Olivia Twist

by Lorie Langdon

  Her cup clanged against its saucer, drawing the eyes of the few patrons in the shop. Olivia smiled wanly in apology and turned back to the window, where the foot traffic was picking up despite the snow-covered streets.

  At least if she were going to become a wife, it would be not only for her uncle’s guaranteed security, but to assist as many of the unfortunate as possible—and that included the Hill Orphans.

  She’d let Jack serve his purpose and protect them with his reputation, but she refused to step aside quietly. Besides, if Monks hadn’t deduced who she was by now, he was unlikely to link a street thug named Ollie with his lost little sister.

  That morning, she’d worked up the nerve to ask Uncle Brownlow about Edward Leeford. He hadn’t shown much of a reaction to her half brother’s existence, but had assured her that her father’s wealth had been squandered on asinine inventions and failed business ventures long ago. So Jack’s theory that Monks sought to do her harm because of some long-lost fortune didn’t hold weight.

  The bell on the door tinkled and Fran and Vi rushed in, all rosy cheeks and laughter. Olivia waved, and Violet rushed over, rubbing her arms and shivering. Fran, much too sophisticated to show physical weakness, stamped her boots and swept over to the table wearing her perpetual smug smile.

  “You’ll never guess who we’ve just run into!” Violet proclaimed, taking a seat on the chair across from Olivia.

  “Who?” Olivia asked, forcing herself out of her self-absorption for her best friend’s sake.

  “None other than Mr. Jack MacCarron,” Fran pronounced as she hung her sable-trimmed jacket on a nearby coat tree.

  Olivia swallowed a large gulp of hot tea and began to cough. Saints! Could she not escape the man for even a moment?

  “Good heavens. Are you quite all right, Livie?” Violet handed her a napkin, which Olivia gracelessly snatched and pressed to her mouth as coughs racked her chest.

  Francesca perched on the edge of her seat and poured her tea, ignoring Olivia’s outburst. “Yes, Mr. MacCarron was on his way to Beakmans to have his final fitting for a suit of evening clothes.”

  “Just like us,” Violet interjected, earning a scathing look from Fran, who wasn’t finished gloating.

  Since the Grimwigs’ ball was next week, they’d planned to meet before heading to their ball gown fittings with the fabulous Madam Franchon. Olivia could only tolerate the pretentious woman in small doses, and never alone. She clucked around Olivia like a disapproving mother hen, shaking her head at Olivia’s freckled skin and tsking at her sun-lightened hair.

  Fran cleared her throat. “As I was saying, Jack made a point to inquire if I would be attending the ball.”

  Olivia arched a brow at Francesca’s blatant use of his given name, and almost laughed out loud as she imagined what her sheltered cousin would do if she had witnessed Jack beating those men to bloody pulps in the street the previous night. An ungentlemanly practice to be sure.

  “He inquired after both of us, Fran,” Violet insisted, snatching a brown-butter cookie from the tray of sweets.

  “I’m sure he was only asking you to be polite. Those evocative blue eyes didn’t leave my face the entire conversation,” Francesca replied.

  Violet didn’t respond, but Olivia could see her internal struggle as she pursed her lips and shoved the rest of the cookie into her mouth. Her best friend displayed commendable restraint, but knowing Vi as she did, it was only a matter of time before Fran found herself pushed from behind into a reeking pond. Olivia only hoped she’d be there to witness it.

  “Speaking of the Grimwigs, how is a certain Mr. Grimwig these days?” Violet asked, wiggling her russet brows suggestively.

  Only Uncle Brownlow and Max’s parents knew of the engagement. But her cousins suspected Max’s intentions, and were constantly prodding her for the latest information.

  “I haven’t seen him in several days. He’s just returned from inspecting a property in Southampton with his father.” Olivia leaned forward and selected a glistening apple-raisin tart from the tray. “I’m attending the theater with him tonight …”

  Olivia lifted the tart to her mouth, but before she could take a bite, the scent of spiced apples filled her head with visions of Jack, their breath mingling, his body pressing hers in the darkened doorway.

  “Olivia?”

  She blinked the wayward images out of her mind’s eye and focused on Violet’s pertly wrinkled nose. “Whyever do you have a string tied around your finger, Olivia dear?”

  As she glanced down at the piece of black thread, heat rushed into her cheeks. She’d placed the string on her ring finger that morning as a reminder of her commitment to Max. She set the tart on her plate, untasted. “Um … it’s to remind me of something … I … er … need to tell Maxwell this evening.”

  It wasn’t a complete lie. Tonight, she was determined to show Max what a proper, devoted fiancée she could be to him. The theater was the perfect venue to spend some quality time and demonstrate her commitment, and at the very least, it was the one place she’d never run into Jack.

  “If this is one of your little tests to gage my dedication, I’ll tolerate it, but I promise I won’t enjoy it.” Jack stared across the shadowed interior of the carriage at Lois’s pillowy face, her expression inscrutable—or devious, more like.

  “The theater is not torture, my boy. It will do you good to gain a bit of culture. And this is not an examination, I simply needed your escort this evening.”

  “Right, and the queen of England is my long-lost sister,” Jack muttered under his breath. Lois March never did anything without a precise purpose.

  “What’s that, my boy?” Lois asked over the creaking of the carriage.

  “Nothing,” he responded, slouching in his seat. “What play are we seeing?”

  “The Bohemian Girl.” Lois twirled her fingers in a dismissive gesture. “The opera, you know.”

  “And why would I know?” Jack asked, lifting his brows in question.

  “With your musical aptitude, I was sure you would’ve heard of it.”

  The carriage rumbled through a rough patch of snow and Lois gripped the hand strap and edge of her seat, softly cursing the perils of modern transportation. She preferred to walk whenever possible.

  Even after the wheels found purchase and the ride smoothed out, Jack was unable to follow Lois’s twisted logic. “To what musical aptitude are you referring?”

  “The violin, of course. Your little impromptu performance at the Dells’ musicale was inspired.”

  Jack grinned at her praise. He’d learned to play on a beat-up old fiddle he’d found in an abandoned Gypsy trunk. He’d picked up the instrument out of sheer boredom, but with a little instruction from Fagin, the music seemed to flow through him with ease. His performances had become a nightly entertainment on the Hill and a pure source of happiness for him.

  “You should have seen how Little Miss Amethyst practically swooned at your feet that night.”

  Remembering the lovely set of amethyst jewels Lois referred to, Jack knew she spoke of Francesca Lancaster, Olivia’s cousin. Olivia. Dark heat pulsed in his chest. How could she accuse him of being reckless? He’d weighed all the risks of dragging the Dodger out of the past. And he knew exactly what was at stake.

  She was the one taking needless risks by wandering around the city in that thinly veiled disguise. A wig and dirt-smeared cheeks couldn’t hide her innate grace and beauty. He’d never wanted to kiss and strangle someone in the same breath, but that incongruous and decidedly uncomfortable state had become the norm when he was with her.

  Jack realized Lois was still talking and he’d tuned her out.

  “… an association?” Lois met his gaze expectantly as the carriage rolled to a halt.

  Parting the curtains, Jack saw that they were still down the block from Drury Lane Theatre. They jerked back into motion, moving forward in the line. “What type of association?” Jack asked distractedly.

  “Blast it,
Jack! Where is your head? You disappear for days on end without a word, and don’t think I haven’t noticed that it’s been several weeks since your last score.”

  Jack ran a hand through his hair; he’d known this interrogation was coming. “I thought it best to lay low for a bit. The Dells reported the theft, and the beaks launched a full investigation.”

  “Be that as it may, it’s time to refocus our efforts. And if you’d been attending you would realize this next assignment is complicated, but … fruitful.”

  Now she had his attention. “I’m listening.”

  “As I was saying, the Emeralds’—” She stopped and shook her head. “I mean, the Grimwigs’ ball is next week. It should be a huge crush and the perfect time for a heist. The gems are flawless, a total of fifty carats. I already have a potential buyer lined up in Calcutta.”

  “If they’re so fabulous, how do you know Mrs. Grimwig won’t be wearing them at the ball?”

  The old woman leaned forward, her eyes glowing through the gloom. “I have it on good authority that she’s had a scarlet dress designed for the occasion. Emeralds would clash horribly.”

  Jack nodded. If this hit was as big as Lois claimed, it would be their most lucrative yet.

  “Here’s the rub. For some inexplicable reason, we haven’t received an invitation to the ball.”

  Jack didn’t have to guess why. String-bean Grimwig didn’t want Jack anywhere near Olivia. Little did Maxwell know that Jack didn’t need a formal invitation to spend time with his girl.

  “Wipe that smirk off your face and focus!” Lois gave his calf a whack with her cane. “And stop slouching.”

  Jack winced and rubbed his stinging leg as he straightened in his seat. The old woman was stronger than she appeared.

  “Now, if you were to cultivate an association with the highly sought-after Francesca Lancaster, I’m sure we would receive an invitation post haste.”

  From the seductive looks Miss Lancaster had thrown his way that morning on the street, his attentions would be more than welcome. But he feared Francesca would take his interest to heart.

  “I know you don’t have an aversion to rich, beautiful women, so why the reluctance?”

  Jack ran his thumb over the pads of his fingers in contemplation. He wanted to tell her no, that he wouldn’t do it. But in this case, the ends more than justified the means. “I know Miss Lancaster rather well. It won’t be a problem.”

  “Good. Because I invited her to the theater on your behalf, and she’ll be sitting in our box tonight.”

  The woman worked fast, he had to give her that.

  CHAPTER 13

  It occurred to me, Miss Brownlow,” Maxwell said as he led Olivia to her seat in the second-tier balcony, “that I have been neglectful in my courtship duties.” He spoke the words as if rehearsed. Or, more likely, prompted by his mother.

  “Tonight qualifies as a courtship outing, does it not?” Olivia placed her gloved fingers on Max’s dark coat sleeve and met his eyes.

  He blinked down at her hand, his cheeks darkening. “Perhaps this courtship business isn’t so bad after all.” His solicitous comment made Olivia’s throat constrict with guilt as she removed her hand from his arm and sat, fingering the small knot of string beneath the fabric of her glove, a reminder that her heart was divided.

  Flustered, she raised her opera glasses to glance around the packed theater. They were seated in the Grimwigs’ private box with his parents. The perch gave them an optimal view of not only the stage but the colorful crowd as well.

  Movement in the box directly across the theater caught her eye, and she swung the glasses around until she landed on a couple, just in time to see the dark-haired man leaning over to kiss the extended hand of a petite brunette. As the glasses brought the couple into focus, the blood drained from Olivia’s head and landed with a lump in her stomach. It was none other than Jack MacCarron and her blasted cousin Francesca. Lowering the glasses, she sucked air in gulps, the stricture of her stays stifling.

  “What is it, Miss Brownlow?” Max lifted his glasses to follow the direction of her gaze. “Is that MacCarron?”

  “Why, yes,” Martha Grimwig commented from the other side of Maxwell. “And Miss Lancaster. What a lovely couple they make. Don’t you agree, Miss Brownlow?”

  Olivia couldn’t open her mouth for fear she might vomit. What was he doing here with her? Fran knew she was going to the theater this evening and hadn’t mentioned a word of her plans to attend. It must have been a last-minute invitation following her meeting with Jack on the street that morning. What was it Fran had said? Those evocative blue eyes didn’t leave my face the entire conversation. Olivia had dismissed it as her cousin’s over-inflated opinion of herself. Apparently, she’d been wrong.

  Like a spectator unable to resist the macabre pull of a bloody accident, Olivia lifted her glasses and watched Jack and Fran’s dark heads tilt together in intimate conversation. She couldn’t make out their expressions in the dim light, but it was clear by their body language that they were enjoying each other’s company.

  “Whyever did you ask me not to invite him to the ball?” Mrs. Grimwig asked Max in an annoyed tone.

  “Mother, please. Let’s not discuss this here,” Max replied in a hiss.

  Olivia forced herself to lower her glasses and focus on the conversation.

  “He is always perfectly charming, and if Miss Lancaster deems him suitable then I shan’t exclude him.”

  “Mother, you don’t—”

  The orchestra’s discordant tuning swelled into organization, the smooth woodwinds melding with soaring strings and a roll of percussion, cutting off further conversation. Ushers garbed in gray from head to toe swarmed in like a flock of jays, extinguishing the lamps in formation. This dramatic prelude was Olivia’s favorite part. But not even a rainbow of gypsies twirling across the stage, tambourines jingling, could distract her when her gut was churning with such violence.

  She knew she had no claim on Jack and no cause to feel this jealousy, but that didn’t change the fact she longed to be the one sitting beside him—his leg brushing hers, his breath stirring the tiny hairs by her ear, the very air around them pulsing with expectation. She glanced over at Max, his long legs crossed, his posture erect, very properly not touching her person. This was her fate and her future.

  But who said it had to be? Why couldn’t Olivia add excitement to her relationship with her betrothed? Shifting closer to Max, she placed her hand on top of his and pressed the length of their arms together. He didn’t appear to notice, so she gave his fingers a squeeze. His brows scrunched as he tore his gaze from the stage and looked down at their joined hands. He pressed his lips together, his eyes shifting over to his mother. He gave Olivia’s fingers a pat before extricating his hand from hers and resting it on his knee, directing his attention back to the performance.

  A flush rose to heat Olivia’s cheeks as she shifted away from the man beside her, ensuring that not even their clothing touched. Olivia was quite certain Jack and Francesca were not inhibited by such antiquated strictures of propriety, especially in the dim intimacy of the auditorium. A jittery energy coursed through her, her legs itching to move.

  But she sat through what seemed like an endless number of songs, the dancers blurring before her eyes. Then all the frenetic movement stopped, and a lone woman stood center stage, singing lyrics that cut to Olivia’s heart: “The secret of my birth, to him is only known. The secret of a life whose worth perchance he will disown, disown …” Would Max disown her if he knew all the secrets of her scandalous past? Her present?

  Olivia leaned forward in her seat as a man joined in the song, his words unbeknownst to the woman: “The secret of her birth to me is only known, the secret of a life whose worth I prize beyond mine own, beyond mine own.” Or would Max respond as the man and cherish her despite her past? She couldn’t dismiss the fact there was one who knew all her secrets, yet protected her with his life—and he sat across the theater woo
ing her cousin.

  Suddenly, the darkened box began to close in around her. Murmuring an excuse, she grabbed her reticule and stood, feeling her way along the brocade-covered wall and up the aisle stairs to the hallway. She didn’t stop until she reached the mezzanine level. The large atrium was empty save for a few ushers replacing candles in the lowered chandeliers, their wavering light casting discordant shadows on the walls. Olivia rushed to a nearby ladies’ washroom, ducked inside, and threw herself down at a vanity table.

  She plucked off her gloves and stared at her own image in the mirror. From the sweetheart neckline of her rose-colored silk gown to the elaborate upsweep of her hair and the glint of paste jewels dangling from her ears, she was a lady of elegance and refinement. But a large part of her wanted to rip it all off. Tear the earbobs from her lobes, pluck the pins from her hair, and scream the truth of her identity to the world.

  Instead, she unclenched her fists and lowered her face into her palms. She’d been hiding so long, she didn’t even know who she was anymore.

  “Miss? Are you all right?”

  Olivia raised her head and looked up to find a woman standing behind her. The lady was unfamiliar, with dark eyes and hair streaked with silver. She held Olivia’s gaze in the mirror, exuding poise and grace.

  With a confidence she did not yet feel, Olivia answered, “Yes, I am … or at least, I will be.”

  “I’ve been there myself.” A smile full of warmth and understanding lit her face, creasing the skin by her eyes. “I’ve found if one follows their heart, everything works out in the end.”

  “My heart?” Olivia gripped the reticule in her lap, hundreds of beads digging into her palms. If her mother’s life had been any indication, the heart was far too fickle to follow.

  The woman moved to the next vanity and leaned down to check her face. “You know, your intuition.” She turned and looked at Olivia, a bit of challenge shining in her gaze. “That small inner voice that most women ignore because they’re too concerned with living the life others expect.”