Olivia Twist(15)
And there is no earthly reason why I should care, Olivia chastised herself.
It was a fool’s errand, and Jack could freely admit that he was the fool. He knew little of soliciting acquaintances or courtship rules, and even less about phony ones. But here he was, strolling—or limping, as the case may be—down New Bond Street, toward Cavendish Square, a calling card tucked in his pocket. Clyde, God bless him, had come up with one of Mr. March’s tall, black umbrellas. The old brolly allowed Jack to lean upon it as he hobbled, affording him a modicum of dignity.
The heart of Mayfair pulsed with energy. A rare afternoon of sunshine had turned New Bond Street into a crush as hundreds of the wealthiest people in London ambled with languorous, sophisticated grace down the main thorough-fare past decorated shop windows, searching for a place to part with their money. The street thug in him reared his ugly head, happy to oblige, but the gentleman Jack MacCarron limped on.
Snippets of Chopin flooded from the open doors of an upscale dining room, where the scents of rich sauces and slow-roasted chops made Jack’s mouth water. Men in high hats and tailed coats escorted their women, tempting them with all manner of luxuries from rich chocolate to the latest bonnet style to glittering jewels. Clusters of ladies in water-colored silks twirled parasols and gossiped behind gloved hands. A girl with familiar honey-colored hair, wearing a jade-green frock, strolled down the other side of the street with lively grace. But as she drew closer, Jack could see that it was not the woman he sought.
Lois had not believed his concocted story of a street robbery. Jack was unsure if she thought him incapable of being accosted in his own element or if she’d read the subterfuge on his face, but the shadow of distrust that lingered in the woman’s faded blue eyes stabbed him in the heart. True, the Platt bracelet brought a larger advance than anything they’d attempted to hock thus far, but Jack would never swindle Lois. She’d been far too good to him.
The scents of fresh biscuits and sugared fruit tarts filled the air as Jack approached the striped awning of a teashop. On such a beautiful day, the windows were thrown wide and the tables were filled with women wearing all manner of extravagantly trimmed hats. Eyes followed him, and he endeavored to straighten his stride as he touched the brim of his top hat and nodded to a group of posh young ladies. He was rewarded with blushes and giggles, a reaction that never got old. Jack felt his chest puff, and the ache in his leg faded just a bit. Living on the streets, dignified women looked through him on the daily. All it had taken for them to see him was a well-fabricated lineage, the right clothes and manner, and suddenly their doors—and safes full of valuables—were wide open to him. And in many cases, their regard.
His new way of life was in mortal danger, however, because of one fearless girl: Miss Olivia Brownlow. Admittedly, sneaking into her home in the dead of night just to deliver an enjoyable little scare had been all kinds of madness, but finding her bed empty drove him to distraction. Questions had circled his mind ever since. Where could she have gone? And had she been alone?
That lovely little thief had thwarted him, yet again. So he’d decided that if he could not get to her his way, he would play the toff, as he’d become so blasted good at.
Turning onto Oxford Street, Jack quickened his pace. Grinding his teeth against the pain, he envisioned the confrontation to come. He would find out exactly what the girl knew about his past life and regain his capital, or she would not enjoy the consequences. A tremor beneath his fingers alerted him to loosen his grip on the umbrella handle he clutched in a death grip.
Steady on, Jack.
He took a deep breath and focused outside himself. As he exhaled, he noticed the shadowy patterns on the sidewalk, created by the sun shining through the shifting leaves. A lady and her two daughters approached, their skirts sweeping against the cobblestones like a thousand whispers. Jack tipped his hat, his shoulder muscles unclenching as he relaxed into an easier stride. The townhomes in this section of the city were more narrow and less grand than in St. James, with a few small businesses sprinkled in amongst the residences. The occasional carriage rumbled past, but overall, Cavendish Square seemed a peaceful little quarter.
After finding the correct number on the neat, brick brownstone, Jack walked carefully up the steps to the cheery blue door and engaged the knocker. As he heard footfalls approaching, he dug out the calling card in his jacket pocket. A stately man opened the door and inclined his head. “May I help you, sir?”
“Is Miss Brownlow at home?” Jack inquired, fairly certain that if the girl was at home, she would not be at home for him.
“Why, no, sir—”
Unwilling to take no for an answer, Jack thrust his card at the butler and stepped into the entryway, forcing the man to take a step back. “I’ll wait.” He swept off his hat and pressed it into the wide-eyed codger’s chest.
“Sir, I have no inclination when the lady will return. But I would be glad to pass along your card.” He clutched the rectangle of paper, holding it between them like a tiny shield.
“That’s quite all right.” Jack stepped farther into the house and turned toward the open doorway of a sunny room, decorated in shades of yellow, gold, and white. “The drawing room, I presume?” Jack glanced over his shoulder to see the butler’s tight nod. “I’ll be comfortable here.”
“Yes, sir.” The butler shot him a glare before he turned his back and stomped down the hall. Jack imagined the old man was likely off to shred his hat in the meat grinder.