Olivia Twist Page 3

  The boy grinned, his teeth stained the putrid brown of the Thames. The nuns would take care of that too. Jack ruffled the kid’s greasy hair. “Now run, and don’t stop until you get there. Be sure to tell ’em Dodger sent you.”

  The shillings still clutched tight in his fist, the child took off like a shot. Jack resumed his course down the alley, but as he passed the children crowded by the chimney, he clenched his jaw and tried to block out their pleas. “Please, sir. We’re starving. Can ye spare a bit more, sir?”

  He couldn’t help them all; that was no longer his job. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he gripped the gems waiting to secure his future—worlds away from this hell.

  Olivia threw the stick so hard that she spun in a circle with the effort. Brom raced after it in excited leaps, his multihued fur quivering in glee. Most would not consider her great, mixed-breed dog a proper escort, but no one who cared would be out of bed at this hour to judge. Olivia exhaled a cloud of fog into the crisp morning air and sank onto a nearby bench. Tucked back into a stand of molting trees, she breathed in the scent of decay, of green life leeching from foliage, leaving behind the vibrant colors of change.

  Sleep the night before had been impossible as her thoughts turned over the evening’s events again and again. It had been no great surprise when Dodger did not return to the party after their confrontation, although his absence would make him a prime suspect if anything significant were to turn up missing.

  Olivia slumped against the back of the bench. Her initial joy at finding him well and alive had soon faded as she recalled the last time she’d seen him. If Dodger had robbed anyone other than her Uncle Brownlow that day, she would have hung for his crime …

  “There’s our mark now, Ollie,” Dodger whispered as he inclined his head toward an older gentleman browsing through a street vendor’s assortment of books. The man wore a coat of the deepest red, the snowy ruffles of his shirt peeking from beneath his cuffs, his tall Hessian boots shining in the sun. Dodger gestured toward the table, indicating Ollie should attempt a distraction.

  Ollie swiped the crumbs from her mouth with a dirty sleeve, approached the bookstand, and squeezed in between the white-haired gentleman and a less-affluent customer. Her hands clammy and shaking, she selected a brown leather tome and opened the cover, moving her finger along the letters as if she could read them. She turned the page, repositioned her foot, and stomped on the toff’s boot. When the man harrumphed his displeasure, Ollie apologized and grinned up at him, using her dimples to their full advantage. The man did not return her smile, but met her gaze and held it, blinking several times before his mouth fell open. Ollie’s smile faltered, the book falling from her hand as she stared into honey-colored eyes, the exact shade of her own.

  Then the man jerked and spun about. “Thief!”

  Dodger froze in shock, before whirling on his heel and taking off, the man’s wallet clutched in his fist. Ollie dashed after him, her heart galloping into her throat. This was not supposed to happen! The Artful Dodger never got caught.

  Shouts of “Stop the boy!” and the pounding of boots followed them as they raced through the streets. Dodger slammed into a vegetable cart, sending the produce spinning over the cobbles behind him. Ollie stumbled over a rolling potato, and before she could right herself, arms grabbed her from behind. She struggled, pulled, and kicked, but they held her fast.

  “That is the wrong boy,” insisted the white-haired toff as he bent over and tried to catch his breath. “It was … the taller … dark-haired one.”

  “I saw this one hand off the wallet with me own eyes. This be yer thief, sir,” a gravelly voice claimed behind her. She twisted around to see the cop’s belly protruding far over his boots. Likely he’d never catch his true target, and figured one tooler was as good as another.

  “No! It wasn’t me!” Ollie knew what they did with thieves. It was death by hanging or deportation to the Colonies, which was a drawn-out death at sea. She stopped struggling and implored the gentleman who was her only hope. “I didn’t do it. I swear it on me mother!”

  Ollie stared up into the man’s kind face, pleading with her eyes. And then, as if his voice echoed through a long tunnel, she heard him say, “Release the boy.”

  “But sir, we cannot abide law breakers. This be for the magistrate to decide.” The beak wrenched her arms tighter behind her back.

  As the toff argued with the constable, Ollie spied a familiar crooked top hat peeking up from behind a wagon. She let out a slow breath. Dodger would come up with something. He was clever enough to save them both.

  Dodger rose up and met her eyes. But then the boy’s face hardened, all emotion leaching out of his expression, and in the blink of an eye he was gone, taking the man’s wallet with him. All the air whooshed from Ollie’s chest, like a kick to the ribs. An unfamiliar sensation stung the backs of her eyes, and her throat constricted. Blast it! She hadn’t bawled since she was a toddler in nappies.

  She swung back toward the white-haired gentleman, but he wouldn’t meet her stare. He’d lost the fight. Her breath coming in shallow gasps, she stumbled over her feet as the copper led her away to face her sentencing.

  It wasn’t until Brom trotted up and sat at her feet that she realized her fingernails were digging crescent-shaped ridges into her palms. Her dog, ever the gentleman, tilted his head, one of his ears cocked in concern. “I’m all right, Brom. Give me that.” She reached out, and he dropped the damp stick into her hand. Olivia surged to her feet and hurled the branch halfway across the square. She’d trusted Dodger with her life! And he’d rewarded that faith with betrayal.

  Brom bounded after his prize in reckless abandon, and Olivia longed to race alongside him, to pump her legs in time with the indignation flaring through her chest. Curse her absurd skirts, anyway. If she’d been wearing her trousers and cap, she and Brom would sprint across the square and down to the river.

  That’s when she noticed the dog—his stick forgotten—watching a dark-haired man striding briskly through the square. “Well, how about that.” Olivia set off to retrieve her errant pet, when she noticed the man stumble, then dance to the side with inherent grace. Something in the man’s movements made her walk faster. He turned to stare at her dog, and the newsboy cap pulled low over his eyes did nothing to disguise his square chin or the determined angle of his jaw.

  Dodger.

  Olivia jogged to Brom, clicked his leash into place, and, ignoring the warnings in her head, followed her quarry at a distance. After adjusting the angle of her hat to partially cover her face, and tightening the sage-and-lime-striped ribbons under her chin, she quickened her pace.

  She almost lost Jack when he cut in front of a chicken cart and ducked into a dark alley, and again when she came across a cluster of children huddled against a chimney. She stopped at the sight of fat tears streaking through the grime on a sandy-haired boy’s face. He sat away from the others, nursing a bloodied lip. Olivia approached and handed the child a pound note. Wisely, he tucked the bill into his pocket, a secret smile on his face.

  Olivia swallowed hard, said a prayer for the children as she continued on her way, and repeated in her mind: I cannot save them all. But she could get to Saffron Hill that night, and deliver the loot she’d collected over the last week. Those kids depended on her. Archie and Brit would keep the younger ones fed, but Chip’s cough worried her. It had gone from a dry tickle to a wet bark, overnight.

  Ahead, Dodger slipped around a corner, and Olivia picked up her pace. She lifted her skirt and stepped around a pile of refuse, yanking Brom’s leash when he stopped to investigate. But when she turned, Dodger was gone. She rushed past a pair of young women pushing red roses in her face, two blooms for a penny, and spied a shop door closing with the clang of a bell.

  Rushing forward, she stopped short and read the words painted on the shop window: Paul’s Pawnbroker Shop. The cracked letters partially obscured her view as she watched Jack follow a squat man in an old-fashioned powdere
d wig behind the counter and out of sight. Brom sniffed at the opening where the door hadn’t closed all the way, but Olivia pulled him back. She didn’t even know what she hoped to accomplish with this little bit of sleuthing. So she stood outside and endeavored to look as if she belonged.

  The shelf in the window displayed a random ensemble of cracked pottery, a plebeian calico shirt on a form, and a dusty garnet brooch. Shelves of merchandise lined the walls from floor to ceiling and racks of clothing divided the middle of the room. A perfect place for a young woman, such as herself, to shop and listen. Olivia led Brom inside and moved to browse a selection of threadbare dresses. A few moments later, the bell rang again and two rough-looking young men pushed into the store. Jerking her eyes back to the garish purple silk in front of her, Olivia attempted to remain unnoticed, but a low growl vibrated from Brom’s chest, drawing the ruffians closer.

  One was tall and angular, wearing a knit cap pushed back on his shaved head. The other one appeared almost as wide as he was tall, with brown curly hair and eyes the color of mud. Brom’s rumble took on a menacing note as the men moved around the clothing racks and stopped, one on either side of her.

  “Oh, tha’s a nice poochy, now.” The short one extended his hand to Brom’s nose.

  Olivia turned to find the tall one standing less than a foot away from her. “Well now, whot’s a pretty lady like you doin’ in old Paul’s shop?” He picked up a silk ribbon from her hat and rubbed it between his fingers as he spoke. “You lookin’ to make a trade?”

  The glint in his eyes made Olivia’s stomach constrict. She stepped back and turned toward the short one. “Just browsing, but my gentleman is meeting me here in a moment.”

  “Oh, is ’e now?” the tall one questioned, his eyes raking over her from head to toe.

  “Me thinks the lady’s skirt looks awful light. How ’bout you, Critch?” The short one chuckled at his own wit.

  Olivia rolled her eyes. She may be a lot of things, even some unpleasant ones, but she was certainly no prostitute. When the thugs began to pluck at the fabric of her dress, she knew it was time to make her exit. Narrowing her eyes, she stared the short one in the face and said, “Excuse me, sir, but I must be going.”

  “Not just yet.” The one called Critch put a hand on her shoulder and spun her around.

  Brom’s bark exploded from his chest, his sharp, white teeth snapping. Moments later there was a blur, followed by a sickening clang, and the dog was silent.

  “Brom!” Olivia bent and grabbed his muzzle between her hands; his soft brown eyes were open, but dazed. She glanced over her shoulder to find the short one holding a skillet and grinning. She surged to her feet, an inferno rising inside her, never before so grateful she was tall for a female. She towered over him as she hissed, “You slimy little toad! How dare you touch my dog?” The thug backed up, his eyes darting toward the door. Hysterical laughter echoed behind her and she whirled on Critch with a glare that could break glass, but he only looked more determined.

  “I’m not done with you, little dolly,” he muttered as he grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her to his chest with a thump. Grasping his arms for leverage, Olivia hiked her knee up, and smashed it between his legs. With a groan, all the color drained from his face and he doubled over, his knit cap falling to the floor. When he raised his head, the viciousness in his expression trapped Olivia’s breath in her throat. She stumbled back as his hand shot out and locked around her wrist.

  “Fancy meeting you here, Miss Brownlow.” The voice cut through the room like sharp-edged steel. With one glance at its source, the short one’s mouth dropped open marionette-style, and he catapulted out the door with a harried clang of the bell.

  “D-d-oddger?” Critch straightened and dropped her arm, his eyes flaring wide. He was taller than Jack, but his spine seemed to shrivel before her eyes, his neck almost disappearing into his collar.

  Dodger leaned against the counter behind him. “I’m sure I don’t know who ye mean.”

  Jack’s appearance and the two thugs’ transformation made Olivia long to head for the door herself, but her feet seemed to have grown roots. Brom nudged her hand, and she patted his furry head, gripping his leash like a lifeline.

  “Dodger, man, it’s me, Critch.” He opened his hands in an imploring gesture. “I’d heard you got transported. But if you’re back in town, I’m wit’ you. That bloomin’ Monks is takin’ over everything. I’ll pledge to you right here, man. Half of whot’s mine is yers.”

  The shift in Dodger’s expression reminded Olivia of shutters locking tight against a storm. In two strides, he crossed the room and slammed Critch against the shelves, china cups and dishes crashing to the floor at their feet. His face inches from the sniveling Critch, Jack rumbled, “The Dodger’s dead and buried, you hear?”

  Critch nodded, a droplet of crimson drawing a line down the pale skin of his throat where Dodger pricked him with a knife that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere.

  “And if I hear of you even whispering that name in your sleep, Critch—” Dodger’s face appeared flat as stone, but the vein in his neck pulsed visibly as he snarled, “You’ll be joining him.”

  Dodger gave the terrified Critch a final slam against the shelving, sending a ceramic bowl smashing to the floor, and then turned his flame-blue gaze on Olivia. Her racing pulse stuttered to a halt as he stalked toward her, grasped her upper arm, and steered her toward the door. Brom growled low, digging in his feet. But before she could feel relief at her dog’s heroics, Dodger poked the side of Brom’s neck with two fingers and commanded, “Quiet.”

  All the tension left Brom’s body as Dodger took the leash from Olivia’s stunned fingers and led them both into the street.

  So much for her loyal guard dog.

  “No need to pout, Miss Brownlow. Your mutt merely senses I’m no danger to you.”

  Yet. He didn’t say it, but the implied threat in the tone of his voice sent a series of chills skittering down Olivia’s spine, making her knees go weak. He tightened his grip on her arm, supporting her weight until she regained the strength in her legs. What had she been thinking to follow him?

  Long gone was the charming Irish gentleman, fake accent and all. Her survival instincts kicking in, Olivia squared her shoulders and spoke over the clatter of horse’s hooves and squeak of wagon wheels against cobblestone. “Where are you taking me?”

  “Somewhere we can talk.”

  Dodger steered them around a pair of street peddlers. One shouted the virtues of rat poison, while the other pushed rag dolls in Olivia’s face, until Brom snapped at her and she scurried away. They turned onto a side street and passed a row of women washing bottles outside a tavern, two of the three stopping their work to stare openly at Dodger. Olivia couldn’t say as she blamed them. She chanced a glance at his profile, the distinct slope of his nose, his black hair resting against the sun-kissed skin of his neck, firm lips relaxed in a perpetual smirk. Olivia shook her head. It would never do. “You’re going to need a better disguise than a beat-up hat pulled over your eyes if you hope to convince everyone you’re dead.”

  A muscle clenched in his jaw, and Olivia felt his entire body tense. But honestly, she should know. She’d learned a few things spending the first nine years of her life masquerading as a boy.

  “People see what they want to see,” he replied as they turned down a side street.

  “Precisely. And it would seem quite a few people wish to see you.”

  They turned another corner and stopped. He still held her elbow as he looked down at her, something flaring in his gaze. Respect? Anger? Recognition? He stood so close she couldn’t think, except to notice she only had to tilt her head a bit to see the blue of his eyes. He was barely half a head taller than she was, but his athletic build and the way he carried himself made him appear much larger. His fingers tightened on her arm, burning into her flesh. Brom gave a mournful whine, and Olivia stepped back, yanking her arm from Dodger’s grasp.

>   They were in a narrow, dead-end passage surrounded on three sides by brick buildings, and, according to the smell, very near the river. Olivia grabbed Brom’s leash and watched as Dodger moved to lean against a wall near the mouth of the alley, crossing his arms over his chest.

  He watched her for several seconds before asking in a level voice, “Why were you following me?”

  Olivia clenched her hand into a fist and threw out a question of her own. “Why were you robbing the Platts?” Her conscience pricked a bit as she thought of the silver frog. But she had her reasons.

  He shrugged one broad shoulder. “Because I can.”

  It was so typically Dodger that Olivia bit her lip to keep from smiling. He’d once picked the pocket of an on-duty constable, simply because one of the other boys insisted it could not be done. He’d not only taken the copper’s wallet, but his baton and cuffs as well. “Dodger …”

  He pushed off the wall, his eyes chips of ice. “It’s Jack.” He stopped in front of her, arms still crossed over his chest. “How is it you think you know me, Miss Brownlow?”

  For a fleeting moment, Olivia considered telling him the truth. But the impassive look on his face stopped the words from forming. Instead, she curled her lips and arched an eyebrow in a flirtatious expression she’d seen her cousin, Francesca, use to her advantage with men on several occasions. “What, you don’t remember me?” She tilted her head. “I’m hurt.”

  He closed the space between them in a single step. His legs brushed her skirts, and Olivia drew in a startled breath. His scent filled her senses; crisp and clean like the air after a hard rain. In a quick, fluid motion, he untied the ribbon holding her silk cap in place and removed it from her head. His eyes roamed over her face, and her heart beat so hard she felt it in her throat. He leaned forward, bracing one hand against the wall above her head and bent close, his breath tickling the hairs by her ear. “I would never claim to be a saint, Miss Brownlow.” His voice, soft and rich, melted her insides like butter. “But you, I would’ve remembered.”