Olivia Twist(43)

It wasn’t a matter of trust, exactly. She was sure Jack could meet their needs and provide protection. But was he in it for the duration? Or would he forget all about the boys once the novelty of being their hero wore off?

The fact of the matter was, without those boys, Olivia had no idea who she was anymore. Was she the future Mrs. Maxwell Grimwig? Endeavoring to be the perfect society wife, her days filled with conversations about the latest wall-papering trends, the most frivolous hat designs, the grandest parties, and who was dallying with whom? God forbid!

Her cup clanged against its saucer, drawing the eyes of the few patrons in the shop. Olivia smiled wanly in apology and turned back to the window, where the foot traffic was picking up despite the snow-covered streets.

At least if she were going to become a wife, it would be not only for her uncle’s guaranteed security, but to assist as many of the unfortunate as possible—and that included the Hill Orphans.

She’d let Jack serve his purpose and protect them with his reputation, but she refused to step aside quietly. Besides, if Monks hadn’t deduced who she was by now, he was unlikely to link a street thug named Ollie with his lost little sister.

That morning, she’d worked up the nerve to ask Uncle Brownlow about Edward Leeford. He hadn’t shown much of a reaction to her half brother’s existence, but had assured her that her father’s wealth had been squandered on asinine inventions and failed business ventures long ago. So Jack’s theory that Monks sought to do her harm because of some long-lost fortune didn’t hold weight.

The bell on the door tinkled and Fran and Vi rushed in, all rosy cheeks and laughter. Olivia waved, and Violet rushed over, rubbing her arms and shivering. Fran, much too sophisticated to show physical weakness, stamped her boots and swept over to the table wearing her perpetual smug smile.

“You’ll never guess who we’ve just run into!” Violet proclaimed, taking a seat on the chair across from Olivia.

“Who?” Olivia asked, forcing herself out of her self-absorption for her best friend’s sake.

“None other than Mr. Jack MacCarron,” Fran pronounced as she hung her sable-trimmed jacket on a nearby coat tree.

Olivia swallowed a large gulp of hot tea and began to cough. Saints! Could she not escape the man for even a moment?

“Good heavens. Are you quite all right, Livie?” Violet handed her a napkin, which Olivia gracelessly snatched and pressed to her mouth as coughs racked her chest.

Francesca perched on the edge of her seat and poured her tea, ignoring Olivia’s outburst. “Yes, Mr. MacCarron was on his way to Beakmans to have his final fitting for a suit of evening clothes.”

“Just like us,” Violet interjected, earning a scathing look from Fran, who wasn’t finished gloating.

Since the Grimwigs’ ball was next week, they’d planned to meet before heading to their ball gown fittings with the fabulous Madam Franchon. Olivia could only tolerate the pretentious woman in small doses, and never alone. She clucked around Olivia like a disapproving mother hen, shaking her head at Olivia’s freckled skin and tsking at her sun-lightened hair.

Fran cleared her throat. “As I was saying, Jack made a point to inquire if I would be attending the ball.”

Olivia arched a brow at Francesca’s blatant use of his given name, and almost laughed out loud as she imagined what her sheltered cousin would do if she had witnessed Jack beating those men to bloody pulps in the street the previous night. An ungentlemanly practice to be sure.

“He inquired after both of us, Fran,” Violet insisted, snatching a brown-butter cookie from the tray of sweets.

“I’m sure he was only asking you to be polite. Those evocative blue eyes didn’t leave my face the entire conversation,” Francesca replied.

Violet didn’t respond, but Olivia could see her internal struggle as she pursed her lips and shoved the rest of the cookie into her mouth. Her best friend displayed commendable restraint, but knowing Vi as she did, it was only a matter of time before Fran found herself pushed from behind into a reeking pond. Olivia only hoped she’d be there to witness it.

“Speaking of the Grimwigs, how is a certain Mr. Grimwig these days?” Violet asked, wiggling her russet brows suggestively.

Only Uncle Brownlow and Max’s parents knew of the engagement. But her cousins suspected Max’s intentions, and were constantly prodding her for the latest information.

“I haven’t seen him in several days. He’s just returned from inspecting a property in Southampton with his father.” Olivia leaned forward and selected a glistening apple-raisin tart from the tray. “I’m attending the theater with him tonight . . .”

Olivia lifted the tart to her mouth, but before she could take a bite, the scent of spiced apples filled her head with visions of Jack, their breath mingling, his body pressing hers in the darkened doorway.

“Olivia?”

She blinked the wayward images out of her mind’s eye and focused on Violet’s pertly wrinkled nose. “Whyever do you have a string tied around your finger, Olivia dear?”

As she glanced down at the piece of black thread, heat rushed into her cheeks. She’d placed the string on her ring finger that morning as a reminder of her commitment to Max. She set the tart on her plate, untasted. “Um . . . it’s to remind me of something . . . I . . . er . . . need to tell Maxwell this evening.”