Olivia Twist(2)

“Miss Brownlow!” Maxwell exclaimed as he took her by the shoulders and steered her to a nearby chair.

“Good heavens, should I get the smelling salts?” Violet’s ruffled kerchief smacked Olivia in the face like a lavender-scented laundry bat.

With an exasperated yank, she captured the offensive cloth from her cousin’s hand and fixed her with a death glare. “Not hardly.” Fainting was not something Olivia made a habit of, and she wasn’t about to start now.

“No need to get testy. I was simply attempting to revive you.” Violet pouted, bending to peer into Olivia’s face, as if searching for signs of a fatal malady. “I believe I warned you against that fourth tart.”

“I’m perfectly fine.” She huffed out a sigh and then softened her tone. “I promise.” Since Olivia had no mother yet living, Violet had a tendency toward over protection. Most times, Olivia found her friend’s cossetting lovable, but when she dared a surreptitious peek over Violet’s chartreuse-clad shoulder, and saw the mysterious gentleman had moved on, her frustration spiked.

“You don’t look fine,” Vi proclaimed, hands gripping her corseted waist.

Olivia narrowed her eyes at her closest friend, noting the yellowish tinge underlying her rosy, freckled cheeks. There was no getting around it; the ghastly lime gown would have to be tossed at the first opportunity. Violet was a master at choosing shades to best complement Olivia’s caramel-colored hair and odd, yellowish eyes, but when it came to her own vivid coloring, she seemed at a loss.

Olivia rose to her feet and smoothed her gold-and-cream-striped skirt. “In any case, the tarts were worth it. They were truly the best I’ve had all year.”

Violet giggled. For Olivia, the food was the main attraction at every party—at least that’s what she led others to believe. In truth, she would swim the length of the Thames for a slice of chocolate cake, but her ultimate goal at these events had little to do with her culinary obsessions.

“Miss Brownlow,” Maxwell panted as he rushed to Olivia’s side, sweat beads dotting his hawkish nose. “I brought you refreshment.”

Olivia accepted the warm mug as a bell tinkled, announcing dinner. “Why, thank you, Mr. Grimwig.” She took a small sip and lowered her lashes. “I am much restored.”

The sharp slopes of his cheekbones glowed. “May I escort you to the dining room, Miss Brownlow?”

“Of course, Maxwell.” She’d known Maxwell Grimwig for ages, therefore his neck only reddened slightly at her breech in proper address. Olivia detested the formal nature of dinner parties. She’d much rather meet with friends in a more casual setting. A picnic under the trees with her pup by her side, an intimate tea where no one counted the number of cakes she consumed, or a friendly game of cricket would all be preferable. Although these large social gatherings did have their advantages.

Olivia rose and placed a hand on her friend’s offered elbow. “Max, are you acquainted with that gentleman in the forest green coat?” She craned her neck as she searched the departing crowd for the dark-haired man, and spotted him walking the young Widow Thesing through the doorway. “Just there.” Olivia stood on her toes and pointed.

With a squeak, Violet grabbed Olivia’s hand and yanked it down. “Olivia! He might see you,” she hissed in outrage.

Olivia recovered her hand from Violet’s lethal grip and then shrugged a shoulder as she arched a brow at Max. “Well?”

“Yes, I . . . er . . . believe that is Jack MacCarron.” Max stuck a finger between his throat and his collar.

“I’ve never heard of him.” Violet, who prided herself on knowing everyone who was anyone, peered across the room searching for the gentleman in question.

“That may be because he is fairly new to society. Moved here from Ireland a couple years back, I believe.” Maxwell glanced around as the last few stragglers filed out of the room, and then sank down onto a chair and motioned the girls to sit on a brocade sofa across from him. “The circumstances were quite extraordinary, I hear.”

Loving nothing more than a good story, Olivia perched on the edge of the divan beside Violet as Max pitched his voice in a whisper. “Jack’s aunt took him in after his parents were found murdered—his mother stabbed to death and his father shot in the head.”

Olivia arched back, chills running down her spine. “Truly?”

Maxwell’s lips thinned as he waggled his caterpillar-like eyebrows. “As it may be believed, young Jack was nothing more than a half-wild ruffian when he showed up on his aunt’s doorstep. Took her years to civilize him.”

“Who is his aunt?” Violet whispered, gripping Olivia’s arm.

“The old Widow March.”

Olivia exchanged a wide-eyed glance with Violet. Lois March had a reputation for being eccentric. Everyone said she had lost her mind when her husband of forty-five years passed on, but Violet, having been acquainted with the woman since infancy, claimed she hadn’t had much of a mind to lose.

Olivia leaned in and cupped her hand around the side of her mouth. “I’ve heard it said the Widow March buries something in her back garden at the light of every full moon. What do you suppose it could be?”

“I’ve heard ’tis the bones o’ dead children,” whispered a melodic, Irish brogue, so close the tiny hairs by Olivia’s ear stirred. With a gasp, she rotated in her seat and almost collided with a solid shoulder covered in forest-green broadcloth. The gentleman in question leaned down, as if in conspiracy, a grin tilting his mouth, his blue eyes as frosty as a December morning.