Olivia Twist

by Lorie Langdon

  Jack ordered a mug of water and downed it in two gulps. Leeford must’ve taken on the name Monks in order to escape his past sins—and enemies. But it would seem he was intent on making all-new ones. After a second glass of water cleared his brain a bit, Jack knew what he had to do.

  When Monks and his cronies headed for the door, Jack followed. Turning up his collar and angling his hat over his eyes, he tailed the men out onto the street. He kept a discreet distance, but he couldn’t hear any of their boisterous conversation. As the two neared the path that ran along the Thames, a dense fog rolled in off the river, allowing Jack to move closer. Leeford’s growled words began to carry through the haze.

  “Whoever heard of putting such asinine terms …” His voice dipped too low for Jack to hear.

  “Whot did it say?” the big man asked.

  “Some rot about his offspring with this whore.” Leeford lifted the locket and flipped it open to reveal the portrait within, his words cutting out again. “… that little whelp never should’ve been born, I tell you.”

  “Why not just take ’em out of the picture all together, Monks?”

  Leeford was quiet for several moments before he snarled, “Death is too easy for my precious sibling.”

  Leeford’s words pressed down on Jack like an invisible weight slowing his steps. Was that balming git talking about his Olivia? Could Leeford be her brother in truth? It sounded as if he was looking for his sibling, and not for a pleasant reunion. God only knew what horrible thing his deranged mind had planned.

  An impenetrable wave of fog drifted across the path, and Jack inched closer, desperate to hear more.

  “Hmm … that sounds like somethin’ you’d want to be keepin’ quiet,” the big goon commented with a bit too much nonchalance.

  Jack stiffened as Leeford growled, “What do you mean by that, exactly?”

  “Nothin’ at all, Monks. Just that certain mates can be trusted with information and certain mates can’t. Those trusted gents would be worth somethin’ to you, I imagine. Somethin’ extra.”

  The smog thickened to the point that Jack could no longer see the men. A warning churning in his gut, he picked up his pace and pulled his largest blade from its holster. Leeford, the snake, was about to strike. He could feel it in his bones.

  Jack needed to get to him and deflect his attention from Olivia. Every ounce of his energy focused, he stalked forward, tendrils of mist churning and coalescing around him, narrowing visibility to a handsbreadth.

  A thump sounded up ahead, like bone hitting flesh, followed by a groan. Blindly, Jack rushed forward as a muffled cry rang out, followed by a series of quick stick and hiss sounds. Jack slowed his gait. Knifing through cloth and flesh made a very distinct noise.

  He stopped to listen and turned in a slow circle, the roar in his veins filling his ears. Quick footfalls pattered against the path and Jack tensed, gripping his knife, before he realized the sound moved away from him. Cautiously, he stepped forward. His boot collided with something warm and solid.

  He bent down, blade at the ready. The big man from the poker table stared straight at him, prone at his feet. Jack lurched back. Dropping his weapon, he caught himself before he fell, his hands landing in warm fluid. He smelled the acrid tang before he lifted his palm.

  Blood.

  The big man was dead. Multiple stab wounds in his stomach and chest still pumped blood onto the stone path.

  Jack’s heart slammed in his chest. He shot to his feet and spun around, searching for the killer. If Leeford would murder his own man to protect his secret, he wouldn’t hesitate to take Jack out too. A deep bellow thundered through the night, and he stumbled back before spying the swing of gas lanterns on the water. A barge cut through the waves near the shore.

  It could be the Watch out for nightly rounds. And here Jack stood beside a dead body with blood on his hands. There was no saving this bloke now. Swiping his hands on his pants, he snatched up his knife and ran.

  CHAPTER 9

  Olivia’s ribs strained against her corset as she took several deep breaths and followed Max down the cobbled garden path. A kaleidoscope of russet and tangerine leaves swirled through the air in seamless accord with Olivia’s restless spirit. She’d paid Max a morning visit, forgoing the idiotic ritual of leaving her card and then waiting for him to call on her at his leisure.

  Her escort had posed a bit of a dilemma. Olivia did not have a lady’s maid, and most of the time she preferred it that way, but today she’d had to resort to bribing one of the kitchen staff away from her duties. Olivia glanced over her shoulder and found the girl hunched in her wrap, following at a discreet distance, a worried look pinching her face. The housekeeper, Mrs. Foster, would have both their hides if she discovered the girl missing.

  Facing forward, Olivia tucked a stray strand of hair back into her chignon. She had dressed with extra care that morning, wearing her sky-blue day dress and velvet sapphire overcoat that cinched in at the waist and flowed over her hips. With the matching royal blue hat pinned at a saucy angle, even Francesca would have been proud.

  Max plodded along the winding path ahead of her, not speaking. She could only hope he would give her a second chance. But a tiny part of her still wished that he wouldn’t. She’d lain awake half the night fighting her demons and praying for guidance, until she’d worked herself into a knot of anticipation and foreboding.

  She followed Max under a vine-covered trellis, heavy with bell-shaped yellow flowers, and almost immediately the cloying scent of late-blooming jasmine tickled her nose. The Grimwig garden was immense. She, Max, and Violet had spent many hours here in their youth, so she could guess Max’s ultimate destination.

  As she’d anticipated, they rounded a bend and the carousel-like gazebo came into view. Its white-and-pink-striped columns and powder-blue gabled roof were exactly as she remembered. Olivia almost laughed at the memory of a long-ago spring afternoon when a toad had hopped out of her pocket and into Violet’s tea. It was a wonder Vi still consented to be her friend.

  They reached the steps of the candy-striped gazebo and Max bowed with a sweep of his arm toward the interior. “After you, my lady.” His lips were pressed tight and lines radiated from his eyes. She had done this to him. He more closely resembled his stuffed-up father than her happy-go-lucky friend. Suddenly, it didn’t seem such a chore to make him smile again.

  Olivia sat on one of the rounded benches and grabbed Max’s gloved hand as he settled beside her. She let the words spill from her unchecked. “Max, I was wrong to run away from you the night of your proposal. I was confused, but I’m not any longer. Pray, please forgive me?”

  “Of course, I forgive you.” His eyes softened, and the unguarded expression gave Olivia the courage to charge ahead.

  “I accept. I would be proud to be your wife.” She gave his hand a squeeze and watched his eyes light up like fireworks.

  “Oh, Olivia!” Max wrapped her in a tight hug, and then pulled back and planted a quick kiss on her lips. “I hadn’t dared hope. I imagined you wanted to speak to me in private to tell me you’d accepted someone else’s proposal.”

  Olivia shook her head, keeping the smile on her face as a breathtaking image of raven hair falling over ice-blue eyes filled her mind. With determination, she pushed Jack out of her thoughts and focused on the man in front of her. Jack had no place here.

  “We’ll make the formal announcement at the ball next week. Of course, we’ll need to let Mother and Father know immediately. They will be so pleased!” Max hugged her again. “How does a Christmas wedding sound?”

  Olivia grew still, her airway constricting as if a noose were tightening around her neck. “So soon?” She’d hoped to have at least six months to become accustomed to the idea—six more months of freedom.

  Max’s mouth pulled down in a deep frown, and Olivia scrambled to reassure him. “’Tis only that it’s less than eight weeks away. Eight weeks to organize a ceremony and find a gown … It’s not enough time to
prepare.”

  Max’s brows shot up and he shook his head “Oh, no need to worry on that account. Mother could pull it together in two weeks if need be.”

  “Yes, I’m sure she could.” The mental image of the formidable Mrs. Grimwig, costumed in a general’s uniform, directing a battalion of caterers and livered servants made Olivia grimace. She rose from the bench, walked to the other side of the gazebo, and stopped at the lattice railing. The late-morning sun danced on the surface of a nearby pond, and beside it willow reeds swayed in the breeze. As she watched, a gardener emerged from the trees with a net on a long pole and proceeded to scoop fallen leaves out of the water. What kind of life had she committed to, that there were servants to perform such a task?

  She felt Max stop behind her. “Remember that day when you reached into the pond to pick up a turtle and Violet pushed you in from behind?”

  Olivia laughed. That’s why they were still friends. Violet had not taken the toad incident lying down. But she’d had no idea that Olivia never learned to swim. There had not been much opportunity for aquatic recreation living on the streets, and even less in the workhouse.

  “Yes, and you had to jump in and save me because I thought I was drowning.” They both laughed at the memory of Olivia floundering and screaming, her dress and petticoats floating around her arms. In actuality, the water had only been up to her chest; she’d needed only to put her feet down to save herself.

  She turned and looked up into Max’s familiar face, his brown eyes shining with mirth. Perhaps being married to this man wouldn’t be so disagreeable. He lowered his head, and his mouth brushed hers in a lingering kiss. Olivia closed her eyes and leaned in, letting him take the lead, longing to be swept away. But his lips on hers were tentative, wet. When he lifted his head, she found herself relieved and wishing to wipe her mouth with her sleeve. No heat rushed through her veins, no desire to pull him back for more.

  Olivia blinked up at Max and wished she didn’t have another’s kiss to compare his to.

  “Let us go share the good news with my parents,” Max whispered into her hair. He took her gloved hand in his and tugged her toward the arched opening.

  “There’s something I wish to discuss with you first.” She batted her lashes up at him, only feeling a small twinge of guilt at his dopey smile and dazed eyes. The orphans were worth any amount of manipulation.

  “Of course, darling.”

  The endearment felt strange, and she longed to pull her hand from his. But instead, she followed him back to the bench seat and arranged her skirts around her as she gathered her thoughts. She’d rehearsed this speech all night.

  “Max, I need your help. There are a group of young boys, orphans, whom I’ve gotten to know through my … volunteer work at St. Bart’s.” It was a small lie, but better to lie than risk his derision, or, worse, his refusal to help.

  “St. Bart’s is in Cheapside, is it not?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Olivia, that part of the city is much too dangerous! I must protest—”

  “Please allow me to finish.” Olivia placed her hand on his knee, effectively silencing him.

  “These boys were all abandoned at a young age and make what living they can on the streets. But with winter coming, they are in danger of starvation … or …” Olivia swallowed, genuine tears gathering in her eyes. “Or freezing to death in the streets.”

  Max’s brows drew together over his nose. “Surely, there is some organization for these children, such as the local parish?”

  Olivia shook her head. “No. There are just too many street children. The churches can barely make ends meet. They can’t afford to offer charity to them all, so they offer it to none.”

  “What is it you are asking?”

  “They need our help, Max. Their lives are unimaginable! We have so much, and they have so very little. I would ask you to prayerfully consider making a financial contribution to the cause.”

  Max shifted his legs away from her, leaving Olivia’s hand to fall onto the bench. He stared out at the vivid garden for several moments, a muscle in his jaw clenching. “Olivia, I’ve always admired your kindness and compassion. But by giving these boys a handout, you’re only making them dependent on you. They need to learn how to earn an honest living. Even a workhouse has to be preferable to starving on the street.”

  Olivia begged to differ. She still had the scars on her back and legs from floggings she’d received for infractions as innocuous as tripping on the stairs. One of her most severe beatings had come after she’d been caught giving a smaller child her ration of bread. And the constant bone-aching cold and gnawing hunger never fully left her mind. She’d gladly abandoned that life of abuse for the freedom of the streets. The first time she’d nipped a meat pie that’d fallen off a street cart, she thought she had died and gone to heaven.

  But she didn’t share any of her memories; instead, she spoke as an outside observer. “I’ve heard the conditions in those workhouses are deplorable. The children sleeping with rats. Being beaten for not working fast enough. What kind of life is that, Max?”

  Max searched her face, and she could almost see the gears churning in his brain. When he spoke, his voice was hushed. “When I was eight years old, I found a baby squirrel. It was tiny and fuzzy, but Mother would not allow pets, so I kept it in a box in the solarium. I lined the box with an old blanket and brought him milk and biscuits every day. Once he grew bigger and could get out of the box, he would climb the ficus trees and scamper around the room, but he would always come when I brought his food. Summer came and it was time for us to travel to our country house, so I let the squirrel go in the garden, confident that when I returned, he would be waiting for me.”

  Max paused and swallowed, the knob in his throat moving up and down several times before he continued. “When we got back in the fall, I ran out to the solarium and set the dish of milk and biscuits on the back stoop. I gave the whistle my squirrel had always responded to in the past, but he didn’t come. I sat down next to the dish to wait, hoping he was being shy. I happened to look behind the hedges bordering the solarium. He was there, by the door, stiff as a board, his little body decomposing into the dirt.”

  Olivia’s gut clenched, knowing what he would say next.

  “The squirrel died there waiting for me to come back and feed it. It had never learned to fend for itself.” Max took both her hands in his, but her fingers felt numb. “Olivia, I know you’re trying to do the right thing by helping these orphans. But you wouldn’t be doing them any favors. You would only make them dependent on your goodwill. If they are to survive, they must learn to fend for themselves.”

  “But they’re people, Max. Brit is their leader, and he’s brilliant and tries his best to protect the younger ones. Archie is clever and scrappy. Chip is only six years old, and he’s been sick with a cough for months.” Olivia could hear the pleading in her voice, but she didn’t care. “Please, Max, they have no one!”

  Max set his jaw and shook his head. “I will not perpetuate the homeless issue in this city by providing a handout. If any of the boys are old enough, perhaps we could consider them for a position here.”

  Hope flared in Olivia’s chest, but quickly faded when she realized the only one old enough was Brit, and he would never abandon the other boys.

  Max stood and held his hand out to her. “Come. We have much to celebrate.”

  Olivia swallowed the tears burning the back of her throat as she took his hand and allowed him to lead her along the path toward the four-story stone manor that was soon to be her home. In her wildest imaginings as a child, she had never dreamed of such a mansion. How could she live like a queen when her friends, the boys she’d come to love, were fighting for their lives?

  As they reached the back portico, Max squeezed her hand and grinned down at her. Olivia pushed aside her emotions and tried to think logically. Becoming Mrs. Maxwell Grimwig would afford her a wealth of opportunities. Not least of all, ensuring Uncle
Brownlow would spend the remainder of his days in peace and relative comfort.

  She picked up her step, linked her arm through Max’s elbow, and lifted her chin. She was doing the right thing by marrying him. If nothing else, the Grimwig mansion was a treasure trove of loot that no one would ever miss.

  The rented hansom cab pulled up in front of the brownstone she shared with her uncle. It wasn’t the four-story townhome with the pristine white exterior that they’d lived in when she was a child—they’d had to downsize years ago—but in many ways, she preferred this cozy home and smaller staff.

  Descending from the carriage, a wave of exhaustion weighed down her steps. She longed to curl up in her bed and hide under the covers. She’d smiled and celebrated with the Grimwigs until her face hurt and her soul felt hollow. But as Thompson opened the door, blatant disapproval etched into his face, a restorative nap seemed highly unlikely. If Mrs. Foster had discovered the maid missing from her duties, the butler would be the first to know. But Thompson ignored the girl as she scurried up the stairs, instead turning his scowl on Olivia. “Miss Brownlow, your uncle is abed, but wishes to see you at dinner.” She nodded in acknowledgement, sensing there was more. “And … you had a gentleman caller while you were out.”

  Olivia paused as she unbuttoned her coat, and met the butler’s narrow gaze. She shrugged out of her wrapper and folded the soft velvet over her arm. When he offered no further information, she prompted, “Thompson, please don’t make me drag it out of you. Did this caller leave a card?”

  “No, Miss.” Thompson turned to the salver on the hall table and plucked up a cream-colored envelope with the tips of his gloved fingers. “He left this.”

  The butler dropped the missive into her hand as if it were a stinking bit of rubbish. Olivia arched her eyebrows, her mouth tilting in amusement at his dramatics. “Was he really so terrible, then?”