Olivia Twist(29)

Jack grabbed the locket with a swift yank. The big man came out of his seat glaring, and the butcher pushed back from the table so quickly he almost toppled in his chair. With deliberation, Jack leaned back in his seat and flicked out his coat, revealing several knives strapped against his chest. “Relax, gentleman. I’ll have my look.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack spied the bloke with the ale moving to stand behind him. His muscles tensed for a fight, but he forced himself to appear relaxed and crossed his ankle over his opposite knee.

He unclasped the locket. It took every ounce of his considerable self-control to hide his reaction to the portrait within. Dark-gold hair, a dimpled smile . . . Olivia. He blinked. No, not Olivia: the chin was too weak, the jawline less defined. It had to be her mother, the woman in the painting above the fireplace in the Brownlows’ parlor.

Jack quickly calculated the money he had left. It was less than what the big man had bid, but he offered every last pence to the pawnbroker. “However, I do not require the source of the sale. You can maintain the privacy of your clientele.” Jack held his breath as the old man’s eyes darted between him and the locket and then to the man hovering at his shoulder. It was the first time since leaving the Dodger behind that Jack wished for the notoriety he’d lost. A good scare could go a long way in such situations.

Extending a shaking hand, the pawnbroker requested the locket back. Jack handed over the piece and wondered why on earth the big man had such a strong interest in a seemingly benign object. Did he know Olivia? What were his intentions? Blackmail? From what he’d gathered, she and her uncle were close to broke.

“I’ve decided to sell . . . er . . .” The old man swallowed and glanced at Jack and then back at the man behind him. The git took a menacing step forward. But it was unnecessary. As usual, greed won out. “To the highest bidder.”

The vile grin that split his opponent’s face caused Jack’s fingers to curl into a fist. He watched the big bludger take the locket and tuck it into his breast pocket, then count out the promised fee. The bills clutched in his fist, he prompted, “And the information?”

Clearly, the source of the locket was of equal importance to the trinket itself. Jack could not allow these goons to sense his personal involvement, so he crossed his arms over his chest and settled back in his seat, even as his every sense strained toward the old man.

The pawnbroker’s gaze never left the money as he answered, “One of the Hill Orphans brought it in. Dark-haired kid . . . believe he goes by Brit.”

With a nod, the big man handed over the cash. The harsh plains of his face revealed nothing as he pushed his chair back and left the table. The other man fell in beside him and they made their way to the bar. Jack gathered his winnings, donned his hat, and rose from the table. Pushing his way through the crowded, smoke-filled room, he positioned himself at the corner of the bar. If not in fact her mother, the woman in the locket had to be Olivia’s close relation, so why would a street kid have it? Likely, it had been stolen—just like so many he’d lifted in years past. An accidental trip, a quick yank, and the ladies were none the wiser.

Jack motioned for the bartender and paid his tab, keeping one eye on the men with the locket, who were toasting their boon. The man who’d hovered behind him at the table tipped back his drink and faced Jack full on, and the room gave a sharp tilt. Jack gripped the tacky wood of the bar and stared. Tall, broadly built, and a few years older than Jack. His hay-colored hair pulled into a tail at his neck only accentuated sharp features and close-set eyes.

His old nemesis, Edward Leeford. Ice skittered across Jack’s shoulders and burned through the scar between his ribs. But it couldn’t be. Leeford had died at the hands of a band of coppers who chose to extract their own justice from his evil hide.

But there he stood, laughing and drinking. Very much alive.

Jack inched closer. Did Edward wish Olivia ill? Despite Jack’s jumbled feelings for the girl, he couldn’t abandon her to Leeford’s machinations. Even if getting involved was all kinds of madness. He moved around the packed bar and insinuated himself within hearing of Leeford and his goon.

“Did ye see that bloomin’ prat when I stole the locket from under his nose, Monks?”

Monks? Jack knew that name. As the men ordered a second drink, Jack struggled against the exhaustion clouding his brain, a memory finally surfacing. “That bloomin’ Monks is takin’ over everything. I’ll pledge to you right here, man.” That day in Paul’s shop, Critch had been terrified. Now Jack knew why. Leeford and Monks were one and the same.

Jack ordered a mug of water and downed it in two gulps. Leeford must’ve taken on the name Monks in order to escape his past sins—and enemies. But it would seem he was intent on making all-new ones. After a second glass of water cleared his brain a bit, Jack knew what he had to do.

When Monks and his cronies headed for the door, Jack followed. Turning up his collar and angling his hat over his eyes, he tailed the men out onto the street. He kept a discreet distance, but he couldn’t hear any of their boisterous conversation. As the two neared the path that ran along the Thames, a dense fog rolled in off the river, allowing Jack to move closer. Leeford’s growled words began to carry through the haze.

“Whoever heard of putting such asinine terms . . .” His voice dipped too low for Jack to hear.

“Whot did it say?” the big man asked.