Olivia Twist

by Lorie Langdon

  “He’s been scouring the city for your half brother and his goons, but to no avail,” her uncle said as he rubbed her back in slow circles. “He came to the house early this morning and told me his plan. Perhaps it was selfish, but I did not try to stop him.”

  Then it hit her like a house crumbling on top of her brick by brick; he’d lied to protect her, and if the authorities found out about Jack’s past as the Artful Dodger, he would hang for certain. “Oh, God,” Olivia cried out, praying she would wake up from this nightmare. She doubled over again, whimpers tearing from her gut. “Why? Why would he do this?”

  “I’m fairly certain I know why he did it, my dear,” her uncle soothed. “But we’re not giving up. We will do everything we can to help him.”

  But Olivia knew that if Jack hadn’t been able to find the real killer, using all his skill and connections, they had no chance. It was over and she’d never told him how she felt … never told Jack that she loved him.

  Olivia woke from a restless sleep, the covers tangled around her waist. Disoriented, she rose on her elbows and turned her head to the window, the gray light edging the curtains only deepening her confusion. She was home in her own bed, but a monstrous darkness hovered at the edge of her mind like a demon ready to pounce. Her heartbeat accelerated, and a fine layer of sweat broke out over her skin.

  When the memories hit, they knocked her on her back like waves. Brit had been beaten and almost killed. Frannie was gone; Jack in prison for her murder. Olivia curled onto her side and clutched a pillow to her face to muffle a sob. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t live.

  She couldn’t go on knowing Jack was sacrificing his life for hers. She yanked the fabric away from her mouth and fought for air, but the waves of pain were unrelenting. Her evil brother’s blood-drenched face flooded her mind as he told Jack he’d kept him alive so that Jack could enjoy every moment of what he had planned next. Another wave of horror crashed down.

  It was all because of her.

  She sank deeper, her fingers clawing at the heavy water, her petticoats tangled around her arms, liquid flooding her lungs. Olivia sucked in a ragged breath. And then she stilled. That day in the Grimwigs’ pond when she’d believed her life was over, all she’d had to do was put down her feet.

  Her breathing calmed as she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed.

  This was not over. She was not a bloody princess waiting for someone else to save the day. As her blasted brother was about to find out. She swiped at her useless tears and put her feet down.

  It was time to stand up.

  Olivia ran through the double doors of the courthouse behind Christopher March. She prayed they would make it in time. If it hadn’t been for Uncle Brownlow’s attorney, Mr. Appleton, they never would have known Jack’s trial had been moved up to today.

  Topher’s testimony was their last hope. It was flimsy at best, but even with the Hill Orphans’ help and Olivia flaunting herself around the streets of London as bait for the last week, Monks had not come out of hiding. And while Mr. Appleton had discovered a stash of her father’s papers, all he’d found thus far were boxes of invention blueprints and patent paperwork.

  The man behind the reception counter greeted them with a sharp tone. “May I assist you?”

  “We need to see Judge Perkins right away, sir,” Olivia answered. “’Tis a matter of life and death.”

  The man pressed his lips together and glanced down at his desk with a shake of his head. “It always is.”

  Olivia checked the urge to climb over the counter and shake the information out of the pompous clerk. She calmed herself by counting the ticks of the clock on the wall behind him.

  One, two, three, four …

  The man ran his finger along what looked to be a schedule.

  Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen …

  Olivia bounced on the balls of her feet. When she got to twenty, she cleared her throat, loudly.

  The man lifted his head with a glare. “The judge is in chambers, miss.” He gestured to a uniformed constable Olivia hadn’t noticed until that moment. “Jones, escort these people to room two eleven.”

  As they followed Jones’s steady gate up a flight of stairs and down an endless hallway, Olivia longed to push past him and run. Topher must have seen her impatience, because he placed a restraining hand on her shoulder and met her eyes with a warning. Olivia took a deep breath and clenched her teeth. She could crawl faster than this git was walking!

  Finally, they reached room 211 and Jones knocked, poking his head in to announce them.

  Olivia rushed past the guard, speaking before she was fully into the room. “Judge Perkins, we have evidence that could exonerate Jack MacCarron.”

  The man sat behind a wide desk wearing the ceremonial white wig, frizzy ringlets draping over his robed shoulders, along with a decidedly uninviting expression on his face.

  Topher removed his hat and clutched it in front of him. “Sir, I’m Christopher March, Jack’s … er … cousin.”

  Olivia cringed as the lie stuttered out of Topher’s mouth. She prayed the judge wouldn’t see through him and throw them both out on their behinds.

  “Your Honor, I was with Jack MacCarron the night of the murder.” When the judge didn’t speak, Topher continued. “I witnessed him conversing with Francesca Lancaster at the Grimwigs’ ball.”

  The judge’s face shifted, his brows hitching into his wig.

  Topher barreled on. “Immediately after I saw him speak with Miss Lancaster, we left the ball together and took a rented hackney to March House.”

  This was the sketchy part, because although Topher did return to March House in order to stash the Grimwig emeralds, Jack never went into the house with him. From what she could gather, he’d gone straight to Turnbull Road to find Brit.

  “Why did you rent a hackney?” Judge Perkins asked in a bored tone, scratching his shaggy, auburn muttonchops.

  “My aunt, Lois March, was still at the party. I left early because I wasn’t feeling well.”

  Olivia’s heart pounded into the silence that followed.

  The judge pierced Topher with dark, beady eyes. “Did Mr. MacCarron stay at March House after you returned?” Olivia felt Topher stiffen beside her. “I … I believe so, sir … er … Your Honor.”

  “Did you not see him after your return?” The judge’s voice was so deep, it reverberated inside Olivia’s already aching head.

  Topher glanced down at the hat he was ringing in his hands. “’Tis a large house, Your Honor.” He looked up, his expression earnest. “But I know Jack did not commit this crime.”

  Judge Perkins, his face like a slate wiped clean, sat back in his chair. “That is of no consequence. MacCarron has already stood trial and been judged guilty.”

  Olivia swayed on her feet, Topher’s fingers digging into her arm the only thing keeping the darkness at bay.

  “With all respect, Your Honor, I was unable to testify because I did not know the trial had moved. Surely you can take my account into consideration.”

  Olivia stared at the judge, willing him to have a heart and praying harder than she’d ever prayed in her life that he would change his mind. He set his arms on the desk, folded his hands, and fixed his gaze on his linked fingers. Olivia’s limbs shook uncontrollably. She gripped the back of a chair, effectively propping herself up lest her knees should fail her.

  The judge frowned, deep grooves bracketing either side of his thin lips. “I would not have considered the testimony of a relative, in any case.” His eyes shifted to Olivia. “Mr. MacCarron was transferred to Newgate after his sentencing. I’ll grant you a visitation before the execution.”

  Execution? Olivia’s vision dimmed. She could almost hear the bang of a gavel as this one man sealed Jack’s fate. She wanted to scream and rip her hair out like a madwoman. Or better yet, scream and rip his hair out. But instead, she took several cleansing breaths and channeled Jack’s deadly calm in a crisis.

  “It wa
sn’t Jack, it was my half brother, Edward Leeford, who killed my cousin.” The words rushed out of Olivia.

  “Ah.” Judge Perkins leaned back and pressed the tips of his fingers together in a point. “You must be Olivia Brownlow, the girl they originally arrested for Francesca Lancaster’s murder.”

  “Yes, Your Honor. My brother goes by Monks—he is a street lord. He framed me so that he could collect the inheritance our father purportedly left to me.”

  The judge bolted into a perfectly straight posture. “Where is this will? And why has it not appeared in my court?”

  Olivia let go of the chair and folded her hands in front of her to disguise their shaking. “I do not have it, sir. In fact, I’ve never seen it. It would seem Monks … I mean, my brother, Edward, has a copy.”

  “And how does this vindicate Jack MacCarron?” Judge Perkins asked, his lips pressing together.

  “Jack confessed to the murder only to protect me, Your Honor.” Olivia’s voice trembled with emotion, and the tears she’d held back squeezed her throat.

  “Why would he do such a thing?”

  “To protect the one he loves, sir,” Topher declared, and wrapped an arm around Olivia’s shoulders.

  The judge’s face was no longer passive; in fact, his mouth hung open slightly, his eyes soft and distant. After a moment, he snapped his jaw shut and ordered, “Find the last will and testament of your father and bring it to me—”

  “Oh, thank yo—”

  “And then”—the judge cut off Olivia’s gush of gratitude with a wave of his hand—“we will see about declaring a mistrial. That does not clear Mr. MacCarron of charges, you understand. The hanging is set a week from Friday, but if I can see a copy of this will, his execution will be delayed pending further investigation.”

  “Yes, sir!” Topher and Olivia said in unison.

  Olivia wished she could take a moment to weep, or scream, but there was no time to lose.

  CHAPTER 24

  Olivia tugged down her cap to shield her eyes from the setting sun and leaned a shoulder against the wall, pretending to study her nails—which she had bitten to the quick. After a week of searching, they’d finally caught a break; Brit had spotted one of his kidnappers ducking into a pub near Temple Bar and one of the other boys had seen a man fitting her half brother’s description nearby. So, Olivia and a few of the orphans were casing the area night and day.

  Unfortunately, that meant a lot of idle waiting, which left nothing much to do but ponder and reminisce. Olivia grinned at her nubby nails as a distant memory surfaced. Her second night with Dodger and Fagin’s gang, a boy had taken one of her socks and flung it into the fire. It had been her only pair. Dodger had found her crying in the corner, her icy-cold toes curled against the hardwood. He’d draped his arm around her shoulders and said, “Buck up, mate. Second rule of the streets—never lose control.” And he’d tossed her a sock with a wink and a grin. Later, she’d noticed the boy who’d burned her sock was missing one of his own.

  Jack’s execution was set for the day after tomorrow, at dawn. Olivia’s knees nearly buckled under the weight of her fear. She pushed it away and pressed her shoulder harder into the rough brick wall. Only at night, when she was alone in her room, did she allow herself to indulge in her grief. Her dreams were haunted by his tormented expression growing smaller and smaller as the paddy wagon took her away, the strong lines of his beautiful face crumpling, his brilliant blue eyes shining with tears. Jack had always been protective of her, but could Topher and her uncle be right? Did he love her?

  Olivia shifted, changing her angle, constantly scanning the street. She couldn’t bear the thought of Jack locked in a dark, airless cell, but the visitation pass Judge Perkins had given her sat unused on her nightstand. She’d been waiting until she could bring some speck of hope with her; the good news that they’d found the will or some evidence against Monks. Olivia pushed out a ragged sigh. Tomorrow, she would go, if only to thank him and say goodbye.

  The swish and whisper of an approaching street sweeper pulled Olivia back to the task at hand. She pushed off the wall, shoved a hand in her pocket, and ambled over to a vendor selling books and newspapers. She purchased a rag, and then perched on a stone windowsill directly across from the entrance to Nemo’s Pub. Flicking open the paper, her eyes focused just over the top of the pages. Brit had said the man who’d abducted him was tall and wore a gold hoop in his left ear and a blue knit cap over his bald head.

  Olivia turned the page with a crinkle and snap. An unsolved murder headline caught her attention and reminded her of what she’d learned the night before. Mr. Appleton had called in a favor and received a copy of Francesca’s autopsy report. As difficult as it had been, Olivia had read every word, twice. Fran had been killed by a single bullet to the chest, but the thing that interested Olivia the most was the list of items found with the body. Not only had the amethyst necklace been missing, but the matching earbobs as well. Olivia suppressed a shiver and pushed aside memories of the vision she’d had in prison, knowing now it had been nothing more than a dream, or perhaps her subconscious mind’s way of telling her the jewelry could be a clue to finding the truth. But the valuable earrings were still unaccounted for, and Olivia was willing to bet her greedy half brother had taken them.

  Her gaze was drawn to a lanky man nervously glancing over his shoulder. He wore a blue knit cap, and as he opened the door to Nemo’s, she caught a flash of gold in his ear. The kidnapper! Olivia forced herself to take several breaths before she folded her paper, stood up, and signaled to Brit, who was stationed under the Temple Arch. He moved out of the shadows and jogged over.

  After telling him the plan, she darted around a passing carriage and crossed the street to Nemo’s. She stopped inside the doorway, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the gloom within. Sparse sunlight penetrated the windows stained with years of smoke. A long wooden counter flanked the right side of the narrow room, and round tables with mismatched chairs were scattered around the rest of the floor. The sharp scents of tobacco and fermented spirits flooded Olivia’s nose as she sauntered up to the bar, as if she frequented dingy pubs every day, and ordered a pint. The barkeep raised an eyebrow at her grungy appearance, but when she flipped him an extra shilling, he turned with a shrug and brought her a frothy mug.

  Olivia hunched over her drink, tucked a strand of wig behind her ear, and glanced around the room. Baldy had removed his hat and sat alone at a table near the front door. His back was to her, so she sauntered over to the table behind him and took a seat. From what she could see from the corner of her eye, he was reading a book. What kind of thug snuck into a pub to read?

  Carefully, she drew her knife and turned it so she could press the blunt hilt into his back—revolver style. She roughened her voice, letting her anger punctuate every word. “Do exactly as I say and I won’t blow a hole through your ribcage.”

  The man straightened one vertebra at a time and began to turn his head.

  “Stop,” she ordered. He froze midturn as Olivia pressed the knife harder into his side, keeping the weapon hidden behind his coat. “Stand up slowly and walk out the front door.”

  With careful movements, he set the book on the table and rose. When they reached the street, Brit and the others fell in around them. They turned onto a side street and then into a deserted alley. Olivia spun the man by his shoulder and pushed him up against the wall. Getting a good look at his face for the first time, she was jarred with the recognition that he was one of the men who’d harassed her at Paul’s Pawnbroker Shop. “Critch?”

  “How do ye know my name?” he demanded, warily eying the knives Brit and Archie held on him.

  Olivia took her stroke of luck and ran with it. “I know a lot about you, Critch. Including that you kidnapped my mate.” Olivia nodded to Brit. The boy grabbed Critch’s arm and pressed the tip of his blade against the man’s throat. When their captive met Brit’s still-bruised face, he swallowed, his hazel eyes widening.

  �
��I also know that gold in your ear is new, and means you’ve sold your soul to a devil named Monks.”

  “Whot do ye want from me?”

  Olivia tucked her weapon into her pocket and began to pace in front of him. “Just a bit of information is all.” She stopped and pinned him with a narrow stare. “Unless you want to hang for kidnapping.”

  “I spared the boy. ’E’s supposed to be floatin’ in the Thames!” Critch jerked away from the wall. Archie grabbed his other arm and poked his blade in the man’s stomach. Critch froze.

  “It’s no matter.” Olivia tilted her head to the side. “If you tell me what I want to know, it will all be forgotten.”

  Critch only stared, seemingly afraid to move as a thin line of red trickled down his throat. Brit was angry; she could see it in his coiled posture and clenched jaw. She just hoped the kid could hold it together. Jack’s life depended on it.

  “Your boss is in possession of a specific document that I am in need of. A last will and testament. Just tell me where he keeps it and you’re free to get back to your reading.”

  As Olivia spoke, the color slowly leached from Critch’s face. “I can’t tell ye that. Monks would kill me!”

  Olivia’s heart thumped against her ribs. He knew where the will was hidden! But he feared her half brother more than the blades pressed into his flesh, or the threat of persecution. She paced to the other side of the alley. There was one other thing she knew he dreaded, and could only pray it would be enough. With her back to him, she pulled off her hat and wig and then slipped the hairnet off, freeing her long curls with a shake of her head. After scrubbing at the ash on her cheeks, she turned and walked toward Critch, letting a sneer slide across her face. “Remember me? From Paul’s shop?”

  Critch blinked several times as if not believing his own eyes. “Yer … Yer D … Dodger’s girl.”