Olivia Twist(4)

If the servant had arrived a second later, he would have witnessed Olivia slipping the saucer into the custom-made pocket of her skirt—and her mission at every extravagant, overdone soiree would have screeched to a tragic end.

The footsteps grew closer. Olivia pressed her back into the wall and sucked in her chest, as if not breathing would somehow make her invisible. The footfalls paused right outside the door, followed by an odd scrape and click. Her hands gripped the wall like talons, and she peeked around the edge of the door, just as a dark-haired gentleman with broad shoulders slipped into the next room.

Mr. MacCarron? She jerked her head back into the room. What could he possibly be doing in the Platt family wing?

Olivia pressed against the wall and clutched the locket resting beneath the neckline of her dress, worrying the smooth metal against the fabric, an unconscious habit that brought her comfort. Like a word on the tip of her tongue, she could almost grasp what eluded her about Jack MacCarron. Before she could contemplate further, a muted banging made her jump, and the exposed skin of her upper arm scraped against the wooden chair rail at her back. She wrapped her gloved fingers around her stinging flesh as another muffled thump from the next room drew her attention to the connecting door. Of course! Mr. and Mrs. Platt would have adjoining bedrooms.

On her tiptoes, she crossed the room and turned the knob slowly. Careful not to make a sound, she eased the door open a crack. Silence.

Turn. Run! her mind hissed. But she didn’t. She stayed. She had to know.

Opening the door, she peered inside. The bedroom was dark save for the muted glow from the open window.

Standing stock still, she trained all her senses on the room. A flash of light left black spots dancing before her eyes, and then she heard a low curse. What on earth was he doing in there? Easing open the door a bit more, she leaned forward until she spied a dark form hunched near the foot of the bed. Heart racing, she stepped inside.

As if pulled by an unseen force, Olivia took another step and another. A cloud shifted outside and a beam of moonlight painted the curve of his stubble-covered jaw and strong nose. Bent over a metal box beside an open hole in the floor, he maneuvered the tools in his hands with quick, deft movements. And that niggling that she’d experienced the moment he’d smiled at her reared up and screamed the answer into her mind.

The floorboard creaked under her heel and she froze, her breath seizing in her chest. The man looked up and their eyes met for a moment that stretched into an eternity, and she knew she was right. “Dodger?”

His shocked expression turned fierce, and he sprang from his crouch like a big cat she’d seen once at the Regent’s Park zoo. Faster than she could have thought possible, he grasped her arms and pushed her up against the wall. “Where the devil did you hear that name?” he ground out between clenched teeth.

Olivia blinked. The thin scar on his right cheekbone, the vein that pulsed in his throat when he was angry, the outline of dark lashes around light eyes—Dodger. She longed to confess, “It’s me, your erstwhile friend, Ollie.” But he’d never believe she was his long-lost chum—the orphan boy he’d taken under his wing some nine years past.

“I asked you a question,” he growled. The solid weight of his body pressed closer, forcing her to tilt her chin to meet his violent gaze.

The tiny hairs on her arms rose, sparking the survival instincts from her youth. Never back down. Stiffening her posture, she spat, “Whyever would I answer such a great brute?”

His eyes widened and she pushed against his hard chest. Seemingly caught off guard, he stepped back. Olivia inched toward the door. “I thought you were Dozer . . . er, Mr. Dozer, the footman.” She arched an eyebrow and slid her mouth up on one side, allowing him to come to his own conclusions regarding why she would seek out a footman in a dark bedroom. He frowned.

Olivia walked backward, quickly. “But I can see I was mistaken. My apologies.” She dipped her head in a respectful nod. She’d seen too much, and she wasn’t about to stick around to find out what the grown-up Dodger . . . er . . . Jack—whatever his blasted name was now—would do to keep her mouth shut.

“Wait.” His voice deep and commanding, Jack took a long stride forward. Olivia turned on her heel and fled out the door and down the hall as fast as her feet would carry her. When she reached the staircase, she dared a glance over her shoulder and breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn’t followed. She attempted to descend the stairs at a respectable pace, her mind whirling with memories. After escaping the workhouse, her prospects had been slim.

Olivia had slept curled up in a field, been chased by soot-covered chimney sweeps across Blackfriars Bridge, and hadn’t eaten for days. She’d never felt more alone in her life. So when a little old woman had promised her lodging and the easiest work she’d ever do, Olivia had been ready to follow the woman anywhere. But a boy with a ragged top hat, wide smile, and grubby cheeks had looped an arm around her shoulders and steered her away, informing her that sort of work would lead to an early grave. “I’m Jack, better known among me mates as the Artful Dodger.”

Then he’d invited her to be the master of her own fate.

She’d followed him off the crowded street of Cheapside through a maze of sewers, rickety walkways, and a cockroach-infested apartment building, before they’d emerged in a massive third-story attic filled with mismatched furniture where children laughed and played games while sausages smoked on the fire. If life got any better than that, she didn’t know how. In comparison to the toil-eat-sleep schedule of the workhouse, the bone-numbing cold, the beatings, and the rats—God save me from nibbling, stinking rats—Dodger’s gang of ragamuffins were a revelation.