Olivia Twist(55)

Olivia gulped, a lump passing through her throat and lodging in her chest. Love? Did she love Jack? Her eyes landed on his dark head bent over the note, hair in his eyes, square jaw set in determination, and warmth spread through every inch of her body. Yes, she loved him. Perhaps she always had.

Then Brit, bless his sweet soul, whispered into the silence, “Don’t go, Jack.”

Jack’s fierce blue eyes lifted to Brit and then softened. “I can handle myself, Brit, I assure you.”

“I don’t doubt ye. But Monks is the worst kind of bludger. He’ll cheat. Lie. Do anythin’ to win.” Brit’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “He’ll kill you.”

Several of the boys nodded and shouted their agreement. As was typical, they spoke over one another, trying to be the one to tell Jack of all the blokes Monks had offed and the gory details of how he’d done it.

Jack let them ramble, but their commentary didn’t change his expression. Lost in thought, he stared into space and rubbed a spot along his ribs.

“Besides,” Brit’s voice rose over the hubbub, “I’ve found a new hideout!” The others grew quiet to let the older boy speak. “It’s large. Big enough for us and our new mates downstairs. We’ll move. Monks will never find us.”

Jack leveled a steady gaze at the boy, his words slow and deliberate. “What makes you think he won’t find you? He found you here—”

“Yes, but . . . we know how to hide better now. Don’t we, boys?”

All the children concurred as Archie jumped into the conversation. “Aye, we’re smarter now.” He leaned toward Jack, cupping a hand around the side of his mouth as if in conspiracy. “I’d never be one to run from a fight, mind ye. But this Monks, he’s . . . he’s a dastardly git, if ye take my meanin’.”

Olivia was so touched by the boys’ unexpected valor, she longed to kiss each one of them on their sweet faces. She would’ve expected them to welcome the opportunity for Jack to sweep all their problems away with his fists. But instead, they were protecting him as one of their own. Altruism was not a trait even she would’ve expected from her boys.

“Jack, I agree,” Olivia said, remembering to roughen her voice at the last moment. “Meeting Monks on his terms is a mistake. It’s a trap. We need to find another way.”

Jack’s expression was unreadable when she met his gaze across the candlelit table. The rhythmic tick of Brit’s beat-up pocket watch counted off the time. She could well imagine Jack’s internal struggle, knowing she was right but longing to shut Monks down once and for all—not only for the boys, but because of the history they shared.

After several long seconds, Jack shook his head, a dry smile curling his lips. “All right, then. Where’s this new hideout?”

The kids cheered, and an invisible weight lifted from Olivia’s shoulders. They all drifted apart, the boys already plotting the best way to move without being detected. Archie worked with some of the older boys to board up the window, while Olivia sat at the table next to Brit. He explained where the new hideout was located and gave reasons why it would be more secure. But Olivia’s mind kept drifting back to the note.

Jack’s gaze locked with hers and she searched those unfathomable blue eyes, desperate to read his thoughts. Something about the tension in his neck and the grave set of his mouth told her this wasn’t over. He’d conceded far too easily.



Olivia crouched under her uncle’s desk as footsteps pounded overhead. Mrs. Foster. Olivia’s pulse hammered in her ears. The woman had distrusted her from the day she’d come to live with them, going so far as calling her in front of Uncle Brownlow when anything, from cutlery to a tartlet, went missing in the house. As a child, trying desperately to become the young lady her uncle wished her to be, every accusation had been a blow to her fledgling confidence. Most times, the accusations had been empty. Except when tartlets were involved.

Olivia jerked her hat and wig off in one motion, then worked on the pins and net as the footfalls reached the first floor. She’d snuck into her uncle’s study after returning from the Hill with the intention of finding information on her parents and, in turn, her half brother. If she could determine what Monks wanted from her, then perhaps she could negotiate freedom for her boys, and in doing so protect Jack. But she hadn’t realized the late—or early, as the case may be—hour. Mrs. Foster rose before the sun to wake the rest of the staff, and if she found Olivia, dressed like a boy no less, snooping in Uncle Brownlow’s things, well . . .

The bang of footfalls drew close and then paused. A door opened on squeaky hinges and Olivia jumped, sweat popping out on her brow. There was a clatter, followed by a squeal and a click. Olivia let out a slow breath. The broom closet. Of course; Mrs. Foster was gathering her cleaning implements.

Olivia scuttled backward from under the desk and rose to her feet. If the old housekeeper or anyone else found her going through her uncle’s papers, Olivia would stand her ground. She was no longer that approval-seeking orphan girl who bawled when a spoon went missing.

And yet, she would still hurry. If she were caught, they would surely rat her out to her uncle. Even after all these years, his disapproval cut deep.

The flame of the single candle she’d lit flickered and smoked, managing to hide more than it revealed. But she didn’t dare ignite one of the lamps or stoke the dim embers in the hearth for fear of discovery. Before ducking beneath the desk, she’d managed to search the files in the long cabinet beneath the window. She’d found nothing beyond financial papers, medical bills, and, the most interesting discovery, payments from an investment her uncle had made in a rock excavating company. The recompenses appeared to have dwindled over time and had grown farther apart. From her quick assessment, it appeared their bills would soon overtake their income.