Olivia Twist Read online

  The word hit Jack like a blow to the chest. Husband? He could not imagine a wildcat like Olivia married to the staunch, ever-proper Grimwig.

  “I know you will, Maxwell. Olivia is headstrong and not always”—the old man paused as if searching for the right words—“decorous. But it reassures me that now you know of her past, you will have a better understanding of her ways.”

  Grimwig glanced down, and a frown pulled at the corners of his mouth. But when he turned back to face Brownlow, his smile was back in place. “Of course, sir.”

  “I must rest now, son. But Olivia will be thrilled.” Mr. Brownlow turned and began shuffling back down the hall. “Come by for dinner soon.”

  “I will, sir,” Grimwig called as he took his hat and umbrella from the butler.

  Jack sunk back out of view, his mind racing with questions. Why did old man Brownlow sound as if he were apologizing for something in Olivia’s past?

  He heard the front door shut and turned to see Grimwig strolling down the street, his lips pursed in a whistle. What was it about the bloke that made Jack want to punch the tune from his mouth? Jack looked down and found Brom gazing out the window, following Maxwell’s progress. “He’s hiding something, isn’t he, boy? And I aim to find out what.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Mrs. Pickney Price requests the pleasure of Miss Olivia Brownlow’s company at a Dinner Party, on Monday, October 29.

  AN ANSWER WILL OBLIGE

  Dancing.

  Olivia glanced at the card one last time and tucked it inside her reticule as the coach pulled up to the glowing mansion. For some inexplicable reason, she felt it necessary to carry the proof of her invitation on her person. This, unfortunately, did not go unnoticed by the other occupants of the vehicle.

  “I find it extraordinarily diverting that you continue to read that card as if the words may have changed in the last two minutes,” Francesca commented as she tugged on her gloves and pressed the seams between each finger. “Is there some code in the writing which you are trying to decipher?”

  Before Olivia could concoct an adequate reply, Mrs. Lancaster remarked, “Olivia is simply being thorough. Something you could take a lesson on, dear.” The distinguished older woman fluffed her salt-and-pepper curls as she pinned her daughter with a stare of reproach. “You put entirely too much reliance on the servants, Frannie.”

  “That is what they are for, is it not?” Francesca lifted her chin and stared at her mother as the door opened. A crisp breeze carrying the tang of wood smoke swirled into the carriage, ruffling the hairs around Olivia’s face. After several uncomfortable beats, Fran dropped her gaze from her mother, and then turned to the footman, taking his extended hand.

  For the tenth time, Olivia wished her aunt Becky could be her chaperone that evening. But Violet and her mother were on the other side of town attending a party Aunt Becky proclaimed would result in Violet’s imminent betrothal. Poor Vi. Her mother carted her out in front of every eligible young man like a pony at auction. With a sigh, Olivia smoothed her peach-colored skirts and followed Aunt Katrina out of the carriage.

  Olivia viewed the moment of arrival at a dinner party as if it were a brightly wrapped package. Each guest was handpicked by the hostess for either optimum equanimity or maximum drama, and not knowing the mix created a moment of salacious anticipation. The instant she walked into the Prices’ drawing room and spied the widow, Lois March, she knew what sort of party this would be, and the knowledge sparked a flutter of excitement in her chest. Harmony was overrated, and deadly dull.

  With a lift of her chin, she began to mingle. She exchanged inanities with several acquaintances before pausing in a cluster of Francesca’s friends. “Then, I told him he was quite the wittiest thing in all creation.” Frannie’s voice, half a pitch higher than normal, cut through the chatter around them, drawing the attention her cousin craved.

  Not wishing to contribute to her narcissism, Olivia turned and searched the room to find Mrs. March laughing with a young, blond gentleman with whom Olivia was not acquainted. Tall and thin, but broad of shoulder, he wore his black-and-white formal attire as if he had been born in it. Their eyes met across the room, and the young man raised his pale brows and nodded in her direction before he turned back to the still guffawing older woman.

  “That’s Topher March, Lois’s only grandson,” said Francesca’s plump, brunette friend, who Olivia thought might be named Marcie or Maggie, or perhaps Mildred. Something with an M, she was quite sure. But having met the girl more than once, she simply could not ask. This sort of conundrum was exactly why she needed Violet by her side.

  “Yes, and Mr. March is the sole heir to not one but two fortunes. I simply must be seated with him this evening,” Francesca asserted.

  “Must you, Fran?” Olivia arched a single brow at her cousin. “Are you quite certain he is the most eligible bachelor in the room? Perhaps you ought to wait and see who else will be in attendance before staking your claim.”

  Francesca’s lips stretched into a tight smile before she replied, “How very thoughtful, Olivia. You are absolutely right. I shall await all of the arrivals before pressing my case with Mrs. Price.”

  Olivia met Fran’s dark eyes and accepted the unspoken challenge. “Whomever your escort is this evening, dear Frannie, I’m quite sure he will be infinitely … appropriate. Now, if you will excuse me.”

  With a nod, Olivia turned and made her way across the room, smiling along the way, but not pausing in her quest to reach the Marches. When she glanced over, she noted that Mr. March tracked her progress. Barely resisting the urge to check and see if Fran had noticed the gentleman’s attentions, she completed her rounds, and when she finally reached Mr. March’s side, he greeted her with a short bow.

  “Mrs. March.” Olivia bobbed a curtsy to the hunched, yet somehow regal, old woman.

  “Why, Miss Brownlow, how very lovely to see you, dear. You are looking quite …” She paused, her faded, hazel eyes flowing over Olivia from head to toe then returning to her face with a twinkle. “… trim.”

  A short laugh burst from Olivia’s throat at the woman’s subtle reminder of their first meeting, when she’d commented Olivia ate like a pregnant cow. “Yes, I’ve been somewhat negligent in my culinary pursuits of late.”

  Mrs. March’s cheeks lifted as she met Olivia’s eyes, a new appreciation glowing there. “Miss Brownlow, may I present my grandson, Mr. Christopher March.”

  “Mr. March, I am so pleased to make your acquaintance.” Olivia curtsied to the attractive gentleman, all the while watching out of the corner of her eye for Francesca. When she met Mr. March’s gray gaze, she lifted her brows and quirked her mouth in an attempt at flirtation. “Why is it we have never met?”

  “Topher’s just completed his education at Oxford. Isn’t that right, my boy?” Mrs. March spoke several decibels above normal conversation, the feathers on her puce hat trembling in response.

  “Yes, my certification was a dual focus in finance and business. Top of my class.” Mr. March clutched his jacket lapels and leaned in as if he spoke in confidence. “Rather necessary when one will soon be managing two landed estates.”

  “Yes, quite.” Obviously, Mr. March’s wealth had been recently gained, otherwise he would not find it necessary to proclaim it. New or old money was of no consequence to Olivia, but if this braggart was the most eligible bachelor at the party, she’d rather sit with the butler. She began to search the room for her cousin’s dark head in earnest, hoping to arrange an introduction.

  “My mother’s family estate, Woodcreek Park, is over a hundred acres in Hampshire. She is planning a lavish house party during Christmas. I’d be glad to add you to the guest list, Miss Brownlow.” Mr. March’s odd, pale eyes swept over Olivia’s face, one corner of his mouth curling. “If you’re so inclined, that is?”

  The invitation was clear, but Olivia had no desire to spend any length of days confined with this gentleman. “I—”

  “Being inclined
would imply the lady had an interest, Toph.” Jack’s cool voice caused an instant heat across Olivia’s skin. “And it is clear she does not.”

  Propriety forgotten, her head swiveled in search of the speaker. Jack, handsomely turned out in a navy blue coat, appeared at Mrs. March’s side as if out of thin air.

  “Oh, Jack!” Mrs. March practically yelled. “I am so pleased you changed your mind about attending.”

  With Jack’s presence, the room brightened, as if several more candelabras followed him into the room. A smile that seemed to originate deep in Olivia’s chest stretched her lips without her consent. And froze there as revelation stopped her breath. She’d been searching for him—for Dodger—all these years. In every dirty face, every outstretched hand and orphan she helped, she’d searched for her childhood mate, the boy who’d taken her under his wing when she’d had no one. But why?

  She watched his left hand where he rubbed his thumb across the pads of his fingers in a nervous tell he’d had since childhood. His shoulders straight, his lips pressed into a casual smirk, it was the only indication of the vast emotion brewing inside him.

  It was true he’d left her to her fate that long-ago day. But as a result, hadn’t she been taken in by her uncle, whilst Jack had been left to muck out a living on the streets?

  Perhaps she’d been the one who had left him behind, not the other way around.

  Ridiculous. Before he could see, she straightened her spine and flattened her expression, but her external control did nothing to calm the galloping of her heart.

  “Jack, old man.” Topher punched Jack’s upper arm with a bit too much force to be considered companionable. “Your plans at the gaming hell fall through?”

  “Something like that.” Jack dismissed Topher’s barb and turned to Olivia. Barely restrained ferocity lurked beneath his ice-blue eyes as they fixed on her face. “Miss Brownlow, how very good to see ye again.”

  “And you, Mr. MacCarron.” She sounded breathless as she dropped into a rigid curtsy.

  Jack cocked his head to the side, his eyes narrowing on Olivia’s head. Without thinking, she touched a gloved hand to the green and coral garland of flowers woven into her hair, hoping the elaborate coiffure had not fallen.

  “What a flattering hair ornament, Miss Brownlow. But I do believe I prefer that ruffled cap ye wore the other day.” Jack paused as if searching his memory. “Cream with green ribbons, I believe?”

  Olivia sucked in a breath. Would he give her away? Accuse her of stealing? He couldn’t possibly confront her without the risk of implicating himself. Could he? She should have anticipated this moment.

  Fighting to regain her polite countenance, she quipped, “Why, Mr. MacCarron, how observant of you. I had no idea you had such a burning interest in fashion.”

  “Nor I,” said Topher with relish. “But it explains quite a lot.”

  The two men exchanged heated glares, and Olivia worried that they might come to blows.

  “Excuse me, Mr. MacCarron.” The hostess, Mrs. Price, rushed to the edge of their little group with Francesca hovering by her side. “I believe you have met the lovely Miss Lancaster. Would you mind terribly escorting her to dinner this evening?”

  Fran directed a smug grin at Olivia before her face fell back into its usual pouty, yet enticing mien. The transformation from spoilt brat into sensual temptress almost made Olivia laugh. Almost.

  “Indeed.” Jack turned and bowed over Francesca’s hand, his lips lingering a moment too long on her gloved knuckles. Something bitter rose in Olivia’s throat as Fran curtsied to Jack, a pretty flush pinkening her cheeks before she took his arm and he led her away.

  “Dear Miss Brownlow.” Mrs. Price bustled forward, fanning her blotchy face. “I’ve been informed Mr. Grimwig has been detained. Which is good, since Mr. MacCarron’s arrival would make an odd number. But I think Mr. March shall suit as your dining partner, yes?”

  “Yes, of course.” The words had not finished leaving Olivia’s lips before Mrs. Price flitted off to organize another pairing.

  Olivia glanced at Topher March and then over at her cousin, who stood so close to Jack that her dark curls brushed the midnight blue of his coat. Jack leaned into her with a chuckle, clearly amused by their conversation. Fran’s wishes for a “dalliance” with Jack fresh in Olivia’s mind, she turned away from the couple and set her jaw.

  It would seem her cousin had won this battle after all.

  Jack watched the amethyst-and-diamond earbobs wink from between Miss Lancaster’s dark curls, teasing him like a can-can dancer’s ankles. The chit had babbled nonstop between every bite of the last seven courses. But all Jack could think about was getting her alone, quieting those chatty lips, and slipping her jewels into his pocket. Well, that and the atrocity occurring at the other end of the table—his blasted “cousin” charming the devil out of Miss Olivia Brownlow.

  Jack leaned back and shot a glance down the table. Topher was making a clownish face and wiggling in his seat, presumably doing some sort of impression, while Olivia grinned, a single round dimple appearing in her right cheek. Something about her face tugged at long-buried memories of his youth, stealing his breath. But how could that be? Anything reminiscent of his childhood would find him living in the streets, far, far from Olivia’s glittering world of privilege.

  “… MacCarron? Mr. MacCarron!”

  The air returned to Jack’s lungs in shallow degrees. He turned to the woman batting his arm as if she were trying to kill an insect and snapped, “Yes, Miss Lancaster?”

  The woman froze mid-swat, her eyes widening and cheeks flushing. With effort, Jack relaxed the muscles of his face and offered a smile. “Is everything all right, lass? Could there be a fly in your meringue, perhaps? I’ll notify a footman posthaste.” Jack lifted his arm, pretending to search for a servant, until Miss Lancaster tugged his arm down by the sleeve.

  “Stop, sir! My meringue is perfect.” Her delicate hand lingered on his arm as she lowered her lashes and then gazed up at him with inviting dark eyes, the violet jewels at her ears catching flames of candlelight.

  Jack calculated the size and value of the gems as he met her gaze. One missing earbob could be easily explained, and the theft would be quite a pleasant one to execute. Now, how to get her alone? Once he found a quiet corner, the act itself would take a matter of moments.

  A servant reached between them to set a glass on the table, breaking their connection. Jack brought the flute to his lips, the sweet nectar gliding down his throat as he glanced around the table noting the glazed eyes, overly loud laughter, and flushed cheeks around him. Perhaps getting Miss Lancaster alone would not be so difficult.

  A boisterous laugh drew his gaze down the table, past Olivia. Lois met his stare through the shimmering candelabras and sparkling crystal, the levity of her regard resetting Jack’s priorities in an instant. A pleasant encounter with Miss Lancaster, no matter how lovely her jewels, could not replace the advance money he’d lost to Miss Olivia Brownlow, or the trust it had cost him with his benefactor.

  Getting to Olivia, however, might prove a challenge. Topher appeared quite enchanted by the girl. In that exact moment, he was leaning over her, whispering something in her ear, and Olivia’s full lips slanted in an expression Jack had once mistaken for enticement. Right before she’d ripped the money from his pocket. Topher appeared similarly seduced. As far as Jack was concerned, the conniving duo could have one another. But his unfinished business with the girl simply could not wait.

  After dessert, the party made their way into the hall, and the hostess explained they would be forgoing the customary separation of the sexes for some after-dinner dancing. The woman was considered progressive in her views, which served Jack’s purposes precisely. Seeing no need to prolong the inevitable, he maneuvered Miss Lancaster through the crowd until they were directly behind Topher and Miss Brownlow.

  “Excuse me, old man,” Jack placed a hand on Topher’s shoulder just as he was about to lead Olivia
to the dance floor. “But Miss Brownlow promised this first dance to me.”

  Topher spun on his heel, his jaw set in a mulish line. “And when exactly did this promise take place, cousin?”

  Olivia’s burnished-bronze eyes clashed with his, one of her brows rising in a graceful arch. Without missing a beat, she said, “I lost a bet to Mr. MacCarron, you see. And the prize was of his choosing.” Olivia dropped into a quick curtsy, her eyes never leaving his. “If this is your reward, consider our bargain fulfilled.”

  “Well, I suppose I am relegated to wallflower status,” Miss Lancaster harrumphed.

  “Not at all. I’m positive my good cousin would be glad to oblige ye.” Jack smacked Topher on the back, returning the blow the git had dealt him earlier in the evening. But before Toph could take offense, Jack introduced him to the petite beauty at his side. With several rather pathetic glances at Miss Brownlow, Topher bowed to Miss Lancaster and asked her to dance.

  Side by side, Jack and Olivia watched the other couple make their way into the melee. Jack offered his arm and, dropping his accent, commented, “Very smooth, my dear. Wherever did you learn to lie like that?”

  A cross between a choke and a laugh sputtered out of Olivia as she placed her hand on his sleeve. “Only from the best, Mr. MacCarron, I assure you.” She held his gaze with a self-satisfied smirk.

  “Is that so?” He took her hand, spun her into the dance, and yanked her toward him with a bit more force than he intended. Her body smashed into his, the smug grin melting from her face.

  “Quite,” she squeaked, taking a step back and positioning her hands for the waltz.

  They began to move to the music, and the residual pain in his leg—left by her blasted mutt—fueled something dark in Jack’s chest. How was it that this spitfire always seemed to get the best of him?

  As they turned, Jack caught Olivia’s eye and raised a brow in question. “Clearly, lying is not your only nefarious skill, Miss Brownlow. Perhaps you’d care to enlighten me on any others I should know about?”