Olivia Twist(3)
Olivia shot to her feet and Mr. MacCarron straightened, his smile broadening.
Her cheeks burned as she stared up into a face that made her heart leap into her throat, but with a determined swallow she propped a hand on her hip and demanded, “Has anyone ever taught you that it’s impolite to eavesdrop?”
“Has anyone ever told ye that it’s cruel to gossip?” Jack MacCarron’s smile never wavered, but something in his gaze forced Olivia back a step.
“Now, MacCarron, we were just having a bit of fun. No need to take offense.” Maxwell’s voice shook only slightly as he moved to Olivia’s side.
“None taken.” Jack’s eyes narrowed dangerously on Olivia for several beats, dredging up fears she thought she’d long outgrown. Something about the curve of his mouth, the shape of his face drew her back into her long years of destitution—begging on the streets, robbing to survive—but such a connection was impossible.
He took a step forward. “I don’t believe we have met.” Olivia suppressed the urge to flee.
“My apologies,” Maxwell said. “Allow me.”
After a rather stilted round of introductions, Jack retrieved a woman’s reticule—presumably the reason he had returned to the drawing room—and made his exit. Shaking off her recollections, Olivia watched his broad back until he disappeared, and then turned to find her best friend, lips parted, staring at the now empty doorway.
Despite the rainbows and butterflies reflected in Violet’s gaze, the knot in Olivia’s gut had little to do with romantic dreams and everything to do with a growing awareness rising within. Jack MacCarron was indeed no stranger to her.
Olivia glided down the dark corridor, slinking from shadow to shadow in a dance she’d performed more times than she cared to number. Her excuse for trespassing in the living quarters of the Platts’ home held validity—this time. Presumably, she’d left the party to “lie down.”
She could not believe she’d almost fainted. Her momentary weakness made her stomach clench with disgust. But Max Grimwig had come to her rescue in his sweet, bumbling way. His proposal was forthcoming any day now, and although she viewed him as no more than a friend, her uncle’s declining health and dwindling finances assured her swift, if not enthusiastic, acceptance. She ignored the cold that spread through her chest at the thought of marrying. Eighteen was an acceptable age to become a wife, but for Olivia it signified responsibilities she had no inclination to take on, and more remarkably, it meant the end of her freedom.
But she would do what needed done. As she always had.
Violet made her disapproval of the match clear, but true love simply did not exist outside of fairy tales and her friend’s ridiculous gothic novels. The Grimwigs’ wealth would bring her security, allow her to support her uncle, and, she hoped, subsidize her charitable mission.
Olivia paused to open a massive armoire, but only finding stacks of fresh linens, continued down the hallway.
Last month while in the garden at the Drewforths’ ball, Max had snuck a kiss. His lips were warm and gentle, pleasant. But it had left Olivia questioning why other girls compared the kisses of one gentleman to another. How different could they possibly be? Unbidden, the image of ice-blue eyes and a slow smirk filled her mind.
“Ouch! Blast it—” Olivia clamped her mouth closed, her heart racing as she grabbed her smarting foot and glanced up and down the hall. Still alone, she searched the floor for her assailant and found a squat frog balanced on the edge of the carpet runner. Cursing her own clumsiness, she moved to step around the doorstop, when a metallic glint caught her eye. She bent and plucked up the tiny statue for further examination. Hefting it in her hand, she noted the weight and the tarnished spots in the creases where the polish had missed. A triumphant grin spread across Olivia’s face. Solid silver.
The idiotic trinket would bring a fair amount of coin at market. “No one shall miss you, my little darling,” Olivia whispered as she slipped the amphibian into the pocket of her skirt, its added weight pulling the fabric taunt.
She turned to go back to the party when slow footsteps, so light she almost didn’t hear them, signaled someone approaching. Keeping her gaze glued to the landing at the top of the stairs, she backed up then reached behind her to turn the nearest doorknob, but it wouldn’t move. Her pulse galloping ahead of her, she tiptoed to the next door, finding it locked as well.
The footsteps continued, and a tall shadow stretched across the landing. Olivia turned and ran. A stream of weak light indicated a cracked door near the end of the hallway. She raced toward it, and without thought slipped inside. Pushing the door to, she leaned against the wall and let out a long breath, willing her heartbeat to slow. The light of a single lamp on the bureau illuminated burgundy bed coverings, dark leather furniture, and the implements of a pipe spread on a low table by the window. Mr. Platt’s bedchamber. If anyone found her there, she didn’t dare contemplate the consequences.
At the Wolfbergs’ party the previous week, she’d nearly been caught nipping chinaware from the kitchens. The butler had walked in on her the moment she’d plucked the gold-rimmed saucer from its velvet-lined drawer. As luck would have it, one of the maids approached and, in a ringing voice, Olivia demanded to know where she could purchase the dishware for her uncle’s household—as if they could actually afford such finery. After being informed that the china had been passed down in the Wolfberg family for generations, the butler had taken Olivia’s arm and escorted her back to the party.