Olivia Twist

by Lorie Langdon

  He’d taken two long strides toward the door when a voice, more stern than he would’ve believed possible, bellowed from Mr. Brownlow. “Come sit back down!”

  Jack stopped and turned around slowly.

  “You will do her no good if you go racing down to the station half-cocked. We need to devise a plan.”

  He couldn’t deny the old man’s logic. With a quick nod and a somewhat clearer mind, he returned to his seat. “Is Francesca Lancaster really dead?”

  The man’s eyes turned liquid, but his reply was steady. “It would appear so, and that someone has set Olivia up to take the fall.”

  “How?” Jack practically barked.

  “The constables say they found Olivia’s wrap at the scene of the crime, a servant spotted them together shortly before the murder was discovered, and …” He pressed his lips together and swallowed before continuing. “They found Frannie’s amethyst necklace stashed in Olivia’s dresser.”

  The stodgy butler arrived with their tea, shooting Jack a glare as he set the service on the table. In no mood, Jack stared the man down until he shifted his gaze to Mr. Brownlow.

  “Will there be anything else, sir?”

  “Yes, Thompson. Please go to Mr. Appleton’s personal residence on Henrietta Street.”

  “I know the place, sir.”

  “Yes, wake him and explain what’s happened. Please ask him to advocate for Olivia’s bail and then come to me.”

  Thompson gave a bow, looked at Jack and then Mr. Brownlow and opened his mouth to speak, but the old man cut him off. “Go now.”

  As soon as the butler had gone, Jack said, “I think there are a few things you need to know.”

  Mr. Brownlow coughed, took a sip of tea, and then nodded for him to continue.

  “I’ve known Olivia since she was a child living on the streets.”

  The old man’s neck stretched out and his shoulders straightened.

  “You see, I was the boy who took her in after she fled the workhouse, and I’m also the one who stole your wallet.”

  Tea halfway to his mouth, Mr. Brownlow froze. And then Jack explained his entire history from returning the wallet, to lurking around their house to check on his friend Ollie, to Monks almost killing him and that leading to him becoming a street lord. The old man didn’t interrupt until Jack got to the part about Lois March.

  “The Widow March trained you up as a gentleman for the sole purpose of you stealing for her?”

  “Yes, sir, I’m not proud of it. But as you can surely see, her offer was irresistible.”

  A rough series of coughs racked the old man’s entire body. Jack rose to come to his aid, but Olivia’s uncle regained control and croaked, “Go on.”

  “Sir, I must ask your forgiveness.” Jack perched on the edge of the sofa and stared into the cup clutched in both his hands, realizing this was the first time in his life he’d begged mercy from anyone. But for her, he would do anything.

  “For what, son? I’m actually grateful for the day you stole from me, because it became the most joyful of my life.”

  “It’s not that, sir … I’ve fallen irrevocably in love with your niece.” He met the old man’s gaze. “I know that I am not a suitable match, but she has become my world. Without her …” Emotion clogged his throat and he took a gulp of his tea, while images of Olivia in a prison cell morphed into her being dragged to the gallows. No!

  He straightened. “Sir, Olivia has a half brother named Edward Leeford, and I have reason to believe he’s framed Olivia for Miss Lancaster’s murder. He’s known on the streets as Monks.”

  Brownlow’s brow crinkled. “The crime lord who stabbed you?”

  “Yes, sir. He believes Edwin Leeford left a significant fortune to the child who does not besmirch his good name. I overheard him threaten to defame his sibling—Olivia—so that he might inherit. He has considerable anger towards Olivia and her mother.” He gestured toward the painting of Agnes Leeford looking down at them from above the hearth. “He blames her for driving his father insane.”

  “How do you know all of this?”

  Realizing anything he said would implicate Olivia in any number of breeches in propriety, he answered, “That isn’t important. But we need to find that will.”

  “Edwin Leeford died in Bedlam, penniless.”

  “Regardless, the only way we’re going to have a hope of proving Monks set Olivia up for this crime is if we find the will, proving his motive.”

  The old man stared at him for several long moments, unblinking, and then said, “I believe you are right. I will engage Mr. Appleton to investigate all documents left behind by Edwin Leeford, if you’ll do something for me.”

  “Of course.” Jack’s muscles tensed, ready to do anything he could to help.

  “Use whatever connections you have, whatever nefarious skill, to hunt down this bloody character Monks. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir!” Jack jumped to his feet and headed toward the door.

  “And one more thing.”

  Jack turned back and the old man’s watery eyes locked on his. “For what it’s worth, my boy, love never needs to be forgiven.”

  Jack shuffled down the cobbled lane, aimless. A week had passed, and while Jack couldn’t be certain, he didn’t think he’d slept in at least forty-eight hours. He’d scoured the city searching for Francesca’s true killer, but no matter how many heads he’d banged together or how much money he’d thrown around, Monks eluded his reach. He hadn’t found a single lead or scrap of evidence.

  If only he could find the bludger, he’d drag him in front of the magistrate and throttle a confession from his scrawny neck. But it was as if the thug’s entire operation had disappeared. The streets had gone silent. Everyone was so relieved that Monks had suspended his reign of terror that no matter what leverage Jack used, they refused to talk. The best he could figure, Monks had gone underground. It was what Jack would do.

  He only hoped Mr. Brownlow was having better luck digging up Edwin Leeford’s will.

  Reaching inside his coat pocket for his watch, he flipped open the cover and stared at hands that refused to stop ticking forward no matter how hard he willed it. The timepiece showed less than five hours until Olivia’s case was set to go before the judge. He was sorely tempted to throw the blasted thing to the ground and smash it into the cobbles. But it wouldn’t help.

  Nothing would.

  Jack suppressed a growl of frustration, raked the hair out of his face, and gripped the strands, pulling until the pain lifted the fog from his brain. There had to be something he could do to clear her name. He released his hair and glanced around, realizing he’d wandered into a part of town he’d avoided for years. The slum of his origins—Southwark.

  Glancing up, he met the golden eyes of an angel. The stained glass image beckoned him to shelter, just as it had that long-ago night he’d run from his mother. Once again out of options, Jack trudged up the worn stone stairs to an arched door and entered the dim sanctuary. Immediately, he was cocooned in the warmth of wood polish and burnt incense, the combination a balm to his frazzled nerves. The small, pew-lined church was empty, so he walked down the center aisle toward the candlelit altar and sunk down on the front bench. Hunching over, he folded his hands and stared into emptiness.

  Passivity had never been his forte. He fixed things, changed outcomes, but this time his inability to stop and see the big picture had mucked up everything. If he just could have put the pieces of Monks’s plan together a bit sooner, he could have saved Olivia.

  Jack dropped his head into his hands. If he hadn’t been so dead set on completing that last job, stealing from the man who had everything—wealth, privilege, respect, even Olivia—none of this would’ve happened. If he’d just stuck by her side at the ball …

  Jack leaned his elbows on his knees and stared at the crucifix above the altar, a brutal depiction of the Son of God nailed to the cross, bloody and dying. An image Jack had never understood, even after all t
hose Sundays in church with Lois. Wasn’t life cruel enough without this glaring reminder?

  Then he remembered what one of the nuns who’d taken him in had said when he’d become too old to stay in their care. You have a good soul, Jack. If you’re ever lost, look inside yourself for the answers you seek.

  Air whooshed out of Jack’s lungs. Beseeching anyone who might listen, he whispered, “I’ve done everything in my power and it isn’t enough. I don’t know how—” His voice broke, so he cleared his throat and began again. “I’d do anything to save her.”

  Jack’s thoughts stalled. The air around him felt heavy with significance, as if the answers he sought were just out of his grasp.

  He straightened and stared at the altar and the cross, a truth settling deep into his soul—true love meant sacrifice. It meant putting that person above yourself. Jack had never known that kind of love. His own mother had not even been willing to give up her addiction for her only son. But what he felt for Olivia was vast, powerful; he loved her more than his own life.

  The revelation flooded Jack’s veins, his heart hammering and his skin tingling … exactly how he felt just before a fight.

  CHAPTER 23

  Olivia was suffocating.

  Her eyes popped open to impenetrable darkness, pressing down on her chest like a thousand anvils.

  She sucked in rapid breaths only to choke on the stench of decades-old human filth ground into the floor and walls around her. The darkness seeped into the space between her bones, eating at her flesh. Draining her life.

  She sat up and swung her feet over the side of the cot and gripped the icy metal bar under her legs, its solid mass grounding her and regulating the airflow to her lungs.

  The seclusion in her cell was a blessing and a curse. She didn’t have to fear that someone might harm her in her sleep, but another human, any other human, would reassure her that she wasn’t utterly alone in the world. That she hadn’t been forgotten.

  Bread, gruel, and a tin cup of rust-tinged water were shoved into the room at regular intervals. But with no windows, or a watch to mark the passage of time, she couldn’t tell if she’d been locked up for hours or weeks.

  A scuttle of claws on cement and the trace scent of rotting meat announced the arrival of her near-constant companions. The sound tormented her. Just like in the workhouse, when those vicious, disgusting scavengers with their tiny claws and razor teeth had slithered out of the cracks in the walls to nibble ears or icy toes, drawing blood and cries of pain.

  Goose bumps prickled over her flesh as she jerked her feet off the floor and hugged her legs to her chest. Rocking back and forth, she fervently wished they would bring her another candle. The vacant blackness on top of the isolation was too much to bear.

  Sharp nails clinked against metal as the rat searched her dinner tray for any crumbs she may have left behind. Snuffling noises led to a hiss; another creature joining the hunt. The clicking of miniature talons and snapping of needle teeth combined with a hollow reverberation as the empty tin cup rolled across the stone floor.

  Olivia buried her face in her knees, focusing on the familiar scent of home that still clung to her trousers. Her eyes burned, but she was too desiccated to cry. She attempted to swallow and draw moisture into her mouth, but instead it felt like she’d digested a handful of dried thorns, her tongue swollen like a puffy cluster of cotton. The first time they’d given her the lead-flavored water, she’d taken a sip and spat it across the room. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  The sounds of the rodents faded as they moved on to more fertile pastures. Olivia’s eyes drifted shut and she began to mutter snippets of prayer. “Help me, Lord. Comfort my uncle, protect him. Aid Jack in his quest to find the real murderer. Please take Frannie’s soul into heaven …” Grief knotted in her chest. It just couldn’t be true. She’d spoken with Fran right before she left the ball. She’d been as vibrant and beautiful and annoying as ever. She simply could not be gone. There had to be some mistake.

  Soon, she drifted into dreams.

  “Olivia … Olivia …”

  Waves of radiance and the lovely scent of roses and lilacs washed over her. She recognized that distinct fragrance, and as her eyes adjusted she observed the source. But seeing it defied belief. Swathed in layers of fluid lavender silk, her dark hair flowing down her back in perfect ringlets, stood a slightly translucent version of her cousin. “Francesca?”

  “Who else do you think could magically appear in this dank cesspit? Yes, it’s me.”

  With slow, careful movements, lest she wake from this sweet dream, Olivia unfolded her limbs and sat on the edge of her cot. “Frannie, what happened to you? Are you really …” Olivia swallowed the knot in her throat and whispered, “Dead?”

  “Of course I’m dead, silly. I don’t recall having the ability to enter your dreams in life.” She laughed at her own joke as she fingered one of her diamond-and-amethyst earbobs, and Olivia knew it must truly be Fran … but Fran was dead.

  Olivia began to shake as she repeated, “It’s only a dream, it’s only a dream.”

  “Don’t be scared, Livie.” Francesca leaned closer, and Olivia could see the gold flecks in her dark eyes. “I’m here to reassure you that I’m happy and that you will be too. But I need your help.”

  Olivia mustered her courage. “How? How can I help you when I’m locked in here? They think I killed you, Fran!”

  The ethereal Francesca straightened and waved a hand in dismissal, her red lips twisting in disgust. “I know. Scotland Yard couldn’t find the truth if it slapped them in the face. But you know.” Fran pointed one perfectly shaped fingernail in Olivia’s direction.

  Olivia staggered to her feet, wishing with all her heart she could take her cousin’s hand and hug her tight. “Fran, I don’t know who killed you or why, but if I ever get out of here, I won’t rest until I see justice done.” Olivia’s hands balled into fists at her sides. “I swear it!”

  A slow, beautiful smile spread across Francesca’s face and she began to fade.

  Olivia stepped forward. “Frannie, don’t go!”

  “Miss Brownlow.”

  Olivia jerked awake. “Frannie …” she whispered, covering her eyes against a single blinding flame.

  “Miss Brownlow, you’re free to go. The bloke that did the murder turned ’imself in.”

  Olivia walked into the watery sunshine and lifted her face, soaking in the bittersweet rays of freedom. Fran would never again feel the glorious sun on her skin or smell the crisp winter wind or snuggle into a fur-lined cloak. Somehow it felt wrong to enjoy these simple pleasures.

  Violet’s hand slipped into hers and Olivia met her sorrowful green gaze. Seeing the cousin who had been the other part of their threesome was a stark reminder of what they had both lost. It was hard to believe Francesca was really gone, especially after Olivia’s lifelike dream. She expected Fran to flounce down the walk at any moment, reminding her that her incarceration had damaged her reputation beyond repair. Perhaps they hadn’t been the best of friends, but Frannie had accepted Olivia despite her shady past, and had challenged her like no one else dared.

  Even though she hadn’t been the one to harm Frannie, guilt pressed hard on her shoulders as she glanced back at the imperial arches of Newgate, the doors guarded by gaping mouths full of iron teeth. She could almost hear their snapping as they tried to devour her.

  “Livie?” Violet tugged on her fingers. “Is something wrong?”

  With a slow exhale, she pushed out the darkness permeating her soul and blinked through her blurred vision. She’d endured countless horrors in her lifetime. This place would not defeat her. The real murderer had turned himself in, after all. She took a step and then another away from the prison, and walked hand in hand with Vi to the waiting carriage.

  The driver held open the door, and Olivia stepped into the darkened interior to find her uncle tucked under a fur lap-blanket. “Uncle!” She sat beside him and threw her arms around his neck. �
�You came to get me.”

  “Of course I did, my darling girl. Those sawbones could not keep me away.” He pulled back and gazed into her eyes, but something in his expression froze her to the spot.

  “Uncle, what is it? Have the charges not been dropped against me?”

  Violet had settled on the seat across from them, and when her uncle didn’t reply Olivia’s gaze darted to her best friend. “Violet, has something else happened? Besides—” Olivia swallowed hard and then whispered, “Besides Fran?”

  Her uncle patted her knee as the carriage jolted into motion. “Your name has been cleared, my dear. You’ve been through so much. Let’s just get you home, then we can have some tea and talk.”

  The tiny hairs on the back of her neck rose. “Wait. My half brother turned himself in, did he not? Why else would I be free?”

  An oppressive silence pierced the atmosphere in the carriage. When she met Violet’s tearful gaze, a shiver passed over her shoulders. “What is it, Vi?”

  “The authorities really didn’t tell you why the charges were dropped against you?”

  “Yes, they said the real murderer turned himself in.” Olivia’s voice rose in pitch, her worry and impatience making her snappish. “I already told you that.”

  “Livie … he did turn himself in, but …” Vi paused and swiped at her wet cheeks. “It was Jack. Jack MacCarron confessed to killing Frannie.”

  Olivia grabbed the seat as the world tipped. “What?” She shook her head so hard she felt sick to her stomach. “No! Jack didn’t do it! He would never—” Her words broke off in a sob. No, no, no. She wrapped her arms around her middle and bent in half.

  Bony fingers gripped her arm. “Olivia!” Her uncle’s authoritative voice cut through her moaning. “We know he did not do it.”

  Olivia stilled, her gaze swinging from her uncle to Violet. “You do?”

  Vi nodded with a sad smile, tears still streaming down her cheeks. “He did it to save you, Livie. He told the police he hid the necklace in your room because he thought no one would ever think to look there. But we know he didn’t …”