Olivia Twist(16)
Hats were replaceable. With a shrug, Jack moved across the room to the front windows. The overstuffed chairs called to him, but if he sat, he was unsure he could get back to his feet without the pain showing on his face, and he refused to give her the satisfaction. Turning away from the window, he wondered if the hell-beast was in the house or if she took him everywhere she went.
As he perused the comfortable elegance of the room, he was drawn to a portrait hanging over the unlit fireplace. At first, Jack assumed it was Miss Brownlow—waves of dark-gold hair swept up from the graceful bones of her face, mischievous eyes the color of bronze in the sun. But no, the chin was a bit weaker, the smile too demure, the lips not quite as full. He moved closer.
Olivia Brownlow was a mystery. Without doubt, she was beautiful—even more so than the woman in the painting. But it was more than her beauty that drew him like a moth to a blasted flame. There was something about her that brought out a fierce side of him, something primitive that made him want to throttle her one minute and protect her the next. In the pawnshop with Critch hovering over her, it had taken every bit of Jack’s self-control not to rush the bloke and knock him out cold.
A rhythmic clicking caused him to spin away from the painting. The devil-dog sat in the doorway, tongue lolling out of his large, triangular head. “Ho, Brom. Back for seconds, eh?”
The mutt stood, trotted over to Jack, and sniffed his pant leg in the precise spot where he’d sunk his teeth into his flesh.
Jack stiffened, but Brom gave him a sheepish look and licked his trousers, leaving an enormous wet spot behind. “So you want to make up, do you?” Jack arched a brow at the dog’s huge, liquid eyes. “I’m not sure I’m ready to forgive and forget.”
The sound of male laughter echoed toward him, and Jack’s head snapped up. Giving Brom a pat, Jack moved to position himself so he could see the entryway. An older gentleman, stooped over a cane and wearing a house robe, faced a tall, stringy man whom Jack recognized from the Platts’ dinner party. Maxwell Grimwig, the bloke who’d introduced him to Miss Brownlow. Jack stood as still as a statue, listening.
“Max, my boy, I knew you would come through. Olivia is like a daughter to me, and I will see her happy and settled. Thank you for giving me that peace of mind.” The old man choked, and then coughed so hard it sounded like he might break a bone.
“Mr. Brownlow, can I get you anything?” Maxwell patted the old gentleman on the back, quite unhelpfully, until the butler entered and handed Mr. Brownlow a cup of steaming liquid.
After taking a restorative drink and wiping the moisture from his eyes, Mr. Brownlow said, “I am fine.”
“Sir, be assured I will be the best husband in the world to your niece. I’ve cared for her for a long time.”
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.