’d brought with her. Realizing he was on his own, Jack took a deep breath and answered each of their questions. “We’ve known each other since we were children. No. Twenty. And absolutely
not.”
The boys were silent for a moment, digesting what he’d said, and then they converged on Olivia as she pulled random food items from her sack. Jack leaned against the warm bricks of the chimney and assessed his surroundings. A pile of tin dishes sat next to a cast-iron pot on the hearth, coats hung on a line of pegs on one wall, and boots and shoes were arranged in a neat row. There was even a beat-up table with six pieced-together chairs, a few books and slate tablets organized in the center.
Between the moonlight coming in from windows on both sides of the room—which surprisingly still held their glass panes—the fire, and several candles on the table, the room was far less gloomy than he’d expected. He could see why the boys were reluctant to move, despite the threat of Monks and his gang. Leeford. A pain shot through his jaw at the thought of the bloody menace.
Jack unclenched his teeth and focused on his goal. These boys were the key to taking the crime lord down once and for all. Why he felt compelled to do so, and what Olivia was to him, he could not easily identify, but he did know he couldn’t let her brother succeed in his Machiavellian plans. Nor could he allow the dinger to terrorize and extort children all over Holborn.
Revenge had little to do with it.
At least that’s what Jack told himself as he watched Olivia cut a loaf of bread and a wheel of cheese into rations, while chatting with the kids, ruffling hair, teasing and calling them by name. The little blond one, who Jack assumed was Chip, sat on her lap. The boys may be vital to finding Monks, but they were also Olivia’s weakness. It was only a matter of time before her brother caught on to that fact as well.
Watching her now, it was clear she would never agree to walk away from them, even if it meant saving her own life. She was stubborn … and determined, and courageous. Jack cut short his thoughts. Emotional detachment equals control. He would have to find a way to lure Monks out, without exposing Olivia’s vulnerability.
With that aim in mind, he turned his focus on Brit, who’d been throwing him furtive glances since he arrived. The kid’s dark coloring fit the old pawnbroker’s description of the one who’d sold him the locket. Between that and his unique name, it wouldn’t take long for Monks to follow the trail.
Jack pushed off the wall and walked over to the young leader. “We need to talk.” Brit gave a tight nod, and held Jack’s unwavering gaze. The inner strength Jack saw in the boy’s eyes gave him hope. Hope that what he was about to do would not be in vain.
It was time to go on the offense and resurrect a past he’d hoped to leave behind forever. The Dodger was coming out of retirement.
CHAPTER 12
Olivia held her hat in place as wind whipped the thick strands of her wig against her cheeks. The crisp scent of coming snow had her wishing for her fur-lined jacket and muff. Jack trudged along beside her, his ragged-looking coat little protection against the elements. The harsh turn in weather didn’t allow for easy conversation, but that didn’t stop the questions spinning in Olivia’s head.
She’d just overheard Jack instruct Brit and the boys to tell anyone who would listen that the Dodger was back and he was their new kidsman. They’d all heard of the Dodger; he was a legend among the street folk. And tonight, watching him fight like a warrior, Olivia had witnessed a good part of the reason why.
Stunned silence had clouded her brain as the boys threw questions at Jack from every side. True to his nature, he avoided giving specific answers, all while rallying the boys around his plan—If Monks wants a turf war, he’ll get one!
Then he’d helped them invent ideas to fortify the hideout. Jack pointed out vulnerabilities, such as the accessible opening in the floor, and then led the boys through possible solutions. They’d agreed to build a hatch with a sturdy lock. As the little ones drifted off to their beds, Jack, Brit, and Archie addressed the windows, concocting an elaborate rope and pulley system that would dump wet paint on anyone who attempted to break in.
Before leaving, Jack had pulled the two older boys aside, handed them a wad of cash, and given them a list of supplies they would need to create the protective measures they’d discussed. That kind of cash flow would certainly gain attention, which seemed part of Jack’s master plan.
The only problem being that, as far as Olivia knew, Jack “The Artful Dodger” MacCarron had left that life behind, going so far as to fake his own death. He was hiding something. She just couldn’t figure out his angle—yet. Not that she wasn’t grateful for his help. But had he thought through the possible repercussions? Resurrecting his past could jeopardize his new life, and if his current or past crimes came to light, it would land him behind bars … or worse.
Leaning into the wind, Olivia turned off the walk to cut through the park. Jack moved ahead of her and lifted branches out of her path as they wove through the trees. She knew he had a noble side—she’d witnessed it over and over again when they were children—but that still didn’t explain the terrible risk he was taking by diving headfirst into his past. It only illustrated how very little Olivia knew about the person he had become. His whole life was a mystery, from his parents to his arrangement with Lois March.
At the gates of her garden, Jack touched his hat with a nod, propped the umbrella on his shoulder, and turned to go.
“Jack!” she yelled, but he either ignored her or couldn’t hear over the wind. “Jack!” When he didn’t respond, she caught up to him, looped her arm through his, and guided him toward the townhouse, doing her best to ignore the powerful curve of his bicep under her fingers. There was a place where three brick walls of the house formed an alcove. It was where she hid her stolen trinkets until she could take them to the boys.
When they reached the spot, she reluctantly removed her hand from the warmth of his arm and pushed aside the hedge that disguised the entrance. The moonlit niche got them out of the wind, but as they both squeezed in together, she realized it was much smaller than she remembered.
“If you want to get me alone, I could arrange a more comfortable meeting place,” Jack quipped, a wicked glint in his eye.
Olivia’s stomach did a tight flip as she shifted into the corner to create some much-needed space between them. “I simply want to talk.”
Jack rolled his eyes and slumped back against the wall. “Must we?”
“Yes, we must.” Olivia scratched her wig, longing to pull the itchy thing off her head, but instead she assumed her “boy stance” and crossed her arms. “What are you hiding?”
He remained silent.
“Why do you want to go after Monks?”
His eyes turned glacial.
She fired another question. “How did you end up with Lois March?”
The way Jack’s brow lifted, she could tell her question surprised him. Good. He’d had her off balance since the day he walked back into her life.
He recovered quickly, a tiny smirk sliding across his lips. “She’s my aunt. Or hadna ye heard I’m a wee orphan from Ireland?”
His accent was spot on, but his words were complete twaddle. Her chest burned like it was filled with hot coals. How dare he treat her with such cavalier disregard? “I shared every sordid detail about my parents with you. And you can’t be honest with me about this one thing?”
“I’m helping your precious orphans, so what does it matter?” he sneered.
“It matters, you insolent dolt, because by trotting out the Dodger like some diverting party trick, you’re risking everything Lois has done for you! It could endanger your life!” She didn’t realize she’d moved until she felt his hands circling her upper arms, holding her back.
“A party trick! You think I’m playing some blasted game?” He let go of her so suddenly that she fell back against the bricks, knocking the air out of her lungs. She’d meant to provoke a reaction out of him, but by the thunderous look on his face, she’d gone too far.
“Jack—”
“Do me a favor and leave off. Stay home tucked into your cozy feather bed,” he spat. “And bury that foolish costume. I
’ll take care of the orphans. You’re only making it harder for all of us.”
Speechless, Olivia watched Jack crash through the hedge, the branches shuddering in his wake. She leaned against the cold bricks, her harsh breaths clouding the air in front of her eyes. Why the devil couldn’t she just keep her mouth shut?
Snow began to fall; a trickle at first, and then a deluge. Fat flakes stuck to her lashes and melted on her already wet cheeks. She’d lashed out, desperate to see behind the mask he showed the rest of the world, but instead she may have pushed him away for good.
The next morning Olivia arrived at the tearoom early, a bell tinkling against the door as she entered. With a shiver, she wiped snow from her boots. The comforting scents of hot tea, wood smoke, and fresh baked goods welcomed her as a server indicated a variety of seats. She scanned the room, and noting that Vi and Francesca had yet to arrive, selected a cozy arrangement of overstuffed chairs draped in sunlight.
After ordering a pot of strong black tea, she settled in and stared blindly out the window. She’d awoken that morning with a melancholy she couldn’t shake. It was as if she were drifting without a tether anchoring her to anything solid.
She removed her fur-lined gloves and placed them in her lap. Jack was right; her connection to Monks was putting the boys in more danger. Perhaps her days of gallivanting through the city as Ollie were at an end. If Jack promised to take care of the orphans, could she leave them in his hands? Her heart physically ached at the thought of never again seeing Chip’s little face, or Archie’s mischievous grin, or Brit—Olivia took a sip of tea and swallowed the lump in her throat—brilliant Brit, who took the weight of the world on his shoulders.
It wasn’t a matter of trust, exactly. She was sure Jack could meet their needs and provide protection. But was he in it for the duration? Or would he forget all about the boys once the novelty of being their hero wore off?
The fact of the matter was, without those boys, Olivia had no idea who she was anymore. Was she the future Mrs. Maxwell Grimwig? Endeavoring to be the perfect society wife, her days filled with conversations about the latest wallpapering trends, the most frivolous hat designs, the grandest parties, and who was dallying with whom? God forbid!
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