Olivia Twist

by Lorie Langdon

  She took an unsteady step back from the ledge. Knowing that she must be in the right place, she began to search the walls for the hidden lever that would swing a board into place by rope and pulley, completing the broken staircase. She ran her fingers along the wood panels, but her hands trembled terribly and she didn’t have a light. “You can do this, Olivia. Just calm down,” she whispered aloud.

  After what felt like hours of fruitless searching, she stopped and stood in the center of the landing. What would Jack do right now? He wouldn’t waste time, she knew that much. Placing two fingers in her mouth, she let out her signature whistle. In moments, she heard muted footfalls and the grinding slide of a bolt.

  “Whot’s the password?” Archie’s voice called from above.

  Olivia cursed and stomped her boot in frustration. “Ichabod Crane. Brom Bones. Katrina Van Tassel,” Olivia shouted in frustration. “I don’t bloody know! Just let me up!”

  “Ollie?”

  “Yes, it’s me!”

  A thud, followed by a squeak, prompted Olivia to jump back as a dark outline lowered toward her. Brit was a genius. Of course, the control lever would only be accessible from the third floor. Before the ramp even slid into the grooves provided for it, Olivia’s feet were on it. She ran up the steep incline and leapt onto the landing. “Why aren’t you out looking for him?” she demanded as Archie spun the wheel backward, lifting the plank away from the staircase.

  Archie’s green eyes blinked at her, clearly confused. “How did you—”

  “Because I’m here,” croaked a voice from the doorway.

  Unable to believe her ears, Olivia snatched a nearby lantern and thrust it toward the doorway. He was all right!

  “Brit!” Olivia rushed forward and threw her arms around the boy, pushing him back into the room.

  “Ouch. Ollie, leave off.” Brit struggled and pulled back from her embrace.

  “Are you hurt?” She released him and lifted the lantern. “What happ—” Her voice choked off at the sight of his face. His left eye was purple and swollen shut, his right cheek cut open, his lower lip busted and bleeding. “What happened to you?”

  The bolt slammed into place and Archie joined them. “Ollie, how did you know Brit was in trouble?”

  The hairs stood up on the back of Olivia’s neck, a warning jangling over her skin. “I need to tend Brit’s wounds and I’ll explain.”

  Seated in front of the massive hearth, surrounded by what seemed like a hundred boys and at least two girls, Olivia cleaned Brit’s face and began asking questions. From what she could gather, Brit had been kidnapped that afternoon by some of Monks’s goons. They’d blindfolded him, taken him to their hideout, beat on him, and then released him. And most curious of all, Archie had never sent her a note. She knew Brit had shared her true identity with his second-in-command in case of an emergency, but Brit had returned before the boys had too much time to panic.

  “So, they didn’t give you any clues to why they would do this?” Olivia asked for the second time.

  Brit winced as she dabbed a wet cloth against the gash on his cheek. “No.”

  “Was Monks there?”

  “No, just heard the gits sayin’ Monks would have their hides if he found out they let me go.” Brit looked up at the ceiling before his solemn dark eyes met Olivia’s and his brows wrinkled over his freckled nose. “I think they were meant to kill me.”

  A wave of such intense emotions rose inside Olivia that her hand hovered halfway to Brit’s lip. She stared into the fire as her chin trembled. How could she protect them from someone so ruthless? So utterly evil? Not even Jack, with his cleverness and strength, could stop her half brother. Jack was only one man, after all.

  Brit ordered the children to get their pallets laid out for the night and then leaned in, whispering, “I’m all right, Ollie. These are just bruises.”

  She blinked back her tears and met Brit’s gaze, his bravery so very like Jack’s. “I know. But what about next time, Brit? I’m putting you all in danger and it has to stop.”

  “What does that blasted Monks have to do with you?”

  Olivia threw a glance to the other children, but they were all busy preparing for the night. She took a deep breath and confessed, “Because he’s my half brother, and he’s using you to get to me.”

  A sharp vertical frown line creased Brit’s smooth forehead, his eyes searching her face for several long seconds. “Then he’s the one who sent you the note tellin’ you I was missing. We just need to figure out why he wanted you to leave that ball.”

  Olivia shook her head and pulled Brit into a quick hug.

  “Whot was that for?” He frowned, a blush rushing up his neck as he looked away and scratched his head.

  Trying to buy time to reign in her emotions, she sat back and lifted a cloth from the bowl on the hearth, ringing out the pink-tinged water. “Hold this on your eye,” she instructed, and handed him the damp material. “I’m going to miss you the most, you know.”

  Brit went very still, his unswollen eye locked on her face. “Ollie, no. We can fight this. What about Dodger?”

  Finding an inner strength she didn’t know she possessed, Olivia replied with a steady voice, “Jack will still come by. But I can’t. It’s too risky.” She stood up and dusted the ashes from the seat of her trousers. “Besides, you don’t need a den mother anymore.”

  Brit stood beside her, his one uncovered eye even with hers—and filled with tears. That almost broke her. Clenching her teeth until her jaw ached, she forced down her grief. To ensure this brilliant boy, and all the others, had a future, she would walk away. It was the only thing she could do to save them.

  Olivia trudged down Oxford and turned onto Cavendish Square. When she’d left the hideout, the hackney had been long gone, but she didn’t hire another. The walk would do her good, perhaps help her make some sense of what had happened that night. But she was no closer to finding any answers. Reaching the security of her familiar, tree-lined street, the dam on her tears broke free. She’d left without a word to the boys. Only Brit knew the truth.

  And Max. She’d longed for freedom to be with the man she loved. But it was not at all how she’d wanted it to happen. Max had been her friend, and she’d hoped to have the time to explain her decision. But his ultimatum had taken the choice right out of her hands.

  She cut behind a row of neighboring houses and then entered her garden through the back gate. Sobs hitched her chest as she slid open the dining room window to find Brom, tail wagging like a metronome, waiting to greet her. After climbing over the sill, she threw her arms around her dog’s warm, solid body and buried her face in his coarse fur. She’d certainly made a mess of things. Guilt hammered on her brain until she thought her head might explode. She should have separated herself from the orphans weeks ago, when Jack advised the association had become too precarious. But instead, her pigheadedness had almost gotten Brit killed.

  Brom stiffened, and a moment later banging reverberated through the house. Cautiously, she rose to her feet and moved toward the front door. It had to be after two o’clock in the morning, long past reasonable visiting hours. Another round of loud knocks filled the foyer as Olivia peeked between the curtains of a front window. Four coppers, in their black uniforms and helmets, stood on the front stoop, and a plain-clothed man approached from the street. Had her petty thefts finally caught up to her?

  Olivia yanked the hat, wig, and net off her head, and stuffed them in the umbrella stand. She was removing her jacket when Thompson emerged from his apartments in the back of the house, grumbling and knotting the sash on his robe as he hurried to the entryway. Olivia sank back into the shadowy parlor as the butler opened the door.

  “Is Miss Olivia Brownlow at home?” a clipped voice demanded.

  Brom growled menacingly, and Thompson grabbed his collar to hold him back.

  “She’s abed. Come back in the morning.” The butler moved to shut the door, but a club shoved into the jamb propped it
open.

  “This is a police matter.” The door swung open, pushing Thompson back several steps. Brom strained against his collar, barks exploding out of his chest. “Do something with that canine, sir! It’s urgent we speak with Miss Brownlow straightaway.”

  As Thompson tugged a ferocious Brom down the hall, likely to lock him in the broom closet, Olivia began to shake. There was no mercy for thieves and pickpockets. As if it were yesterday, she could feel the beak’s rough hands latching her arms behind her back and carting her through the streets, the judge sentencing her to hang. Darkness edged in on her vision, but when Thompson returned, his next words snapped her back to herself.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I had forgotten Miss Olivia is attending a ball at the Grimwig mansion this evening.” The loyal butler straightened his robe and lifted his chin. “May I inquire what this is concerning?”

  The man in the bowler and tweed coat stepped into the foyer and flashed his credentials at Thompson. “Inspector Martin, sir. And you are?”

  “Thompson, sir. Burt Thompson, the Brownlows’ butler.”

  “I must apologize for the late hour, but we have permission to search the premises.” The detective moved into the house flanked by all four officers. “Have you seen Miss Brownlow this evening?”

  Olivia crept backward on silent feet and ducked behind a curtain as she heard Thompson answer that he had not seen her since she left for the party. Olivia froze, praying her feet were not visible from beneath the drape. What could a detective want with her? If this was about the occasional stolen doorstop or silver fork, the regular constables would be sufficient to investigate.

  Directly on the other side of the curtain, a voice said, “Please direct us to Miss Brownlow’s bedchamber, Mr. Thompson, and then we’ll let you return to your rest.”

  Olivia caught her breath, and a warning bell clanged in her head. Her ball gown was strewn across her bed, where she’d thrown it in her haste to find Brit. If they suspected her of some crime, that bit of evidence would destroy her alibi of being at the ball the entire evening.

  Thompson’s voice rose and cut into her thoughts. “Master Brownlow is gravely ill. If I wake him, he will be unnecessarily agitated. Surely this inspection can wait until morning.”

  “No, sir. It cannot,” replied the curt voice of the inspector. “Miss Brownlow’s wrap was found at the scene of the crime, and we’ve received a tip leading us to investigate her quarters. We cannot risk the evidence will not be tampered with. Now move aside.”

  Boots tromped on the wooden staircase like an army marching to battle. Olivia didn’t know if she should sneak out the front door or turn herself in. But whatever they suspected her of, she imagined her male disguise would not be well received. She could sneak to Violet’s house, pretend to have spent the night there, borrow one of her dresses, and return in the morning.

  Deciding it was a sound plan, Olivia peered around the velvet drape. The parlor was empty, so she crept out, staying close to the wall. She tiptoed into the foyer and reached for the front doorknob, then heard the unmistakable tap and shuffle of her uncle’s footsteps. Olivia stopped. She simply could not leave him to deal with whatever mess she’d unintentionally made. Turning, she caught her uncle’s surprised gaze as he took in her attire. “Uncle, I can explain this later.” Olivia swept a hand toward her clothes. “But right now, the constables are here because they think I’ve committed some crime. I can assure you—”

  “Olivia,” her uncle rasped. “Go. Go now!”

  Olivia searched her uncle’s alert eyes. Trust and love mixed with fear. He was right, she had to go. Giving him a quick peck on the cheek, she spun on her heel and pulled open the front door.

  “Halt!” Feet pounded on the stairs.

  Framed in the entranceway, Olivia stopped and turned to see the inspector, his face a blank slate. He rushed toward her with an amethyst necklace clutched in his fist. The square violet gems and rose-cut diamonds winked in the flame of the lantern in his other hand. Olivia’s stomach clenched. She had seen that necklace countless times. Because it was Fran’s.

  “Olivia Brownlow, you are under arrest for the murder of Francesca Lancaster.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Jack’s hackles were raised like a cat on its ninth life, making him wish he’d gone with his initial instinct and stolen a horse from the Grimwigs’ massive stable. It wasn’t as if they would miss the animal, but his thieving days were over. So he’d settled for renting a cab and hightailing it to Turnbull Road. But when he got there, Olivia was already gone. He rapped on the roof of the hackney with his brolly and shouted, “Get to Cavendish Square in the next ten minutes and there’s an extra crown in it for you.”

  With a crack of leather against horsehide, the beast took off at a gallop, nearly catapulting Jack out of his seat. That’s more bloomin’ like it, he thought as he grasped the edges of the folded canopy. They sped past the river, the muddy ribbon nothing but a blur, and Jack worked through the night in chronological order, hoping to make some sense of it all. After cracking the Grimwigs’ safe without a hitch, he’d passed the emeralds off to Topher as they’d planned, and then gone in search of Olivia. That’s when Francesca found him, gave him “Archie’s” note, reported that Olivia had run from the ball with the devil at her heels, and rather gleefully speculated that her cousin’s engagement to Maxwell was off. There had been no time to digest that bit of happy news. Jack had rented a hackney, dropped Topher and the jewels off at March House, and raced to Turnbull Road. By the time he got there, Brit was safe, if not fully sound, and Olivia was gone.

  Jack had inspected Brit’s injuries while he gleaned as much about the kidnapping as the boy was willing to tell in his desolate state. Jack sensed something more than the boy’s near brush with death caused his reticence. But when Jack attempted to buoy Brit’s spirits by promising to return with Ollie the following night, the boy’s solemn one-eyed gaze had gripped Jack’s heart. He’d lowered his head and muttered, “She isn’t comin’ back. Not ever.”

  With every word the boy spoke, a terrible supposition grew—Olivia planned to run. If she left the orphans in order to protect them, what was to stop her from leaving London without a trace? The thought fueling him, Jack had torn out of there, intent on stopping her. Or saving her.

  The hackney rounded the corner on two wheels, the gallop of hooves against cobblestones echoing in time with Jack’s racing heart. They reached the tree-lined boulevard of Cavendish Square and the driver pulled back on the reins, the horse snorting into the quiet night.

  “Just ahead on the right. Number Four.” Jack pulled the coins from his pocket, ready to throw them and run. He would take Olivia out of the city himself—perhaps out of the country. Spirit her and her uncle away somewhere that bloody Monks would never find them.

  They slowed to a stop behind a black police wagon. Jack paid the driver and jumped from the cab. Everything seemed to slow as if in a nightmare as the sky-blue door of Number Four opened and Olivia emerged. Jack rushed forward and then stopped dead as two constables, one restraining each of her shirt-clad arms, followed behind.

  Olivia’s stricken, tear-filled gaze met his and he stumbled forward several steps. She shook her head almost imperceptibly as if warning him away—protecting him even as she was being hauled off to jail.

  The coppers loaded her into the back of the wagon, chaining her to the seat like some deranged criminal. Pressure built in Jack’s chest and burned behind his eyes as he watched, helpless. He couldn’t let them take her, he had to do something. Just before they closed the doors, he sprinted forward. “Olivia! What’s happened?”

  “Francesca’s been murdered. Jack, they think I did it.” Her voice choked off in a sob.

  “Stand back, sir.” Hands tugged at his arms.

  A constable climbed in and sat across from Olivia. The doors were closed and locked behind them.

  Jack pushed away from the coppers restraining him and tripped forward, gripping the bars of the wi
ndow. His eyes locked on Olivia’s bewildered gaze through the darkness, a vow tearing from his throat. “I will save you, Olivia. I’ll find a way, no matter what they say you’ve done.”

  “Jack, don’t.” Tears streamed down her cheeks as she shook her head. “There’s nothing you can do.”

  The wagon pulled away, yanking the bars from Jack’s numb fingers. He stood in the street and watched her face through the barred window until it shrank into the night, a piece of his soul ripping away and going with her.

  “Young man!” It took Jack several seconds to realize the old man standing in the doorway of Olivia’s house was her uncle and that he was talking to him. Jack focused on the bent figure.

  “Young man, please come in and join me for tea.”

  With no clue what else to do, he followed the gent into the house, where they sat in the yellow parlor. Jack slumped on the divan, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. His mind felt oddly empty as he overheard Mr. Brownlow order tea and ask to have the fire lit in the hearth.

  “I’m Charles Brownlow, Olivia’s uncle and guardian.”

  Jack squeezed his temples between his thumb and fingers. “I know.”

  “Then I find I’m at a disadvantage, because I have no notion who you are.”

  Unsure who he was at the moment, Jack raised his eyes to the old man, who watched him with an empathy and a shared grief that drew him outside of himself. “I’m Jack MacCarron.” Jack leaned over, extended his hand, and shook the man’s knobby fingers.

  “I must assume you are him.”

  Jack sat up straight. “Sir?”

  “The man who’s stolen my Olivia’s heart.”

  A bit of light penetrated the dark saturating Jack’s mind. Had he stolen Olivia’s heart? If she’d admitted as much to her uncle, there had to be some truth to it. As if those words woke him from a dream, Jack jumped to his feet. “I have to go after her!”