Olivia Twist(25)

Jack released her as if she’d burned him and leaned back on his haunches. She sat up, but neither one of them spoke. Their gazes locked. The answer to why Olivia knew his true identity hit him like a punch to the throat. Visions of a little curly-haired boy with an angelic, dimpled smile transposed over the girl who sat before him now. “Ollie?” He almost choked on the word.

She nodded, and he knew it must be true. But his brain battled against his gut, questioning which identity was real—the little orphan boy he’d taken under his wing or the society miss who was undoubtedly female. The female he’d kissed until neither one of them could breathe.

For a moment, Jack thought he might cast up his dinner.

The creature before him nodded again. “Aye, Dodger, it’s me.”

Brom, who’d stayed in the periphery of his vision, but, thank God, hadn’t intervened, gave his hand a thorough lick. But Jack couldn’t move. An inferno sparked inside his chest. Olivia Brownlow and Oliver Twist were one and the same? The ball of fiery rage dropped into his core and he shot to his feet, his hands curling into fists.

She scrambled to her feet and backed up, but before she could run, he stalked toward her and grabbed her arm. “Who the hell are you underneath all the lies?”

She tilted her little round chin and met his gaze, her gold eyes shimmering. “I could ask you the same question.”

Blast if she didn’t have a point. He certainly wasn’t who he’d been all those years ago either—his toff mask in place on the daily.

His voice softened as he asked, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why should I?” Her countenance hardened with anger and perhaps hurt. “You left me, Dodger! Or don’t you remember?”

“Ho, there! Lad, do you need assistance?”

Jack dropped her arm and stepped away as a constable strolled toward them, his night club drawn.

“No, sir,” Olivia answered in a deep tone of voice Jack didn’t recognize. She plucked up her hat and shoved it on her head, then hoisted the bulging sack over one shoulder, her scorching gaze searing into his. “This toff and I were ’aving a difference of opinion, but we’re finished.”

Her emphasis on the word finished was not lost on Jack. The copper moved between them in a threatening manner. For a heartbeat, Jack debated taking him down, gripping Olivia by the shoulders and shaking answers out of her, but the unpleasant emotions churning his stomach drained him of his anger. Without another word, he turned on his heel and stalked away.

Finished, indeed.

Not bloomin’ likely.





CHAPTER 8


Olivia twirled her spoon through the dollop of cream atop her soup, creating a swirl of white in the burnt orange. An earthy tang of nutmeg with a hint of cinnamon tickled her nose, but she had no inclination to lift the spoon to her lips. Four days had passed since Jack discovered her identity. That night, in the moonlit park, she’d read his handsome face like a tragic story. The shock and anger were understandable, but when his lips distorted as if something horrid had passed beneath his nose, it had felt like a kick to the belly, a shot at her most vulnerable place—the fear that she didn’t fit in. Anywhere.

She propped her chin on her fist and watched the cream completely dissolve into the steaming soup. Jack hadn’t attended the Dunfords’ soiree the previous night, and according to Christopher March, no one had seen him for days.

But Jack wasn’t the worst of her troubles. The night before last, a couple of goons had followed Brit and Archie back to the hideout on Saffron Hill. They’d demanded a payoff, threatening to disclose the orphans’ location to Monks if none was received. Their silence had cost over half of the cash she’d given to Brit for winter supplies, leaving nothing left to purchase the clothing the boys needed. Or for the doctor little Chip required to treat a sudden fever spike.

“Do you expect to divine some great secret from your soup, my dear? I’ve finished mine and, although it was quite delicious, there are no surprises hidden within.” Uncle Brownlow picked up his bowl and brought it close to one wide eye and then the other.

Olivia chuckled at his antics, her heart squeezing in her chest. The day she’d robbed her uncle on the street had been the best of her life. He’d seen something in her eyes that fateful day—something of himself, perhaps—and had followed her to the courthouse, where he’d witnessed her faint when the magistrate sentenced her to death. Hours later, after her uncle had bartered to clear her name with a bottle of aged Scotch and a box of costly cigars, she’d awoken in a fresh night rail, surrounded by clean linens and the scent of lemons . . .

Ollie glanced down at the soft white gown covering her from neck to wrist, sat up, and screamed.

“Oh my, no.” The woman beside the bed patted her back. “We’ll have none of that now.”

But Ollie could not stop the blind panic from rising in her throat and blasting out of her mouth. No one could know her secret. Her old nurse had told her in vivid, terrifying detail what would happen should anyone find out the truth. Being a male orphan was hard enough, but females suffered a far worse fate . . . especially lovely ones. At least that’s what nurse had said. And Ollie had believed every word.

Scooting to the other side of the bed, she jumped to the floor and ran toward the door, grabbing for the handle just as it opened. The toff she’d robbed barreled into the room, caught her by the arms, and held her tight. “What is the meaning of this?” he thundered.