Olivia Twist(11)

Topher shoved his hands into his pockets, lips curving up at the corners, his gray eyes as flat as coins. “Sorry to disappoint, old man, but I’m here for the winter season. Mum and Gran think ’tis high time I selected a bride.” He arched a pale brow. “You know, to produce an heir and all that.”

Christopher never let an opportunity pass to rub in the fact that he was the sole heir for both sides of his family. His father, Lois’s only child, had passed years ago, and Topher had no other siblings, making him his mother’s heir as well. Little did he know the fortune he’d be inheriting from his grandmother Lois would be nonexistent without Jack’s nefarious skills.

“Excellent. Best o’ luck with that.” Jack pushed off the banister and moved past Christopher, headed for a good soak to cleanse his wound and ease the throbbing ache in his leg. If I ever see that devil dog again . . .

“Oh, and Jack?” Topher’s hand snaked out, catching Jack’s arm, causing him to flinch and spin, his fingers already gripping the hilt of his knife. Every nerve in his body urged him to return the unanticipated physical contact with deadly force. Luckily, his brain caught up before he could follow through and unsheathe his weapon. He forced the tension out of his shoulders and met Topher’s gaze with a lazy smirk. “Aye?”

Topher had the intelligence to appear taken aback, but unfortunately that didn’t stop his next string of accusations. “It’s funny, but I was looking over some of Father’s papers and came across a record of the March ancestry.” Topher raised his chin, his usual unfounded confidence returning. “There’s no record of Gran Lois having any siblings.”

The smile froze on Jack’s face, but he forced his next words to be light. “One would think”—Jack shrugged away from Topher’s grasp—“the heir to not one, but two bloody fortunes would have a better use for his time than trying to discredit his only cousin.”

“I don’t trust you,” Topher hissed, his near-colorless eyes narrowing into slits.

“Of course ye don’t. If you’re so worried, take it up with Auntie Lois.” He started back down the hall. “I’m sure she can clear the whole thing up for ye, laddie,” Jack added, laying the accent on thick.

“Jaacckk!”

“Speak o’ the devil,” Jack muttered at the sound of Lois’s birdlike shriek. He picked up his pace, and fire shot up his leg. Now he’d have to come up with a plausible excuse for losing the advance money for the Platts’ bracelet, since the truth was too humiliating to repeat.

Jack clenched his teeth. Olivia Brownlow was going to pay.



Haze draped the skyline of the city like the oozing, yellow center of a stale egg. Peels of fog slithered and curled over the cobbles, striking at Olivia’s heels. She turned north, passing by the apartments of Furnival’s Inn on Holborn, her stride brisk and determined. The key to masquerading as a boy, besides the costume, boiled down to the walk—Brom’s leash in loose fingers, shoulders back, chin up, hat pulled low.

When Olivia first began her nightly forays into the hells of London, her hair had proved the biggest challenge, but the heavy mass was now safely obscured in a net—obtained at an exorbitant price from a traveling theater company—covered by a short wig of muddy brown hair and topped with a newsboy cap for good measure. To complete her costume, she scooped dirt from her uncle’s garden and smeared it with abandon on her cheeks, nose, and chin.

Grasping the top of her coat closed against a sudden damp chill, she turned up Chancery Lane, the lamps glowing dimmer and farther apart.

“Hullo, boy . . . only a half crown for you!” The call came from a group of young women huddled in front of Krook’s Rag and Bone Shop. Olivia took them in with a glance: thick face paint, skirts tucked up to reveal dingy petticoats and torn stockings.

Olivia grunted a firm no and crossed to the other side of the street, ignoring the insults and bawdy propositions that followed her rejection. Her stomach clenched in sympathy for these women, their dead eyes beyond desperation.

But for the grace o’ God, there go I. The words of her old nurse popped into her mind, reminding her if it hadn’t been for the woman’s perseverance in raising her as a lad, Olivia’s fate may not have been different than the poor women peddling their wares for a pittance.

The sack of stolen knickknacks clinked together as she shifted the weight onto her other shoulder, reminding her of her task. She hoped the dishes, random pieces of flatware, mother-of-pearl hand brush and, of course, her friend the silver toad would feed the children for at least a week. The bread, quarter wheel of cheese, and pears she’d nabbed from the pantry should help too. She didn’t dare take more, for fear of the quick accusations of their meticulous housekeeper, Mrs. Foster.

With a deep breath, she ducked into the network of alleys that would take her to Saffron Hill. The irony that this dilapidated slum was where she’d lived with Dodger for those pivotal months in her youth was not lost on her. Olivia grinned as she recalled the look of outrage on Jack’s face that afternoon. Ah, revenge was sweet. The pound notes in her pocket were an unexpected boon, and would go far to prepare her boys for the winter months.

As Olivia passed behind the old workhouse, she lifted a lavender-scented kerchief over her nose and mouth in an attempt to filter the foul air. She skirted a pile of sleeping bodies, empty bottles strewn around their nest, a black rat sniffing the discarded trash.