Olivia Twist(38)
“I can only assume he was a product of my father’s first marriage. I had no awareness of his existence until you spoke of him last night.”
Jack seemed to consider this and then said, “He’s a few years my senior, so he’s in his mid to late twenties. Logically, it would follow that he did something to fall out of your father’s good graces before you were born. Perhaps there’s an inheritance he’s looking to gain, but being the eldest, and a son, he should have first rights to it.”
Olivia had no response to this conclusion. Her parents’ tragedy still festered like an open wound, and she was too close to view it objectively. Her father had been abusive, and possibly insane. She doubted the existence of any inheritance at all.
Jack began to walk faster, forcing Olivia to jog to keep up. His profile was set like fired clay, but his thumb ran frantically over his fingers. When she caught up to him, she grasped the edge of his jacket. “Hey, stop.”
He did, but when he turned, his eyes were focused above her head.
“What’s going on with you? You won’t even look at me.”
His gaze lowered to her then, though his eyes narrowed in contemplation. “It confounds me how you’ve gotten away with this disguise for even one night.”
Olivia quirked her lips, but before she could form a reply he handed her his umbrella, which turned out to be far sturdier than her frilly parasols. Then, he crossed the street and entered a squat corner tavern.
Olivia followed but paused at the door as Brom tugged on his leash. Olivia released him, knowing he wouldn’t go far, then walked into the pub, her boots slipping on the sanded floor. She gained her balance and hung back in the doorway. The air, tainted with sour ale and years of snuff ground into every surface, brought unpleasant memories of Bumble the beadle’s office at the workhouse. One visit to that chamber and you’d never want to go back.
Shaking off memories of the switch against her skin, Olivia took in the rest of the main room. The ceiling was low and bulged with a water-stained, patterned paper that peeled in strips. Faded, old-fashioned paintings hung on the walls. The nearest was of Queen Caroline, appearing severely put out in an enormous hat and feathers as she overlooked a shining Blackfriars Bridge.
A handful of patrons sat scattered at different tables nursing a tumbler of grog or snifter of amber whiskey. An old codger, his silver hair tied in a tail of the antiquated style, raised clouded eyes. Olivia tugged her cap lower, stiffened her spine, and shifted her gaze to where Jack squatted in front of the large hearth.
As she watched, he rose and wove his way through the round tables, his right fist closed tight, and exited the building. Olivia followed him outside and took a long draw of the crisp night air before asking, “What is it you’re doing, exactly?”
“Come with me,” he instructed as he rounded the corner and ducked into a narrow, cobblestoned alley.
Apprehension crawled across her shoulders as she walked into the dead-end passage. These dark, shadowed places were deathtraps she normally avoided at all costs. Overhead, silhouettes of outdoor staircases hung like hulking, black spiders, further tightening the space. A cool wind pushed against her back, fluttering the strands of her wig. She trailed the dark outline of Jack’s broad shoulders and battered top hat with an acute sense of déjà vu. Following the Dodger on adventures through the streets of London had caused her no end of trepidation, but she’d never once turned back.
The rhythmic click of claws against stone announced Brom’s arrival, forcing her back into the present. Jack stopped, turned around, and pushed up the brim of his hat. The moment Olivia paused, her loyal pet sat, his warmth pressed against her leg, one paw resting on the top of her boot.
“Jack, what’s this all about?”
Instead of answering, he stepped up to her, took the umbrella and burlap sack containing food for the boys out of her hands and set them on the ground. With brow furrowed in concentration, he moved in close. So close she could smell the scent of his skin as he brushed the brown hair away from her face. Then he reached up and drew a finger along the right side of her jaw. She gave a start.
“Stand still,” he ordered gently before he traced a line under her cheek, his touch feather light.
Stunned, Olivia watched as he dipped his pointer finger into the black soot in his other palm, and then traced the ashes across her upper lip. The sharp scent of cinders tickled her nose and she swallowed a sneeze. Her eyes flickered to Jack’s in question.
“The dirt you smudge on your cheeks isn’t enough to disguise the delicate line of your jaw.” His low voice rumbled through her spine as he continued to “draw” whiskers onto her face with short stippling motions.
His full lips tilted in an ironic expression. “Or that pert little chin.”
She blinked up at him, and he was Dodger again. The rough-and-tumble street kid with the heart of gold. The boy who did everything within his power to protect his crew. She swallowed the burning in her throat and whispered, “I never thanked you for taking care of me . . . when we were kids.”
His gaze darted down to his open hand, where he swirled the dark soot against his skin. “It was nothing,” he muttered. Perhaps it was the angle of the moonlight, but she could’ve sworn his neck turned red.
As he began to work on the left side of her face, he stepped close, his arm brushing hers. His finger traced the sensitive skin beneath her jaw, and Olivia’s heart raced like a runaway coach. She inhaled his enticing scent and closed her eyes. She only hoped he couldn’t feel the heat of her flushed cheeks or see the frantic beat of her pulse beneath her skin.