So naturally, he’d spent the last twenty-four hours searching the streets of London for the blasted coward.
A part of him realized he was running from his feelings, the thoughts he couldn’t escape … dreams that could never be. But instead of dulling his conscience, the lack of sleep had only served to sharpen his emotions until all the needs he’d worked so hard to ignore jabbed at him like tiny swords, leaving him raw and exposed.
The night before last, they’d walked under the same buttery moonlight. The same hazy stars that you couldn’t see clearly unless you climbed above the smog of London, and yet everything had changed. With Olivia by his side, a weed sprouting between cracks of pavement signified hope. The mist that swept through the streets, stealing the light, became a romantic backdrop. His lens on the world had shifted, seemingly overnight.
And apparently, sleep deprivation caused him to wax poetic.
How had he gone from a happily unencumbered bachelor with nothing to lose to this sniveling mess, pining over a young miss whose baggage included an ailing uncle and a gaggle of orphans? If anyone had told him a few weeks ago that he’d be racking his brain for a way to become everything one girl desired—even a girl as captivating as Olivia Brownlow—he would’ve laughed in their face.
Jack chuckled out loud, the lonely sound echoing around the empty room, mocking him. Perhaps he’d stayed busy to keep himself from chasing Olivia like a lovesick pup. To stop himself from begging her to choose him, even when he knew it was against her best interest.
He had to talk to her. Make sure she wouldn’t go visit the boys on Turnbull Road. He began to rise, but stopped when the room tilted and spun. He would have to trust her.
The real question was … could he trust himself? Would he keep the vow he’d made to Olivia not to accept Monks’s challenge? After all, he’d be killing two vultures with one stone, if he could strike a bargain to keep Olivia and the orphans safe before beating bloomin’ Leeford to within an inch of his worthless life. Now that he was away from Olivia’s hypnotizing gold eyes, he realized it was a promise he never should’ve made. If he broke it and saved the day, would she forgive him?
Blast it. He still had over twenty-four hours to decide. Blindly, he reached for the bottle on the table, and lifted the glass to his lips, the water cooling a welcome path down his parched throat and into his brain.
The library door opened behind him, but he couldn’t seem to muster the energy, or the interest, to turn his head to see who had entered.
“Inebriated already, Jack?”
“Not yet.” Jack pinched the top of his nose, Topher’s grating voice triggering an instant headache. “What’s it to you?”
Leather creaked and Jack caught a whiff of obnoxious cologne as Topher settled into the chair across from him.
“Gran Lois said you needed my help with something. Pray tell me you haven’t summoned me to hold your hair back while you heave, because that goes beyond cousinly duties as far as I’m concerned.”
Jack smiled despite himself, wishing a nursemaid was all he needed. They’d received the much-coveted invitation to the Grimwig Ball, but the card had very specifically excluded Jack’s name. Apparently, none of the invitations—including the Lancasters’—allowed for uninvited guests. Which left Jack in quite the quandary.
He cracked open his eyes and sat up. Time to face the music. Gripping the arm of the sofa, he forced his swirling gaze to settle on Topher’s blasé countenance. “It seems I require your superior social skills, old man.”
Jack pegged his cousin with as level a stare as he could manage. “I need to pay a call on the Grimwigs tomorrow and would like for you to accompany me.”
Topher’s look of repugnance turned to shrewd interest, and the fingers he impatiently drummed against his knee stilled. “Why?”
Why, indeed. Lois had taken care of everything, down to a blueprint of the Grimwig estate marked with the exact location of the safe. She was peeved, to say the least, that Jack had flubbed up his part of the plan. But in Jack’s muddled state, he seemed to be having trouble coming up with a plausible lie. He gripped his forehead and massaged his aching temples. “Because I need to get an invitation to their blasted ball.”
Silence.
Jack glanced around his hand. Topher watched him with narrowed eyes, his long fingers steepled in front of him. “God only knows why, but you seem to have all the women of London society wrapped around your little finger. Why would you need my help?”
Jack sighed and sank back into the cushions. The buffoon was going to make him beg. “Because Grimwig bloody hates me, that’s why.”
That earned him a dry laugh as Topher sat straight in his chair. “Ah … his precious Miss Brownlow. Am I right?”
Jack met Topher’s gray eyes. “String-bean thinks I’m after his girl, yes. But Olivia isn’t his to own.”
“So you do have a soft spot for the mysterious Miss Brownlow … Interesting. There’s something … captivating about her, to be sure. Those melted-gold eyes, her gaze just a bit too direct. Her titillating wit, a smidge too candid.” Topher leaned forward and lifted a pale brow. “The sway of her hips verging on improper.”
Jack’s muscles coiled, his hands closing into fists. Just as he was about to spring forward and smash Topher’s pencil-thin nose, Toph chuckled.
The tosser was baiting him. Dragging a hand through his hair, Jack forced himself to breathe. “The point is, dear cousin, it’s imperative that I attend that ball, and I need your help to get back in String—I mean, Maxwell’s good graces.”
Topher pursed his lips and sat back. “No.”
Jack arched a brow and waited for the explanation sure to follow.
Sure enough, Topher launched into a lecture. “You’re not a good match for Miss Brownlow, and I refuse to pretend otherwise. I’m also not an idiot. I don’t know what you’re playing at, cousin, but until you truly tell me why it’s so imperative you attend this particular ball, I have no intention of lending my assistance.”
Jack had to unclench his teeth before he could reply, “You’re a right git, you know that?”
Topher shrugged and smiled in reply, as if being a bloomin’ prat was a point of pride. Some part of Jack could respect that. So perhaps it wasn’t just the fishes swimming in his brain that convinced him that his counterfeit relative deserved to hear the truth—the full truth about Jack’s role in the March fortune. Jack swallowed and then forced out the words before he changed his mind. “All right. I’ll tell you who I really am and what I’m about.”
Jack leaned forward and sloshed some water into a clean glass. “But I guarantee,” he said, handing the drink to a slightly bemused Topher, “you’re going to wish you had something stronger than this.”
The morning was unseasonably warm, and since the dining room walls seemed to be closing in on her, Olivia took her breakfast to the garden. The trees were barren sticks, a few brittle leaves clinging to their branches, and the grass was dead and brown, but the air smelled of spring. November was a terrible tease. Olivia set down her tea, closed her eyes, and drew in a deep breath through her nose. Hints of living green, balmy air, and sunny skies tempted her away to adventure.
Vehemently, she blinked away visions of donning her disguise and running into the city, Jack by her side. Those days of freedom were speeding to an abrupt end, to be replaced by endless hours stuffed into a corset with a proper simper pasted on her face and only suitable words passing through her lips.
With a gulp of tea, she fought the panic that constricted like a corset pulled too tight. She’d decided at some point during the night that she would wait until her engagement to Max was official and then enlist his help with unearthing her father’s will. It was the only sensible course of action.
A scrape and tap turned Olivia’s attention to her uncle exiting the back door. A long-absent smile lifted his face, peeling back the years. “Good news, my darling girl! If I continue to feel this well, the doctor has approved my atten
dance at the Grimwigs’ ball, and I’ll be witness to your big announcement.”
Olivia met her uncle’s hopeful expression as he pulled out the wrought iron chair across from her with a rasp of metal against stone, reminiscent of the dull knife cutting open her chest. The ball, and subsequent proclamation of her engagement to Max, were only days away. And she hadn’t told Jack.
Speaking the words and watching those flaming blue eyes frost over somehow made it deadly final. But even with all his pretty words, he’d never really offered her an alternative.
As her uncle settled across from her and leaned his cane against the table, she poured him a cup of tea. “That’s wonderful, Uncle. I’m so relieved to hear you’re feeling better.”
“Yes, well, it’s likely a temporary respite, but I’ll take what I can get these days.” He selected a biscuit from the tray and asked, “How are you, dear? Thompson told me he received delivery of your ball gown yesterday afternoon. Is it everything you’d hoped?”
Olivia met his expectant eyes and opened her mouth to make a positive reply, but her shoulders slumped, the lie she was about to tell burning in her throat.
“What is it, dear? If it’s the dress, I can bring in a seamstress or buy one off the rack—”
Olivia shook her head, cutting off his words. Fran’s family had paid for her gown and Uncle Brownlow could not afford another one. “No, sir. The dress is lovely.” She stared past his head, fighting tears, ashamed to her core that she could be so blasted selfish. Her uncle was happier than she’d seen him in years, and all she could think about was her own heartache.
He reached across the table and took her hand in papery fingers. “There was a time when you shared everything with me. All the dreams of a little girl’s heart.” A faraway look entered his eyes as his voice lowered to a whisper. “Remember that night, soon after I found you, when you rushed into my bedroom after reading Sleeping Beauty? You were terrified to fall asleep.” He shook his head, lost in memory. “You were afraid you might never wake up again because you hadn’t yet found your true love. You asked me if he was really out there.”
Tears flooded Olivia’s eyes at the memory of a broken little girl who struggled to believe anyone could want her as much as a prince in a fairy tale. But the unconditional love of her uncle had opened her heart to the possibility that there was good in everyone.
He gave her hand a squeeze. “Have you found him, Olivia? Or are you settling?”
Sadly, she had found him, the one who would protect her with his life, who swept her off her feet with a single look, but her prince couldn’t be bound by anything so mundane as love. For a brief instant she let herself imagine running away from it all—Maxwell, the Hill Orphans, her uncle. Even as the picture formed in her mind, she knew she could never leave them behind, even if Jack wanted to accompany her. It was time to accept that happily ever after was just a hopeless dream.
Olivia picked pieces off the biscuit on her plate, crumbling bits between her fingers. Her uncle let go of her other hand, and she looked up to find him searching her face with soft eyes. He’d always loved every part of her, but would he still look at her in the same way if she told him the truth? The full truth about Jack, about stealing from their friends, dressing as a boy and sneaking into the slums of London at night? What about the letter and the threats from her half brother?
She couldn’t possibly burden him with the ugly truth. But perhaps, a portion would suffice.
“I …” Straightening her shoulders, she swiped away her tears. “Yes, to both of your questions. There is someone I love, and it isn’t Max.” She stopped and searched his face, waiting for the mask of disapproval, but instead, he smiled sadly.
“I suspected as much. But what I don’t understand is why?” He shook his head, his white brows lowering. “Why would you settle for anything, my sweet girl? Surely—”
“He doesn’t want me.” Olivia cut him off and looked down at the dust she’d made of the biscuit on her plate. “At least not like that. Not enough to choose me or make a binding commitment.”
“So you’re settling for Maxwell?”
“Yes. It’s for the best. This other gentleman is not … suitable, or financially stable.” She nodded decisively. “Max loves me and I care deeply for him. It will be a … a pleasant life.”
Uncle Brownlow straightened in his chair, clearly sensing that she was placating him. He leaned forward and looked her straight in the eyes. “That may be, but know this … if this boy, the one you love, has a change of heart, I will support your decision. I will not have you throwing your happiness away to support an old man. Do you hear me, young lady?”
Olivia nodded, wishing with all her heart it was that simple. She loved Jack, body and soul. But society separated them, just like her mother and father. And look how that had turned out. “Thank you, Uncle. I love you so.” She rose and enfolded his thin shoulders in a hug, his comforting scent of soap and peppery tobacco enveloping her.
Tonight, she would tell Jack of the engagement and end things between them once and for all. Making an excuse to her uncle, she walked through the garden toward the house. A temperate breeze ruffled strands of her hair against her cheeks, but in her heart, it was the dead of winter.
CHAPTER 18
Jack turned from the passing cityscape to see Topher staring a hole into the carriage wall. The pompous kid had reacted better to the news of Jack’s role in his family than expected. Luckily, Jack knew how to take a punch. He shifted his sore jaw and touched the bruise there with tentative fingers. Topher packed a wallop for such a skinny chap, but Jack figured he deserved one good hit, so he’d taken it with grace, before blocking the second and knocking the tosser on his backside.
Lois had not been happy with Jack’s sudden need to spill his guts, but after a brief fit of histrionics, she had confirmed his story. The devastation written on Topher’s face when he realized he was heir to a counterfeit fortune made Jack almost feel sorry for him. Almost. The spoilt prat wouldn’t be living in his ancestral home, or have his precious Gran to take advantage of, if it weren’t for Jack. But clearly, his cousin didn’t see it that way.
The carriage rolled to a stop and Jack parted the curtains to view one of the largest homes he’d ever laid eyes on—all white-washed brick and stone, two-story columns flanking the massive front doors, no less than six chimneys spouting from its roof. The blueprints had prepared him for a substantial building, but not its grandeur. The driver opened the carriage door, and Topher turned to Jack with a look of narrow-eyed contempt. “Try not to embarrass yourself.”
Jack lifted a wry brow before replying in his best Cockney accent, “Don’t you fret on ’at score, me covey. ’Tis yourself you should be worrit ’bout. Takes a good bit to mortify ’is chap.” Jack wiggled his brows and arched a thumb at his chest.
“I can only imagine.” Topher descended the vehicle stairs, a smile quirking one side of his mouth before he could hide it.
Jack jumped down from the carriage and stared up at the mansion looming above him. Evidently, he had underestimated the Grimwigs’ wealth. Nervous energy and excitement swirled in his chest. This would be the biggest score he’d ever made, and if he had his way, it would be his last. Thieving was no kind of life. He hadn’t quite figured out what he would do next, but there had to be a profession suited to his particular skills. One that didn’t require risking his neck.
They mounted the stairs to the portico, and Jack focused on his objective. He would need to play the hapless dolt if he hoped to gain String-bean’s favor. It would take swallowing his pride, not something he excelled at; but knowing he was doing it in order to rob the bloke made it infinitely easier.
Sinking his hands into his pockets, Jack lowered his shoulders and adopted the nonthreatening pose he’d perfected on the streets. An unassuming manner was the perfect disguise to throw one’s quarry off guard.
On the front stoop, he grinned at the stained glass design adorning the entrance, a thin
rodent that might have been a ferret or weasel welding a tiny sword; some sort of family crest, he presumed. In any case, the skittish-looking creature seemed to exemplify Maxwell Grimwig’s nature.
The double front doors swung open on silent hinges, revealing a butler in his early thirties with an air that put the Brownlows’ haughty servant to shame. “May I help you?”
Topher held out his calling card. “We are here to see Mr. Maxwell Grimwig. He’s expecting us.”
“Quite right.” The butler sniffed and lifted his nose to such a severe degree that Jack wondered how he didn’t get it stuck in the rafters. “Follow me, please.”
They entered a grand two-story vestibule with granite columns anchoring a domed ceiling painted with clouds and fat cherubs. A red-carpeted staircase curved up to the second-floor walkway that Jack knew from the schematic branched off into the east and west wings of the manor. As they followed the butler down the cavernous hallway, Jack eyed the rare paintings and statuary. Any last bit of reticence he may have harbored about stealing from a friend of Olivia’s drained away with each resounding tap of his shoes on the black-and-white marble floor.
They turned into a sumptuous parlor, all rich wood with accents of forest green and burgundy—very masculine—unlike the bloke leaning against the fireplace mantel playing Lord of the Manor. It was difficult, but Jack managed not to smirk.
After exchanging banal greetings, Max offered them a drink and then they all settled in chairs near the fire. Jack crossed his legs and hunched his shoulders, mimicking his host’s tortoise-like posture. Since Topher and Max had been acquainted since childhood, Jack settled in, prepared to let Topher do the talking. Fixing a hangdog expression on his face, he anticipated a good bit of entertainment.
“What is it I can do for you, er …” Maxwell’s gaze flicked to Jack and then slid away. “Gentlemen?”
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