Olivia Twist(13)

“We don’t need the help of no blasted crow.” Brit crossed his arms tighter over his chest. Olivia had forgotten his deep aversion to doctors and wondered, not for the first time, what caused it.

“What’s got you so riled up, anyway?”

“Could be nothin’. There’s a new thug roughin’ up some of the street kids. Tryin’ to make a name for himself by takin’ what ain’t his. I heard he’s vamping on some of the orphan groups. Sending them on jobs and takin’ the loot.” Brit shrugged. “You know old Fawks?”

She thought for a moment and then remembered the salty veteran missing his left hand. He told different stories about how he lost it every time someone asked. He’d worked the streets around St. Bart’s since she’d been part of Dodger’s gang.

“Sure, distracts with his stump and robs with his right.”

Brit captured his bottom lip between surprisingly straight teeth before continuing. “He was found murdered two nights past. Rumors have it, he wouldn’t give Monks a cut.”

“Have you seen him around here?”

“Not yet.” He turned to Olivia, eyes blazing. “And we better not. We don’t need no kidsman. I can protect this lot on my own!”

All the playful chatter by the fireplace stopped. And Olivia turned to see the other boys watching them with wide eyes. Archie, who’d been sorting through the treasures in Olivia’s bag, shot to his feet. “Aye, we don’t!”

Then fifteen other voices chimed in agreement. Boys jumped to their feet, pumping their little fists in the air, sending Brom to scurry away from the hubbub.

“Quiet now, boys,” Olivia commanded as she moved in front of the fire. “No need for a riot. I agree with Brit.” The boys calmed. “Brit, what’d you say this bludger’s name is?”

“He goes by Monks.”

“Monks,” she repeated, wondering where she’d heard that name before.

She was still repeating it when she waved goodbye to the boys and started home.

Turning onto Pall Mall, her feet aching and eyes drooping, she counted the fourth booming chime of Big Ben in the distance. Her eyes widened as the memory snapped into place. In the pawnshop, that bald ruffian Critch had said something about needing protection from Monks.

“Come on, Brom,” Olivia whispered, yanking him away from a pile of horse manure in the street, and picking up her pace. “Mrs. Foster will be out of bed soon.”

Before she’d left the Hill, Olivia had pulled Brit and Archie aside, giving them half of the cash she’d taken from Dodger, with instructions to purchase clothing, boots, and blankets in preparation for winter. She’d planned to give them the entire amount, she trusted them enough, but after hearing about this Monks character, she knew copious amounts of cash flow could draw unwanted attention.

Olivia breathed a sigh of relief as they approached the dark townhome. Four in the morning was cutting it too close for comfort. Rounding the corner of the house, they entered the back garden and shimmied behind the bushes. Olivia froze. The pantry window, which she’d left cracked, stood wide open. Her pulse jumped to double time as she boosted Brom into the house, climbed inside, and quietly shut the window behind her. Had Mrs. Foster found her missing and left the window open in warning? Considering the healthy dose of laudanum Olivia had slipped into the woman’s tea, it seemed unlikely.

She removed Brom’s leash, letting him find his own way to bed, and then removed her boots and tiptoed through the quiet house. Running her fingers along the wall to guide her through the pitch-dark hallway, Olivia finally made it to the sanctity of her room. She shut the door softly behind her and moved to light a single candle. As the flame grew, Olivia moved to sit on the bed and then jumped back up with a gasp.

Perched on the middle of her snowy coverlet, the green silk ribbons tied in a deft bow, sat her missing cap. The one Jack had removed from her head that very morning.





CHAPTER 4


Francesca Lancaster swept into the Cramsteads’ drawing room as if she were taking tea with Queen Victoria. Her black curls bounced becomingly against blue silkclad shoulders, and Olivia wondered, not for the first time, how the sausage-shaped ringlets stayed so springy. The distinct fragrance of roses and lilacs tickled Olivia’s nose as her cousin flounced into the chair beside her.

“Hullo, my darlings.” Francesca tilted her head in greeting, sending the feathers, lace, and gewgaws adorning her enormous hat into a riotous dance. Olivia suppressed the urge to throw her arms over the tea and cakes for their protection.

She hadn’t realized she was leaning forward and staring into the forest atop her cousin’s head until Violet grabbed her arm and yanked her back into her seat. Olivia sat back, her eyes still glued to the woodland scene. “Good gracious. Is that a stuffed owl?”

“What a lovely fascinator, Francesca. Is it new?” Violet crooned, talking over Olivia’s question and shooting her a silencing glare.

“Oh, yes! Isn’t it divine?” Francesca settled her skirts around her chair and then touched the hat reverently. “Madam Fanchon says they are all the rage in Paris.”

“I’ll bet,” Olivia muttered, earning a swift kick from Violet’s pointy boot. She shifted her legs out of range, arched an eyebrow at her good friend, and saw the corner of Violet’s mouth twitching. Violet and Francesca’s mothers were sisters, while Olivia was a cousin on her mother’s side. As a result, she endured Francesca for Vi’s sake. But when the girl showed up wearing hats the size of a small village—that likely cost enough to feed one—Olivia’s tolerance strained its boundaries.